Page 2 of Petrify

“I am Maxim. We spoke earlier.” He gestures to the older woman. “Ms. Byrne, our housekeeper. She will show you to your room. Should you need anything, please ask Ms. Byrne. You’ll begin in the morning. Breakfast will be brought to you at seven AM, and you are expected in the second floor parlor by eight sharp to meet the family.”

“I’m not meeting them now?”

If possible, his scowl deepens. “They are occupied. You will meet them tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I suddenly feel like a child, standing there with my tiny suit case. Too small for the world I’ve stepped foot into.

“Ms. Byrne will explain the rest. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Doyle.” He doesn’t even nod, before he turns and disappears around a corner, like the task of letting me into the house was a headache.

I turn to Ms. Byrne and smile my best smile, because I’d prefer at least one of them to like me. “Nice to meet you.”

Maybe her expression softens a bit. Or maybe it’s the dim light throwing shadows. “Likewise, Miss Doyle. Maxim manages the house and the family’s schedule, so please forgive his impatience. He’s a busy man.”

“I’m sure.” I look around again, entranced by the high ceilings, the shine to the old wooden paneling, the butter-soft appearance of the curtains. The foyer alone is almost the size of our entire apartment in the city. It reeks of wealth, a polished sort of vanity that comes fromdeeppockets. Bank accounts with more zeros than I’ve ever seen in my life.

They’d probably faint at the ten dollars in my own account, before my first check hit—preemptive, Maxim said, to help cover the costs of travel. I’d thought it was a mistake, how much they deposited, before I’d bought more takeout than I could ever possibly eat by myself. Our fridge was fully stocked for the first time in years. In my suitcase is the closet overhaul I couldfinally afford. I couldn’t show up to work for this family with the same mended sweaters I’d been wearing for the past five years. Patched jeans. Socks with holes. Shoes with the soles worn paper-thin.

I’m an imposter, standing here in the grand foyer, dressed in my first real cashmere sweater, new boots squeaking against the hardwood floor.

But they chosemeto be here. They wantmeto tutor their son.

If anyone deserves this, it is me.

“Let me show you the way to your room,” Ms. Byrne says, before leading up the stairs and down a hall to the right. “You will be staying in the guest wing. We have our own staff wing on the back side of the house, but you’ll find this room more comfortable, anyway. Quieter. As we have no other guests, currently, you will be the only one in the east wing.”

“Oh.”

I only vaguely register what she’s saying, too distracted by the many artworks lining the walls. Not the abstract splatter of modern art—the family has decorated the house with landscapes of the estate, all in gilded frames between electric sconces and curtains on the walls. Portraits of the family members of generations past in oil paint, with following eyes, shadowed faces under layers of yellowing varnish.

“Henri will be glad to meet you,” Ms. Byrne says. “He’s been looking forward to your arrival.”

Henri. The boy I’ve been hired to teach.

“I’m excited to meet him too,” I say. “I haven’t taught someone like this.”

“You’ve given music lessons before?” Ms. Byrne raises a brow.

“Yes. When I was in college. But it was a bit more, um, casual than this.” The rest of it—the story of my own schooling, my past—sits on my tongue, but I don’t let it out. It’s not worth telling.

“Then it sounds like you’ll be perfect for our Henri.”

Doors line each side of the hall, and at the end is another large window overlooking some part of the grounds. The sky is the same murky purple beyond.

“He had another tutor, right? Before me? What happened with that? Were they let go?”

Ms. Byrne doesn’t turn to look at me, but I swear the air becomes tense. “Not let go, per se. Just—not the right fit.”

And she leaves it at that.

That Henri’s tutor would leave him before the end of their tenure seems odd, especially not even halfway through the academic year. But I know nothing about the homeschooling of rich kids and private tutors, so maybe it’s not unusual for families such as this one.

She leads me further down the hall, passing dozens of doors on each side. A full wing of empty rooms. I imagine beyond each door is furniture draped with white sheets and dust, fragile moths flitting about, while the ghosts of the family from these portraits wander from room to room. How many generations have passed through these halls? Whose room will I be taking?

Every creak of the wooden floor beneath the rug announces exactly where we are, and if there are any ghosts remaining, well, they’ll know where to find me.

“Rules of the house—I can’t forget.” Ms. Byrne keeps walking on. “You are allowed to wander in any of the main areas, but the family’s wing is strictly private. That’s the wing above this one,” she explains. “Meals are at seven, noon, and seven again. The family eats in the dining room, and we eat in the kitchens—I’ll show you tomorrow at lunch. As Maxim said, your breakfast will be brought to you in the morning, just this once.” She reaches fora key ring at her hip, but pauses, and goes on without selecting a key. “Are you hungry?”

“A bit.” It’s a miracle my stomach hasn’t growled this entire time—I haven’t eaten anything since this morning but a granola bar on the bus.