Chapter 4 - The Seven O'Clock Arrival
The heavy oak service door swung inward at precisely seven minutes past seven, letting in a gust of damp morning air and the steady hiss of the storm outside. Mrs. Gable, the head cook, stepped across the threshold first, shaking a translucent plastic poncho over the rubber floor mat. Behind her came Toby, the junior groundskeeper, his rubber boots squelching audibly against the polished light-colored flooring that reflected the soft, dim glow of the overhead chandelier.
"Roads are washed out down by the creek," Mrs. Gable announced, her voice booming through the high-ceilinged kitchen before she even unclasped her heavy canvas bag. "County's got a barricade up on Route Twelve. Trees down across the lower gate. We’re in for a long day of it."
I stood by the industrial range, my fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of a copper kettle. My black dress felt suddenly too heavy against my skin, the white collar chafing slightly at my throat as I forced my breathing to remain even. Inside the walk-in pantry, just six feet away behind a slatted wooden door, the man in the heavy black winter coat stood in absolute silence. He had retreated there moments before the latch clicked, his wet stubble and dark eyes parting into the shadows without a sound.
"Did you hear me, girl?" Mrs. Gable asked, dropping her bag onto the stainless-steel prep table with a sharp clatter. "Or did the rain knock your wits out?"
"I heard you," I managed, keeping my voice level. I forced my posture to relax, lifting the kettle to the sink. "Route Twelve is closed. I'll check the pantry stores for extra canned goods in case the power drops."
"Never mind the pantry just yet," Toby muttered, wiping rain from his forehead with a bare forearm. "Brooke's been on my case since dawn about the perimeter drains. Said if the patio floods again, I'll be cleaning it with a toothbrush."
Before I could answer, the rhythmic, measured click of low heels sounded against the hallway floor. The kitchen went instantly still. Mrs. Gable busied herself straightening a row of spice tins, and Toby ducked his head toward his boots, adopting the practiced, deferential posture everyone assumed when the mistress of the house approached.
Brooke stepped into the doorway, her gold silk robe catching the ambient light from the tall windows. She held the clipboard rigidly against her hip, her dark hair pinned into a severe, flawless twist. Her gaze swept over the kitchen, noting every detail with cold precision before landing squarely on me.
"Where is the updated staff roster for the morning service?" Brooke asked, her tone entirely devoid of warmth. "It was supposed to be on the side desk at six."
"I was just about to print it, Mrs. Vance," I said, my hand steadying as I set the kettle onto the burner. "The network has been lagging because of the storm."
"Excuses don't clear the breakfast trays," she replied, stepping further into the room. Her eyes flicked toward the pantry door for a fraction of a second—a subtle micro-expression of suspicion that made my stomach tighten. "And where is Natalie? Her vehicle is still parked in the eastern bay, yet she hasn't answered her comms."
"I haven't seen her this morning," I answered truthfully, keeping my face a blank slate.
Brooke tapped a polished fingernail against the corner of the clipboard. "Check her suite immediately. Then bring the roster to the study. I won't have the entire household paralyzed just because of a little rain."
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With that, she turned on her heel and strode back down the hallway, her silk robe whispering against the floor. As soon as the sound of her heels faded toward the front wing, I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, caught Mrs. Gable's indifferent eye, and turned toward the back stairs with a stack of fresh linens clutched to my chest.
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