The first thing Nora noticed was the cold.
Not the November cold outside the Moretti estate, where wet leaves plastered themselves against the gate. This was the cold inside an upstairs bedroom in a mansion that had enough money to heat every room twice over.
The fireplace was dark. The curtains had been pulled across three tall windows. An old man sat in a wheelchair facing a blank wall, his thin hands lying open on his knees.
A bowl of oatmeal stood on a tray beyond his reach. A skin had formed across the top.
“Mr. John?” Nora said.
He did not turn.
She was six months pregnant and in her first week as a maid at the estate. At twenty-three, she had already learned that people were less likely to give her work if she mentioned the baby before they offered it. The Morettis had been desperate for staff, and the salary, though small, was more than she’d found elsewhere.
She had been assigned to polish silver and clean guest rooms. Nobody had mentioned the man upstairs.
Nora set down her basket.
“Can you hear me?”
His eyes moved toward her. Slowly, unmistakably.
She approached the tray. The oatmeal was cold enough to clump on the spoon.
“Have you eaten today?”
His gaze dropped to the bowl.
Nora found a folded napkin and covered the tray. She opened the curtains first. In the garden below, the bare branches of a maple tree scraped at the wind.
Then she turned on the heating unit and went downstairs to the kitchen.
Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, stood beside the stove checking a clipboard.
“Where have you been?”
“There’s an elderly gentleman upstairs. His food hasn’t been touched.”
“Old John. Leave him alone.”
“Is he supposed to feed himself?”
Mrs. Gable gave her a narrow look. “You’ve worked here four days. Do you think nobody knows what they’re doing?”
“I just thought—”
“Then don’t. The nurse comes when she’s scheduled. Your job is the guest wing.”
At the sink, a younger maid named Celia kept her eyes on the dishes.
Nora found a bowl of soup cooling by the stove. She asked the cook whether it was spare. He nodded, but looked startled when she said who it was for.
She carried the soup upstairs herself.
Old John watched the steam rise from the bowl. Nora pulled a chair close and offered him a spoonful, careful to let him swallow before giving him another.
When she wiped a drop from his chin, a tear ran down one cheek.
“Oh,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
