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“I don’t know. I never asked.”
“It just seems—I’ve never seen such a lonely place.”
Finley shrugged. “I guess. Do you want walk around the third floor? That’s where the cook and the maid and the gardener have their rooms.”
“Might as well. I need to know the layout of the whole house in case there’s ever trouble.”
Finley nodded approvingly. “I usually make at least one pass a day upstairs. Just because.”
The upper story was utilitarian and spare, though the harmonious blue and cream colors continued even on this level. Brandon noted the placement of the windows, gauged whether it would be possible to leap from the skylights to the third-floor balcony if someone happened to breach the roof, and leaned over the banister to assess how hard the drop would be from this level to the ground.
“Might not kill yourself, but you’d break something,” he decided.
Finley nodded. “To do it safely, you’d need to slide down a rope.” She pointed to one of the closed doors. “There’s one in that room. No one sleeps there, so we’ve stashed a few supplies.”
“That was smart.”
“Wish I could say it was my idea.”
The tour completed, they headed back to the kitchen, where the household staff members were sitting around a scarred wooden table, finishing up a noon meal. Finley made brisk introductions in a tone that made it clear the guards and the servants had only the most cursory dealings with each other. The housekeeper and gardener both appeared to be in their sixties, sturdily built but hardly physical threats, which Brandon supposed was why they’d been hired. The maid might have been in her twenties and looked thin as a newel post, so she presented no menace either.
“Eat something—get settled in your room—then maybe you should nap if you feel like it,” Finley instructed him. “New man always takes the nine-to-nine shift for the first week, so you need to be wide awake by sundown.”
“All right,” said Brandon. He was hungry, so a meal sounded good, but he’d never been less sleepy in his life. He settled at the table and Finley sat across from him. The cook silently brought him a plate of food, and he tucked in. “Any protocol for how to spend the night watch?” he asked. “Any particular patrol pattern? Inside and outside?”
Finley shook her head. “Nadder usually prowls around. I mostly sit in the atrium. You can see—and hear—most points in the house from there. I get up every hour or so to walk the perimeter. Sometimes I go upstairs, sometimes I go outside, sometimes I don’t bother.” She filched a crust of bread from his plate. “I’m backup tonight, so if there’s any trouble, you wake me up first.”
“Is there ever? Any trouble?”
Finley shook her head again. “Not since I’ve been here. Not that I’ve ever heard of. No one’s ever tried to break in.”
Which meant there was only a guard on Villette Rowan because she wanted to leave. Which meant this lovely mansion wasn’t a vault to be protected but a prison to be secured. Brandon ate the last of his meal and felt more curious than ever about the woman he would be guarding for the next six months.
To his surprise, Brandon did manage to catch about an hour’s worth of sleep before emerging from his room around eight that night. Through the glass panes overhead, the sky looked dark already, but through the doorway that led to the garden, sunset was just beginning to paint the horizon in melodramatic hues. Nightfall soon.
He had another quick meal in the kitchen, then loitered in the atrium waiting for his shift to begin. It wasn’t long before the third guard made his way in from the garden. He was a good-looking, dark-skinned man who might be in his mid-thirties. His sleeveless vest showed off his muscular arms, so bulky that his bracelets appeared to be almost uncomfortably tight. On the left wrist, the expected temple circlet. On the right, a solid gold band. Brandon wondered if the temple officials might someday decide to have Villette Rowan watched solely by men who preferred men. Surely such a cohort was less likely to succumb to her charms.
“You’re the new guard?” the other man greeted him.
“Brandon.”
“Nadder. Finley show you around?”
“She did. Anything I need to know about our charge tonight?”
“Quiet as always. Hasn’t said a word to me.”
“How long will she stay out there?”
“Could be five more minutes, could be another three hours. Long as she doesn’t try to leave the house, it doesn’t matter to you.”
“All right. Guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
Nadder nodded and headed toward the kitchen. Brandon stepped through the archway and down a short hallway. An open door admitted the heavy, dreamy scent of summer blossoms and the pattering melody of a small fountain. The transition from the brightness of the interior to the dark of the exterior was stark and sudden, and Brandon paused just outside the spill of light to let his senses adjust.
He appeared to be standing in a square, walled enclosure that might have been fifty feet in each dimension. The tiled patio just beyond the door was connected to a couple of brick paths that curved through a half-hearted array of bushes, flower beds, and stunted trees. To his right was a small pavilion that seemed to hold tables and chairs and a few potted plants. It was covered with a heavy linen canopy, but was otherwise open to the night air. The tinkling of the fountain seemed to come from under its protection.
The walls were high enough to be difficult to scale, and Brandon guessed they were slick as marble, though he couldn’t tell in this light. They were innocent of any vine that might offer a handhold to a desperate climber. There was no gate to admit visitors directly to or from the yard; anyone who wished to take refuge in the garden would have to access it through the house.
