Chapter 3 - The Broken Seal
The storm reached its peak at seven o’clock that evening.
Rain lashed against the tall, arched windows of the mansion’s west wing, the sound like handfuls of gravel thrown continuously against the glass. The wind coming off Lake Michigan howled through the high chimneys, making the gas lamps in the lower corridors flicker and hiss inside their frosted glass globes.
Mara stood in the small pantry off the main dining room, drying a set of silver dessert spoons with a clean linen cloth. The house was quiet now; Mrs. Varelli and her sister had gone to the opera in the city, accompanied by Dominic and the lawyer, leaving the second floor virtually deserted except for the security guards patrolling the perimeter and the private nurse stationed in the anteroom outside Luca’s bedchamber.
The pantry door clicked open, and Mrs. Vale entered, her clipboard resting under her arm, her sharp face looking more drawn than usual.
“Mara,” Mrs. Vale said, stopping near the sink. “Mr. Varelli’s nurse was called away to the local clinic—her brother was injured in a streetcar accident near the yards.”
Mara set down her spoon. “Is someone coming to replace her?”
“Not until ten o’clock,” Mrs. Vale said, her tone laced with quiet annoyance. “Dr. Bradley left instructions that Mr. Varelli’s room must be checked every hour. He requires his evening tea at eight, and his bed linens must be straightened before he attempts to sleep.”
She looked at Mara, her sharp eyes scanning the neat rows of polished silver on the counter.
“You will take the tray up at eight,” Mrs. Vale instructed. “Do not engage him in conversation. He was agitated during his mother’s visit this afternoon. If he asks for additional pillows or attempts to get out of bed, call the guard at the end of the hall immediately.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Mara said.
“And Mara,” Mrs. Vale added, leaning closer, her voice dropping into a dry whisper. “Ensure the hall door remains open six inches while you are in the room. Dr. Bradley’s orders. No staff member is to be alone with Mr. Varelli behind a closed door.”
“I understand, ma'am.”
When Mrs. Vale left, Mara returned to her spoons, but her fingers were cold.
At precisely ten minutes to eight, she walked into the kitchen. The room was dark now, lit only by the low glow of the coal range. On the prep table sat a small silver tray covered with a white napkin. Beside it stood a small ceramic teapot, its spout venting a tiny thread of gray steam into the chilly air.
Mara picked up the tray. As she carried it toward the service elevator, she stopped in the narrow passage between the pantry and the scullery—a dark spot hidden from the view of the main corridor.
She set the tray on a wooden shelf, lifted the lid of the teapot, and leaned close.
The steam rose into her face. The smell was unmistakable now—beneath the floral, citrus aroma of the tea leaves lay that same flat, metallic tang she had noticed earlier that afternoon. It was the scent of stagnated water, of metal left to rust in a closed container, subtle enough that a man whose senses were dulled by fever and fatigue would never distinguish it from the bitterness of tea.
She reached into her apron pocket, pulled out a small, clean linen handkerchief, and dipped the corner into the hot liquid. The fabric turned a faint, dull yellow. She tucked the handkerchief into her pocket, replaced the teapot lid, and picked up the tray again.
The service elevator carried her up to the second floor with a slow, grinding mechanical groan.
The corridor outside Luca’s bedchamber was silent. The wall sconces had been turned down to a low, amber glow, casting long, distorted shadows across the dark wall paneling. At the far end of the hall, near the grand staircase, stood Frank—one of the evening security guards—leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his heavy chest, his hat pulled low over his eyes.
The door to Luca’s anteroom was standing open six inches, exactly as Mrs. Vale had specified.
Mara pushed the door open with her elbow and stepped inside.
The anteroom was small, furnished with a leather sofa, a writing desk, and a small table where the private nurse usually kept her logs and medical supplies. Beyond it lay the main bedchamber, separated by a archway hung with heavy velvet drapes.
Mara carried the tray through the drapes.
The bedroom was vast and cold. A single lamp was lit on the nightstand, casting a pool of yellow light over the high mahogany bed. Luca lay against three large down pillows, his eyes closed, his face so pale and still that for a terrifying second Mara thought he had stopped breathing altogether.
Then his chest rose—a short, shallow, hitching movement that ended in a faint sigh.
Mara stepped quietly to the bedside table, set the silver tray down on the polished marble surface, and reached for the silver teapot to fill his cup.
“Don't pour it,” a voice whispered from the bed.
Mara froze.
Luca had opened his eyes. They were dark, sunken, but intensely focused, fixing on her face with a sudden, startling sharpness.
“Sir?” Mara murmured, keeping her hands resting on the handles of the tray.
“I said don't pour it,” Luca repeated. His voice was barely louder than the rain striking the windowpane five feet away, but every word was clear. “Take it away.”
Mara looked down at the teapot, then back at his face. “Mrs. Vale said you were to drink your evening tea, Mr. Varelli. Dr. Bradley’s instructions.”
Luca let out a short, dry sound from his throat—a sound that was half a laugh and half a gasp for air. “Dr. Bradley is an idiot. Or a liar. Possibly both.”
He shifted his weight against the pillows, trying to sit up higher, but his strength failed him halfway, his shoulder slumping back against the dark wood of the headboard. His knuckles tightened against the gray wool blanket covering his legs, his breathing turning rapid and thin.
“It tastes like zinc,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the silver pot. “Every time I drink it, my throat feels as though I’ve swallowed sand. I told him three days ago. He said it was the fever.”
Mara stood still, holding her breath. The silence between them grew long and heavy, filled only by the rhythmic rushing of the rain outside and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the main hall.
“You don't think it’s the fever,” Luca said suddenly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying directness.
Mara kept her face completely impassive. “It is not my place to question your physician, sir.”
“You questioned him this morning,” Luca said flatly. “When you opened the transom in the library. You looked at the vent like you knew something was wrong with the air in this house.”
Mara’s hand went instinctively to her apron pocket, where the damp handkerchief lay tucked against her thigh. “The room was hot, sir. The radiators in the east wing leak steam during the rain.”
Luca watched her face, his gaze searching her features, looking past the plain navy dress, past the neatly pinned hair, looking for the girl behind the uniform.
“Who are you, Mara?” he asked softly.
“I am the maid, Mr. Varelli,” she said, her voice steady and low. “I clean your rooms.”
“A maid who doesn't talk like the rest of them,” he murmured, his head resting heavily against the headboard. “A maid who looks at me like I’m a man who is being buried alive, rather than a master who is dying of an illness.”
He reached out his hand—a long, thin hand with dark blue veins running across the back—and touched the corner of the silver tray. His fingers were cold, dry, and trembling slightly from the exertion of holding his arm up.
“Take the tray down,” he whispered, his eyes closing as another wave of exhaustion washed over him. “Tell Mrs. Vale I drank it all. Tell her I’m sleeping.”
Mara looked at his pale, hollowed face, at the small catch in his chest every time he inhaled, at the heavy, dark room that felt more like a tomb than a bedroom.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered.
May you like
She picked up the silver tray, turned, and walked out of the room, her shoes making no sound against the thick carpet. As she passed through the archway into the anteroom, she stopped and looked back through the velvet drapes.
Luca lay still beneath his wool blanket, his face turned toward the dark, painted-shut window, his thin hand resting flat against the mattress as if he were trying to hold onto the solid wood beneath him before the house dragged him down into the dark.
