Work Text:
Vera
A bell rings and I blink harsh sunlight out of my eyes at the kitchen table. Charlotte and Brian are busy cleaning up what looks to be lunch and I’m confused for a second over where the time has gone. I seem to have zoned out.
The bell at my waist rings again and although I vaguely recognise its specific tone, I still have to look down to confirm it’s for the main drawing room. You know the sound of that bell Vera, keep it together.
Charlotte and Brian turn towards me with questioning looks at the sound. It’s not like me to need a second bell and it wouldn’t do as a leader to seem like I’m losing the plot.
“As you were,” I tell them sternly.
I climb the stairs and make my way into the East Wing. All the doors are closed but one and I hover at the threshold, waiting to be addressed.
Mr. Grimm is standing by the fire and with the backdrop of flames he looks even more sinister than he usually does. Or, at least, attempts to look. (It’s been a long time since I’ve believed this hard exterior.)
“Have the areas been set right?” Mr. Grimm asks me. It takes me a few minutes to sort through a clouded brain to determine which areas he’s referring to. I’ve found I’ve been quite forgetful over this past summer, going a little doolally. (Maybe it’s old age.)
Groups of men… army-style trucks… crates… it was morning… green tights! Right! Yes!
“Yes Sir, we have tidied the Northern wing and Brian has logged any items that were taken.”
He nods his approval at me.
This isn’t the first time, if my memory serves me right. (And even though that seems a little iffy recently, I definitely remember that they’re messy little sods.) I think they must be some special division of the police. They’re at the house at least twice a month, sweeping the place. No doubt looking for drugs.
They’re barking up the wrong tree, they’ll never find anything here; Mr. Grimm keeps them on various farms. I believe he’s the main syndicate boss for their “agricultural” division. (That is, narcotics.) (The Mafia is full of code words.)
He’s constantly on the phone discussing “the state of cultivation”—it’s fairly obvious that it’s all code for the places they’re growing their supply.
“Will that be all, Mr. Grimm?”
“Actually, we’ve decided to have the Old Families over for drinks at two pm Vera, please put out the Whiskey and locate one of our Domaine bottles from the wine cellar. The 1949 could be nice.”
Bottle. Singular. As if his Mafia ‘Family’ aren’t at least twelve deep and fancy themselves too posh for Whiskey.
“One bottle. Yes, Sir.”
“Actually,” he says, turning to close a glass safety partition over the fire, “make that two.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And fetch Basilton please, we have business to attend to first.”
Business. I’m used to him talking about interaction with his own son like it’s a transaction but I wasn’t prepared for this. I knew the day would come when they’d drag Basil into their shit. He’s eighteen now, after all. They’re clearly already making plans for him to join the “Family Business” after he graduates from that fancy school.
He’s a soft boy at heart. I don’t think Malcolm sees it.
“Of course, Mr. Grimm,” I tell him and swallow down the rest of what I want to say. (A fundamental strength of any good housekeeper.)
I make my way down to the cellar and gather up the bottles of wine—three bottles, Mr. Grimm underestimates them—and place them in the upstairs pantry for Charlotte and Brian to serve later.
The Families used to gather once a week in various places but recently they’ve been gathering more and more; it makes me wonder if they’re ramping up to something. I’m pretty sure Deveraux’s parents are running non-legitimate white-collar businesses, so maybe some kind of long con is finally coming to fruition.
Mr. Grimm has always dropped everything for the Families when needed. I don’t think he actually has any friends outside of this. I often wonder if they’re even allowed or if it’s a brainwashed “us versus them” mentality.
Sounds exactly like a cult to me. They even use the Mafia kingpin names as curse words instead of The Almighty: Crowley, Chomsky, Methuselah and Morgana. The last one’s a woman, I think, which… well for all the Mafia’s flaws, at least they’re letting women lead nowadays.
I make my way to the library where Basil likes to play his violin after lunch when he doesn’t have that friend over, the redhead with the weird eyes.
