I am, quite predictably, exhausted at the Alpha's mansion the next day. Fortunately, there's a lovely little staff kitchen on the same floor as my office, and it's always stocked with very good, very strong imported coffee. I lean back in the leather chair behind my desk, sighing gratefully as I inhale the rich aroma of hazelnut wafting up from my third cup of the day. Man, this coffee is delicious. I think they have it specially flown in from some fancy little cafe in Paris, Claire said.
Marcus checks his watch again. Lydia subscribes to the idea of being "fashionably late," a concept that Marcus personally cannot stand. His mother does it, too, and it drives him up the wall. In Marcus's view, a dinner reservation is for seven, you should arrive at the restaurant by seven at least, if not a few minutes before. To do otherwise is disrespectful to the establishment and the workers' time. However, he can't seem to get the rest of h
"How are we feeling this morning?" I ask, keeping my voice cheerful and light as I enter Ty's room. It's Saturday, so I'm off from my work at the Alpha's mansion today. I draw back the daffodil-patterned curtains to let the sunlight stream into the room and across the bed. Normally, a free Saturday would mean that I'd be looking forward to a day of takeout food and trash TV. Unfortunately, poor Ty is still in rough shape, and my evenings and weekends are devoted to his recovery for the foreseeable future.
Marcus drums his fingers on his knee, resisting the urge to also tap his foot. My god, he's not in the mood for this tonight. He doesn't know why his mother insists on hosting so many of these society fundraisers in their private ballroom; in fact, it seems insensitive to do so right now, given his father's poor health. This one is for some charity or another – Marcus believes it's for underprivileged werewolf youths in northern Scotland. Wolves went extinct in that country in the 1800s, if Marcus recalls correctly, and the werewolf population there was greatly affected.
I've never thought of myself as the sort of person who would eavesdrop on other people's conversations, even accidentally, let alone on purpose. Then again, my life after getting out of prison hasn't looked anything like I had ever expected for myself. I might as well embrace the new normal. That's how I find myself doing the unexpected on Monday morning, walking into the Alpha's mansion with the full intention of listening in on as many conversations as I possibly can without people getting suspicious. I need to try to figure out what the hell is going on with Charles.
I have no idea what to do with the information I just overheard. I sit at my desk until lunchtime, just staring out the window and mentally running through my options. They are few and far between. Nobody is going to believe me. That's the start and the end of it. Who would believe me? Marcus? I ran into him once, and he definitely didn't recognize me. As far as he knows, I'm just the random witch doctor/probable charlatan who is here to exploit his father's illness for money.
The next morning, I get up early so that I can sit down with my coffee for a good hour before I have to leave for work and really think about the situation I've found myself in. I have to do something, I know that, but the threads of what's going on have become confusing. I need to untangle them. I stand for a minute at the kitchen sink, admiring the way the early morning light beams through the window and lights up the walls of the kitchen with a golden glow. I'll miss this villa if I ever have to leave, the kitchen especially.
"Oh, absolutely, Doc," Jenson says, organizing silverware and napkins on a tray as I lean on the table across from him, twirling my pen in my hand and trying to look casual. "I'm extra careful with the Alpha's trays – I know how important it is to keep his food separate from the others. Some of these new kitchen boys…" he trails off, shaking his head. "So, Mrs. Potts put me in charge of the Alpha's food. I work overtime, even, on banquet days."