Chapter 12

Jane

Michael strode ahead of me through the elegant entrance foyer, and I had to keep a hurried pace to keep beside him. "Was that your assistant?" I asked, continuing my way through a spacious cream-colored hall. Expensive, modern and abstract paintings sat on the walls, all vying for my attention.

“You’re right on the money,” Michael replied, “she can be a very... forceful woman. But she works hard. Harder than anyone else I’ve had,” he informed, looking over his shoulder at me. “This job is all that she has, so I hope you can forgive her, uhm, relentless passion.”

You don’t have to be rude to be passionate, but giving someone the benefit of the doubt, if anything, was important to me. “She does seem to have a lot of it,” I twisted my lips into a smirk. We continued down the simply elegant corridor, passing by a few white doors flanking either side of us. My shoes tapped along the silvery gray slate mosaic tiles; the flooring alone probably costs more than I make in a year.

When my eyes grew tired of drinking in the wonders of the Smoak mansion, they turned to the backside of the man himself. His hard, defined muscles all on display in just that dark-gray vest over a light-gray shirt.

When we reached the far end of the hall, to our right was a breath taking Great Room; there were two people occupying it. A woman that I couldn’t recognize, and the butler from before, Joshua Redwood.

Michael looked to me, and the world became smaller. “I’ll have to change,” he informed me in that gravel voice, like it came effortless to the man. “Don’t let Mags divulge too many of my secrets,” he said with a playful glint in his eyes, winking at me.

“Well you better get dressed quick then,” I teased, “I’ll wager a guess that you’ve got dead hookers in your basement.”

Michael smirked, and a small, short laugh escaped him. “I thought you were a reporter,” he remarked, “not a professional person of ratiocination.” I raised my eyebrows at him, silently consenting to my lack of understanding. “I’m complimenting your detective prowess,” he explained, his face quickly becoming a mask of seriousness, “jokingly of course. There’s no dead hookers down there... at least none that I know.”

I laughed to myself, “I think you would know if someone was buried beneath your feet.”

Michael nodded, and motioned for me to continue into the Great Room with him. The woman whom I did not recognize, Mags as Michael called her, held an intellectual and graceful beauty. The woman had immaculately kept hair; it was a pull-through brain with five to six thick knots, colored brown with streaks of chestnut. She sipped on her tea before placing the cup back on the hardwood coffee table. I found future me being envious of the clothes that she wore; dressed in a red, long sleeve, v-neck blouse. They were joined by a pair of dark green, slim fit ankle pants.

Michael parted from the room, vanishing off to change; when he did as such, the ever genteel Mr. Redwood turned his head and smiled at me in greeting.

Smiling in kind at the man, I made my way like a soft breeze to Mags’s side on the L-shaped couch.

She put her book on her lap and reached an arm over my shoulder, pulling me in for a casual embrace. “Our heroine made flesh,” she said softly, giving me a light squeeze before pulling back. “Sorry,” she offered with a whisper of a laugh, “read too much. You must be the girl Michael’s spoken of.”

Continuing his work, Mr. Redwood chimed in, “Master Chatworth.” His tone came out with the authority and instruction of a helpful teacher. “Wits are as sharp as her sight,” he commented.

I turned my head to him, “You can’t know that,” I replied teasingly, “we’ve hardly spoken.”

“Master Smoak required my keen knowledge on the mystics and the Occult before giving me this position. Riveting stuff, I’ll say.” I wasn’t certain if I should believe him.

Mags rolled her seemingly stiff shoulders, “The rich never make things easy,” she japed. “Magdalene Orville, for the record, Miss Chatworth.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I replied, “how come I didn’t see you before?”

“My services are not so daily required,” she explained, taking a sip of her chamomile tea. “Michael and our sharp friend Redwood keep things tidy, usually.” She cocked her head, gaze turning pensive, “I should probably be a bit more mad with them, I suppose, for cutting my hours.”

So she’s the head maid of the house, “Well surely it’s not just you and him that keep this place running?”

“Oh no,” Magdalene said with a scoff. “No, we have Pinestro for the kitchen three days out of the week, and more for special occasions. When Michael’s holding some occasion,” her lips curled at the mention, and her eyes narrowed. “This place flips between heaven and hell like that,” she snapped her fingers for effect, “on those nights.”

“So, parties, then?”

Mr. Redwood let loose a private laugh, and Magdalene brought the tips of her fingers to her lips. “That’s one way to say it,” she said beneath her breath cryptically. I wondered what just might have happened on those peculiar nights; just how many women had he slept with in this lord-like manor?

Or, perhaps, he was doing something more sinister? It was impossible to imagine, and it made my stomach turn just at the thought. Surely his staff would know the activities of their boss - they seemed good fellows.

Damn, did Ligotti have any weight to his words? I should tell him about what happened, probe him about the picture I’ve been so vividly painted. That thought echoed through my mind, and weighed twice as strong in my beating chest.