He’s always been quite a lonely child. He doesn’t have many friends to confide in or turn to for support. I was the one who comforted him after the family dog disappeared. He was a wreck that whole summer before he went back to school, but he never once had a friend over to make him feel better.
The door is open and I can hear the strings from the top of the staircase. I hover just outside the doorway and listen to him play for a minute or two. I’ve always loved listening to him play. I know Mrs. Grimm thinks his songs are needlessly morose but it’s what’s inside the poor boy’s heart. Let him get it out any way he can. Malcolm sure never taught him how.
I stand at the threshold and call his name.
“Basilton…”
He doesn’t hear, he’s lost to the music.
I raise my voice and try again, “Mr. Pitch.”
I flinch at the blunt note he pauses on.
"I’m sorry to interrupt. But your father wishes to speak with you in the main drawing room.”
He turns to me, smiling slightly, his face soft and open. Sometimes, immediately after he’s been playing, he forgets to slap on the cool exterior; like he’s still too lost in the music to remember to hide what’s going on behind his eyes. The music strips all the walls away.
After a few seconds it’s back though, a smooth controlled expression. I wish he wouldn’t.
He sets his violin down and straightens his shirt.
He always wears shirts around the house, don’t remember the last time I saw him in a t-shirt. Trying to imitate his father, no doubt. I had to argue the toss with Malcolm to get Basil play clothes growing up, felt like I was in the bloody Sound of Music.
“Thank you, Vera.”
I step back to let him pass by and he offers me another small smile that’s yards away from his earlier softness or his chubby-cheeked grins as a little one.
I run my eye over the Library, assessing the damage. The first rule that the new starters learn when they arrive here is that I run a tight ship in that regard; there’s a place for everything, and I insist that everything must be in its place.
There’s not much to tidy up, just a few books. I place them back on the shelves, chuckling to myself at all the whimsical titles they own:
The Merlin Within
Inflections and Hexes
Forest Feasts and Mythical Beasts
For a Mafia branch who loves to put on heirs and graces in their Victorian palace, this family has always had a great deal of interest in fairy tales and magical nonsense. (I mean, they are called The Grimms, so I guess it’s to be expected.)
I take one last glance around wondering—not for the first time—if Basil hides in here because he wants to be alone, given the littles aren’t allowed in yet.
He’s good with the littles but the older he’s got, the more he’s shut us all out and I worry about him. I always have; I hadn’t known how to keep a professional distance when I was younger.
Daphne’s been a blessing in disguise. She’s a lovely mother and it’s allowed me to take a step back, to just be the housekeeper to the others, but I had to step up and raise Basil as if he were my own. Grief left no one else.
Basil so badly wants to be like his father and mother. I know he consciously mimics the way Mr. Grimm holds himself and tries to be strong like the memories of his mother suggest.
I hadn’t known her long before she was taken but, by all accounts and mine, she was a formidable woman. I see that fire in Basil.
But as for Malcolm; Basil can’t see his father for who he used to be, when Mrs. Pitch was still alive... and then during those early years, when she wasn’t.
That boy is truly a chip off the old block, but not in the ways he thinks he is. He’s sensitive and caring and I know him well enough to see past those silly old bored expressions he plasters on his face. I know them both well enough to see they’re still hurting. They were never able to move on from their grief; only push on, in spite of it.
The vintage grandfather clock in the corner chimes one pm and I decide, while I’m up here, I had may as well kill two birds with one stone and check the guest rooms at the end of the hall. No doubt one or two of our esteemed guests will get too bladdered to go home and we’ll be running around like blue-arsed flies trying to accommodate them.
As I’m about to open the door to the first guestroom, I hear banging and moans from inside. It sounds like someone is really suffering. (That or they’ve already been killed and their phantom has returned to throw their own wake.)
