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“Yes.”

“And I’m staff.”

“I’m aware.”

She swallows. “So I should call you Mr. Vexley.”

“Then why ask what you should call me?”

“You told me not to call you sir. So I needed to know the proper way to address you. I was only trying to be polite.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

“Then call me Nathaniel.”

She studies me for half a second and then nods. “I’ll try.”

I almost smile. “Progress.”

We continue through the east gallery past a row of portraits that make my ancestors look more handsome and less criminal than they actually were.

When we reach my private study, she stops short. I notice before I touch the handle.

“Do you know this room?” I ask.

“No.”

I turn back to her. “Ella.”

She swallows. “I know staff isn’t supposed to enter.”

“True.”

“Then I know it that much.”

I push the door open. “Today, you’re with me.”

She hesitates for a moment but then steps inside.

My study isn’t one of the house’s grander rooms, which is why I prefer it. It sits on the west side of the manor, away from the main entertaining spaces, with dark paneled walls, floor-to-ceiling shelves, a carved fireplace, and tall windows overlooking the gardens.

Ella stands just inside the door, looking around.

“You can breathe,” I say.

“I am breathing.”

“Barely.”

“I don’t usually get invited into rooms I’m forbidden to clean.”

“Do you want a tour?”

She smiles. “Sort of.”

“This is my desk,” I say, gesturing.