Page 3 of Arrogant and Merciless

Seconds later, I regret thinking that way. Mrs. Marshall was so excited when I promised to bring down a box of old photos from her teenage years. I could almost swear that for a moment, her face looked younger—like she was a girl all over again.

I try to recall what she said: the box we need is lined with daisy-print fabric.

Half an hour later, amid a cloud of dust, I finally find what I’m looking for, but now I’m so filthy I can’t possibly join my employer in her spotless bedroom.

I carefully make my way down from the attic because I don’t trust the stairs. From the looks of that place, no one’s been up there in at least a decade.

“Found it,” I say with a smile as I enter Mrs. Marshall’s suite.

Immediately, she and Bonnie—who’s already back at work—burst out laughing.

“Taylor, you look like one of those soldiers in full camouflage on a war mission.” Mrs. Marshall’s says.

“That’s pretty much how I feel, actually.”

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble!”

“I’m the one who suggested this trip down memory lane, and I’m excited to look at the pictures together, but first, I need a shower.”

“In the meantime, I’ll get tea and pastries for the three of us,” Bonnie says.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell my employer, grabbing my backpack from the wine-colored velvet armchair—the same fabric as the drapes.

God, I hate both the chair and the drapes. They don’t match Mrs. Marshall’s cheerful demeanor at all. Whoever decided to decorate the house this way must not have been her. You only have to spend five minutes with her to realize that, despite her age, she’s young at heart.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“To take a shower.”

I don’t usually go down to the servants’ wing because I can’t stand the housekeeper. Apparently, she’s more loyal to Mrs. Marshall’s daughter-in-law than to Mrs. Marshall herself, and she ignores her employer’s wishes as if the old lady were senile—or so Bonnie tells me. I disliked her from the moment I met her, and after seeing how she behaves toward my employer, I like her even less.

“Don’t go shower in my servants’ quarters. I know you don’t like Sherie,” Mrs. Marshall says, referring to the housekeeper.

I should deny it, but I’m incapable of lying, so I give her a sheepish smile. “So, what should I do, then?”

“Use one of the guest rooms on the top floor.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Mrs. Marshall, but I can’t do that.”

“I’m guessing you’re only taking a quick shower, right? If you don’t want to use one of the suites, go to the small bathroom in the library. Do you know where it is?”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever been there.”

“It’s two doors before mine, right at the top of the stairs. When I was first diagnosed, my grandson, William, moved the first-floor library up here because I love books. He’s the one who usually uses it when, on the rare occasions he can, he spends a night with his old grandma. Before you came to work for me, I hardly ever left my room.”

“That’s different now,” I say, smiling.

“I know, dear. There are so many fun things I still want us to do together. Now go take your shower. How long will you be—ten minutes?”

“I can be ready in five. I’ll be right back.”

I walk into the room she indicated and need a moment to pick my jaw up off the floor. When Mrs. Marshall said “library,” I pictured a shelf or two of books. But besides being huge—like everything else in this house—it genuinely resembles a public library.

My God, if I ever have to be buried alive, I want it to be in a place like this. I’d die happy.

I force myself to move, or I’ll never manage to shower in time. Actually, I probably won’t anyway, since I’ve already spent at least two minutes gawking, but I’ll try not to be too late.

Thesmallbathroom is big enough to fit my entire bedroom. There’s a counter with toiletries—shampoo, liquid soap—and I wonder whether Mrs. Marshall’s grandson uses them.

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