It’s not necessarily unusual, these rooms often leak noises that house staff should close their ears to and it’s hardly shocking that the Mafia would engage in torture. I should be nervous, I suppose, but it’s hard to be after all these years. I made my peace with it long ago, once I realised that they would have cleaned house for what happened to Natasha; a quick retaliatory removal of any and all involved.
Maybe some of the Family arrived here early. Sometimes they use the back entrance (I assume to avoid prying eyes) and it wouldn’t do to find myself in rooms where they’re conducting Business.
Maybe that’s why Mr. Grimm wanted Basil away from the library.
“Mrs. Moseley?” a soft voice makes me jump.
“Crowley!” I gasp. (That’s how long I’ve been here, I’ve picked up their Mafia-don swears.)
I turn to see Charlotte walking towards me from the opposite end of the corridor, wringing her hands, eyes darting from side to side with nerves.
I raise my eyebrow at her in question—an action I’ve also picked up from working here—while I walk towards her. She’s an anxious little thing but she’s clever; I think she knows something’s up with the Grimms and I’d rather direct her away from anything too incriminating.
“Brian’s feeling under the weather, Mrs. Moseley. He feels faint, headache, that sort of thing. I don’t think I can cater to them all on my own, I-”
“That’s alright Charlotte, I’ll help,” I interrupt, but she continues on.
“But Brian sai–”
“He’ll have a sleep and be good as new. Calm down now, it’s just drinks, nothing to get bent out of shape over.”
She nods at me, her eyes lingering on the Guestroom door. Most days she’s either too nosy or too afraid any time she leaves the main kitchen.
“Hurry up now,” I snap at her. There’s nothing to see here, Charlotte.
She’s so jittery that she actually curtseys before running back down the hall. Christ.
I make a mental note to keep an eye on her; she’s barely been with us a summer yet. We’ve had many new starters over the time I’ve been here and sometimes the pay isn’t enough for some people to keep schtum. They tell too many truths down at the local or they ask too many bloody questions around the Grimms. It’s like they’ve never heard of ‘curiosity killed the cat’. (And given that this is the Mafia, they’d best take it literally.)
The bell at my waist chimes with a specific tone that I recognise as for the main kitchen and I fumble to switch it off. Even after all these years, I still don’t understand how these things work. (I know it’s just technology, but if I was any crazier I’d believe it magic.)
Anyway, if the guestrooms are otherwise occupied, I had better make myself useful in Brian’s absence.
“Mr. Grimm wanted hors d'oeuvres to go with the wine and they’re all finished,” Charlotte tells me, lifting the lids off of two silver platters.
“Thank you, Charlotte. Please place them on the usual tables, it’s just drinks and Mr. Grimm won’t want us serving.”
“Yes, Mrs. Moseley.” She lifts one and carries it out of the room with both hands.
“Hello, hello, don’t mind me,” Thomas—the Groundskeeper, who I’m fairly certain has been here since time began—announces in a sing-song voice as he makes his way over to the cubby where we keep the keys.
“Mr. Merton, to what do we owe the pleasure?” I smirk at him.
“Mr. Pitch needs keys. He’s off to play at the Club.”
I smile at that, pleased that Basil won’t be attending the drinks. Maybe they’re keeping him out of the firing line for longer yet.
“S’it your afternoon off, old girl?”
“It is, old man. I’m just covering for Brian and then I’ll pop out to the lake.”
Thomas nods at me and reaches forward, lifting the lid off the remaining platter and trying to grab a sneaky crostini. I swipe at him and tell him to sod off.
Charlotte returns as the front doorbell rings and she shoots me a wide-eyed look. I sigh and pat her twice on the shoulder before directing her into the receiving room while I see to our Guests. (I don’t blame her for being nervous, she’s walking right into a room full of pit vipers, after all.)
Something big must be going on because the whole Family seems to have arrived and they’re all dressed in their Sunday best even though it’s only bloody Tuesday. A few of them look a little worse for wear under their finery though, as if they’ve recently been caught in skirmishes; hardly surprising, for the mob.
