Bowen slips a key into the front door of Paquet Manor and unlocks it with a satisfyingclick.
“Ahhhh.” He turns to grin at us. “Still toasty!”
Orfeo and I trade a wide-eyed look, and I have to fold my lips over my teeth to keep from laughing out loud.
Orfeo props the door open with one of his designer sneaker–clad feet and sweeps an arm forward. I practically dive inside, biting back a sigh as the definitivelytoastyair caresses my face. I yank my scarf and beanie off and ruffle a hand through my flattened waves and curls, my ears stinging from the sudden temperature change.
“Your color’s coming back.” Orfeo’s voice is deep and smooth.
“Is it?”
His eyes track over me. Up and down, drinking me in like he can see through every layer of fabric wrapped around my body. “Mmm.” This noise comes like a growl from the back of his throat. “Yes.”
I don’t want to, but I find myself drawn to him, like a sunflower to the sun.
The inside of the manor is even grander than the outside, and the luxury of central heating immediately makes me feel drunk and sleepy. Bowen begins another unceasing monologue, guiding us from one ornate room to another—brocade wallpaper in shades of green; plush leather Chesterfield couches; oil painting after oil painting mounted in heavy gold frames mostly displaying train moguls, founding fathers, and other super villains.
Eventually, Idowarm up. I peel off my coat and hold it close to my chest, in utter terror that I might knock over a glass display case of Russian monarchical jewels or a curio of Etruscan vases.
When we pass a terracotta urn, Orfeo pauses for a moment. Bowen keeps walking and talking, but I hang back.
“It’s Roman,” he whispers.
A small noise escapes me. A hum of appreciation, of sympathy. “Reminds you of home?”
He nods, then before I can ask anything else, he walks away.
The Paquets weren’t just rich—they were greedy. They collected priceless treasures from almost every continent, only to hide them away in the shipping magnate’s rural Pennsylvania summer home. It took many generations and one courageous Countess Margot Paquet for the entire residence to finally be sold to the university.
I scan every room for occult objects. Maybe an ancient rabbit’s foot from England or a Japaneseofuda. It feels completely plausible that a manor home as grand as this one could be a portal to the beyond. Why not?
Bowen tosses a hand in the direction of a small door tucked under a wide, winding staircase as we pass from one wing of the house to another. “The servant’s entrance to the kitchen, that is. Undoubtedly where one of my countrymen was made to toil over a hearth.”
Orfeo lets out a soft belly laugh, and I can’t resist following the sound with my eyes. I’ve never heard him laugh before. It’s a gentle, velvet sound. Our eyes connect. Orfeo has been keeping his distance, hands tucked into his front pockets. I don’t blame him. Now, his eyes flicker with warmth and affection. He holds my gaze until I look away.
“Finally, we’ve reached our destination!” Bowen pushes open a set of French doors. “This is Captain Paquet’s office and chambers.”
Calling this space—this grand, money-scented space—a room feels somehow like both an insult and a curse.
This isn’t a room, it’sheaven.Every square inch of the long, narrow space is covered in bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes. Behind the captain’s desk, floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the soft, diffused light coming from sconceson either side of the fireplace to our right and the enormous, dazzling crystal chandelier over our heads.
I turn in a circle, my mouth hanging open, half expecting an anthropomorphized candlestick to come out of the woodwork and insult my sensible footwear.
“It looks like the Beast’s library,” I say. They turn blank stares on me. My neck immediately starts to heat. “Like, uh, inBeauty and the Beast.”
“Not a baseless observation, Miss Moro. I believe Captain Paquet and the Beast would have been contemporaries.” He settles into a leather chair that I had personally assumed was for display purposes only. “Right, so you’ll see we have two tapestries hanging at either side of the room.”
Bowen gestures to two different, angled display pedestals. “Choose whichever one you like best, and you’ll spend the remainder of class documenting any elements of these saintly scenes that seem to pull from non-Christian idolatry. Your essays will be due on my desk by nine-fifteen p.m.” He hefts himself up from the chair with a grunt. “Off to the pub for old Cormac! Toodles.”
“Wait, what?” Before I can stop myself, I lurch into Bowen’s path. “You’re leaving us?”
He gives me a look of total exhaustion. “What do you want me to do, Miss Moro? Stand over your shoulder while you write?”
“W-well, no, but…”
“Okay then.” He steps around me. “Be sure to pull all the doors shut behind you! They’ll lock on their own!”
And then he leaves us. Actually leaves us.