I welcome and direct them across the foyer into the ground floor drawing room, taking coats and handing them off to Thomas to store in the cloakroom.
Mr. Grimm nods at me that everyone has arrived and I follow him into the room where he seats himself in a deep purple velvet armchair, a picture of apathy in a double-breasted jacket.
Mr. Grimm fancies himself a Dapper Don at these meetings. He’s all fine suits, expensive wines and hard stares. Trying to live up to Natasha’s name I suspect. The Pitch family were—if Thomas is to be believed—incredibly powerful before she was indisposed. They moved markets. Changed lives. (Not necessarily always for the better, I’m told.) (Well, not for everyone at least.)
Charlotte and I pour drinks while they talk amongst themselves.
They bicker a little over things I don’t quite understand: the safety of metal boxes, whether Mr. Crowley would have stood for this, the state of Watford. (Why on earth somebody would care about what happened to a town like Watford is beyond me.)
Mr. Grimm is in the corner talking to Mr. Helvar—a short fella who’s as nasty as I am old—about the importance of ‘crop rotation’. He’s never usually this open about growing drugs around the newer members of the staff, so I steer Charlotte to the other side of the room to stand back against the wall while we wait for further instructions.
I take a closer look at our guests and notice that it’s only the adults today. I thank the Lord that Devereux hasn’t followed his parents ‘round, he must have gone to the Club with Basil. It takes three days to clear up Dev’s messes, and even then we’re still finding bits of crockery or popcorn all over the place for at least a week after.
The muttering drags on until Mr. Grimm taps his glass to speak. Everyone quietens down and he thanks both Charlotte and I before dismissing us. I see Charlotte’s downtrodden expression as she closes the door after me but I, for one, am happy about it—best to have an excuse if one of those weird little men who frequently raid the house decide to take us in for questioning. Ignorance is bliss.
And besides, there’s something about Charlotte that just don’t sit right with me.
I always spend my evenings off roaming the grounds and today I’m thankful to take in the last of the sunshine. It might be hell for us to keep on top of, but that’s one benefit of such a huge estate: when I have time off, I don’t even have to see them.
There’s a lovely lake that I always walk out to, come rain or shine. I like to sit here and read my book; it’s clear and still and, in the spring, Osprey migrate here. I can watch them settle in the trees, and come winter I get to witness the new little ones fly up, up and away... it’s lovely. But it’s not just birds; sometimes deer graze nearby too and, usually, they let me pet them.
These woods are full of wildlife, given our proximity to the wide open Downs and Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty.
Come to think of it, I suppose this should have been my first clue: the distance from civilisation, away from watchful eyes.
This job looked exceptional from a distance: huge house, comfortable living space away from the family, grounds to roam… but the devil’s in the details I guess; in the large “family” meetings, in the extortionate amount of money these people are rolling in, in the dealings they have with what I suspect to be an underground government—The Coven they call it. (Like they’re witches.) (Ridiculous.)
I’m not sure they realise that I know they’re the Mafia. They seem to think they're sneaky.
It wasn’t rocket science to figure out what was going on, of course. After three days of working for and living with these people, I knew. I should have left. Who chooses to be a nanny for the Mafia? Sometimes I question why I even stayed, back then; why I didn’t run for the hills the second I noticed.
At first, I was scared. I mean, I wasn’t sure they’d let me leave... but I was also caught up in the belief that “fortune favours the bold” and, well, fortune is correct. These people have always paid phenomenally well and I was young and my parents had passed and I liked nice things...
But then Mrs. Pitch was murdered and I felt so sorry for the little one. For Basil. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t grasp that she was gone.
Besides, Natasha had been murdered and the Mafia are known for their revenge. I couldn’t leave a child in that situation, what about if the retaliation got out of hand and there was a war? Who would provide Basil with the care he needed? Malcolm was in no state.
And Fiona? Well. I spent the days immediately afterwards cleaning up pentagrams and animal blood from the floors of her childhood room, hurrying after her while she muttered words to herself in languages I couldn’t understand, waving around a wand like she thought she was a fairy.
I don’t remember much from those early weeks, but I do remember that it was incredibly distressing, seeing her lose her mind. If I was more of a god-fearing woman I’d have sent her to be exorcised; as it happens, she was just hurting too.
And, when she moved in with us... let’s just say I became a parent to a child, a grown man, and a teenager overnight.
No, there was nothing for it. And even though the war I feared never happened, I don’t regret it.
I still don’t know why this Mafia family chose me when nannies are a dime a dozen, but there we are.
I read for an hour before, as luck would have it, a doe steps out of the trees. I’ve always found it a little odd that the deers out here, whilst somewhat wild, seem to have been trained not to be scared of approaching humans.
I reach for her and the doe sniffs against my pocket and seems to become frustrated that I have no food left. “Easy does it,” I mumble, trying to soothe her.
I spend a while stroking her before she lopes off and I call it a day and pack away my things. I think I’ll have a nice hot bath and crawl into bed with a good book, followed by an early night.
I have the morning off and I intend to lie in until at least Noon.
Banging. It filters through the bird song... I run my hand along the grass, it’s soft...
Raised voices. Shouting. How could people shout at a lake so beautiful?
My door slams open and I sit up in shock.
Through the film of sleep still coating my senses, I can make out the shape of Mr. Grimm shadowed in the doorway. Is he wearing pyjamas around the house? I haven’t seen him in pyjamas since the year he married Daphne. He’s not even wearing slippers.
“We need your help!”
I blink at him blearily, feeling more than a little bewildered. I think his hair is dishevelled, falling around his face instead of his usual Mafioso style. My sleep-addled brain supplies that it looks a little thinner than it used to be.
He stumbles across my room in a very un-Malcolm-like way and shakes me by the shoulders, “Vera! Please!”
His grey eyes are wet with tears and I’m suddenly incredibly alert. Even when Natasha passed, I never once saw this man cry. I heard it, muffled through walls and slammed doors, I even cleaned up the tissues from his bedside; but real tears are streaming tracks down a face that’s already been wiped red raw and I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
He draws a breath as shaky as I feel when I push off my covers and grab my dressing gown to tie around my waist.
“It’s Basil, he’s–”
God no. I whip my head towards him in fear. Darkness crawls from the shadows in my room and wraps itself around my internal organs, squeezing. Not again. No, not again.
I watch as he clears his throat and adopts his trademark cool demeanour. Just tell me you old fool!
“He didn’t come home, Vera. We need you to make calls for him around the Families.”
Families, right. Surely they have people who can handle this…
“Mal!” Daphne’s voice calls from the hallway.
We both run out to meet her. She’s still wearing her nightie, hair down and twisted wildly around her face. Her eyes are ringed with red.
“Charlotte just picked this up.”
She thrusts a piece of paper at Malcolm and I notice gravel seems to be caught in the lace of her night-sleeves.
I lean around to get a better view of the paper—it’s stained with dirt and mould and it’s crinkled in the way that books are when they get wet. I left my glasses in my room but I can make out the large words, half carved into the slip in what looks to be clay.
“What do we do, Mal?” Daphne whispers.
Malcolm ignores her, staring down at the paper with a look that I haven’t seen in a long, long time.
Daphne is sobbing softly and I reach out to grip her arm. (It’s as much to ground myself as it is her.) She turns to me, face contorting into pure anguish and mine follows suit as she falls into my chest. She’s trembling so I rub her back as I do with the little ones when they’re upset. I feel her tears soak through my dressing gown as my own dampen her hair.
I continue watching Malcolm through blurry eyes. Eventually, he blinks back to us; a tear falling and smudging the words on the paper before he scrunches it up in his fist and growls out a sound that I’m sure would send a jaguar cowering for cover.
“We don’t pay ransoms.” He grinds out.
I’m in shock, eyes wide searching his face for some trace of proof that he’s fucking joking.
“Malcolm!” I gasp, forgetting myself.
He turns a glare so cold towards me that even the tear tracks on his face can’t undercut it. He’s not used to me standing my ground against him, not anymore. I’m full of rage though, so I push on.
“Sir,” I plead, “please see sense. Basilt–”
“Is none of your concern, Vera.” He commands roughly. I’m muted by shock alone. None of my concern. That bastard. Basil has been more my concern than his since he was fucking five years old.
Fury simmers in my stomach and I’m about to tell him exactly where he can stick his unpaid ransom when a little voice comes from down the hall.
“Mother?”
It’s the twins.
Acantha’s face is a mask of concern directed towards a sniffling Daphne in my arms, Ophelia is rubbing at her eyes behind her always-precocious sister.
“Vera, please see to the children.” Malcolm commands, voice firm. I look over at him and his face is set into the usual mask of a hardened heart, but I’ve known this idiot too long not to see the agony clinging to the corner of his eyes.
I’m hedging my bets on whether to step out of line again but Daphne releases me and turns towards her little ones, “I’m ok my darlings, I just had a nightmare.” She wipes her face as she walks over to them, offering a small smile and bending down to whisper, “sometimes Mothers need Vera’s comfort too,” as if sharing an amusing secret.
Acantha turns her wide, trusting eyes to me while Daphne sweeps a lock of hair behind Ophelia’s ear with a shaky hand, whispering “don’t worry, be happy” over and over to her. It never helps when I say it, but I watch the panic bleed out of Ophelia right before my eyes.
Fuck it all. I’ll take the girls back to bed.
And then afterwards, I will deal with Malcolm.
I knock politely and wait to be accepted. It wouldn’t do to start off this conversation by misplacing my manners. Mr. Grimm is nothing if not obsessed with good old English gentry fucking manners.
I’m not scared of him. I was the person who whipped this man into shape when Mrs. Pitch passed. He shut out his family—his whole family, even the Uncles—and I was the one who made sure he ate and irritated him until he bathed.
I went above and beyond my job description back then. I bent over backwards in the interest of trying to gather this man’s wits into something that resembled a Father for Basilton.
And now he wants to withhold a ransom for pride? Is this what he thinks Mrs. Pitch would have wanted? ( Is this what Natasha would have wanted?) (I barely knew her…)
No sound behind the door. I knock again.
Kidnapping. Ransoms. Fucking Mafia.
How can Malcolm be so stupid as to let this happen? Don’t the Mafia have protection for their offspring? Some kind of bodyguard? Didn’t they teach him how to protect himself?
He’s just a child.
We don’t pay ransoms.
That’s the Pitch talking. Fiona was always spouting nonsense at me about raising Basil in The Pitch Way. Pitches must do this and Pitches would never do that and you have to quit smoking, Vera, if you want to be around Basil.
Well you’re not a fucking Pitch, Mr. Grimm.
Come on, breathe. Pull yourself together, Vera.
I knock again—harder this time—and announce loudly, “I have tea, Sir” even though I bloody well fucking don’t.
The door opens on its own accord, revealing Malcolm sitting in his desk chair, back ramrod straight, left ankle resting on his knee while he talks on the phone. The picture of ease to someone who couldn’t pinpoint the cracking of his psyche in the corner of his mouth. That, and the fact that he’s still in his pyjamas with bare feet.
Stay cool, Vera.
He raises an eyebrow at my empty hands as I approach his desk. Papers are strewn across the surface, books in strange languages I don’t recognise. There’s a large ink stain across the pages of one where he’s spilled it from its pot.
All signs point to distress. Maybe he’ll pay the ransom after all. Maybe he was just too worked up to think clearly. My panic settles a little, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
Now that I’m closer I can hear what sounds like Fiona’s grating tones coming through the speaker. I would hope that she had talked him into doing the right thing but this is Fiona we’re talking about.
“If you’d just let me-”
“But I think that we should-”
His nostrils flare at being interrupted, twice. He directs a hard stare down at the ransom note on his desk before trying again.
“This is more important tha–”
He sighs heavily which I take to mean he’s admitting defeat in something. Fiona’s like a dog with a bone; she’s as stubborn as she is vindictive.
“Yes.” Malcolm grinds out through gritted teeth. “Try as many as you can. I’m searching the library. There has to be something.”
I tap my foot nervously while I hear Fiona grunt out a response that sounds suspiciously like, “green twat” from the other end of the line before hanging up.
Malcom directs his attention to me.
“If you have not brought tea, why are you here, Vera?” He sounds bored, picking at his pyjama trouser leg.
I’ll just go for it. “I’m assuming you’re sending Hampshire’s version of the Murder Inc. after the rival gang, not just Fiona.” There. Cat’s out the bag. Let him know I know.
Malcolm stares at me for a long second before answering.
“The person who took my son will pay the second we find Basil.”
“You’ll find him a lot quicker if you pay the ransom,” I snap. I can’t help it, I’m wound so tight.
He raises his eyebrow as he tells me, “I am unable to do that,” calmly.
I hate that Malcolm developed this response: withdrawal, fake nonchalance...
It crawls under my skin. I don’t care if he needs permission from Mr. fucking Crowley, he can damn well ask for it.
“Pay it anyway, Malcolm.” I demand. And then, before I can stop myself I hiss, “you have enough money!”
“Mrs. Moseley. This isn’t about money. And I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me.” His voice is cold and full of warning.
I know it well. I’ve heard him use it many times over the phone, or through the door of those meetings he holds in his suite downstairs.
There’s so much about this family I just don’t understand. Basilton is a child. He’s been kidnapped!
What good will books do?
“I don’t care if your fucking Mafia uncles come for me,” I spit. “Just get him back!”
I’m shouting. I’m hysterical.
Racketeering and money laundering is one thing, but this?
This is too much. It’s too much.
My breath comes in short bursts but it’s not filling my lungs. There’s ringing in my ears. My head feels foggy. I worry, distantly, whether I’m going to faint.
“Vera.” Malcolm’s firm voice breaks through the static in my brain. He’s holding onto my shoulders. When did he move? “Breathe Vera, come on,” he pulls and my legs move, following him. “I’ll get you some tea.”
Tea. Tea?
He sits me down and takes a place opposite me at his desk.
His eyes soften as he says gently, “I’m sorry, Vera.”
My heart won’t stop racing. I don’t understand.
He reaches for his desk drawer and I stand abruptly.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells me, like someone who was going to hurt me would fucking warn me first.
He raises his palms up soothingly as if he were calming a wild animal. Calming prey, my panicked brain supplies.
“I just need the time.”
I nod stiffly but lean over slightly to ensure there’s no weapons.
His desk drawer is exactly as I left it, save for the pocket watch he’s strangely attached to.
He holds it out and I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. Why would I want a watch? But he’s not giving it to me, he’s pointing it at me.
“I’m sorry, Vera,” he repeats.
I don’t understand.
“Forgive and forget.”
The bell rings and I blink fluorescent lighting out of my eyes in the kitchen. Charlotte is busy getting what looks to be breakfast ready and I’m confused for a second over where the time has gone. I seem to have zoned out. Twice in two days... that hasn’t happened in a while. My head feels heavy… maybe what Brian had was catching...
“Vera?”
I turn towards Mrs. Grimm’s voice. She’s giving me her usual warm smile but it’s… off. But then, this whole moment feels off, so maybe it’s just me. Maybe I fell asleep? It wouldn’t do to let her know that.
I stand and smooth down my apron, chin raised.
“Basilton has gone to school early,” she states in a voice that seems too cold for her. “Please could you strip the bed?”
She looks tired.
“Yes Ma’am,” I say to her retreating back.