Page 1 of Petrify

Chapter 1

The Pianist

“You’ll start next week.”

They are the first words the brusque voice says. NoHello. NoIs this Mallary Doyle?

“There will be a car for you at the bus station. I assume you can make your own arrangements to get there, yes?”

It’s an older man. Last time, he only introduced himself briefly before telling me I’d been considered for a position I hadn’t even applied for: Maxim, head butler for one of the oldest families in the Northeast.

The Beauchenes.

“Yes. No problem,” I say. I scribble his instructions onto an old takeout receipt and of course, the pen doesn’t want to work.

“Your employment documents will be sent via email. We will need those signed and sent back as soon as possible.”

“Got it.” Scratching the ball point against the paper, which leaves nothing but an indentation andno ink.

“You will find everything about compensation, your expected responsibilities as tutor, and the rules of the house within those documents. Dress code, NDAs, staff policies, et cetera.Pleasedo not delay reading through everything with your lawyer and sending them back, Miss Doyle.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. A lawyer. Right. “I understand.”

“And Miss Doyle?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “You would do well to keep this to yourself. It would be a shame if any of this ended up on the internet. For the family’s privacy, you’ll understand.”

“Sure—”

The conversation is over as quickly as it began, the call ending with threebeeps. It isn’t until after he hangs up that I realize I never gave anyone from their estate my phone number.

Late the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the Beauchene manor looms like a formidable Victorian fortress as we climb the long stone-lined driveway. Dusted in snow, the cloudy sky above is bruised a silverish purple with distant light pollution. This far from town, it’s dead silent, save for the idling of the car, which the driver stops right at the front stoop. He waits until my boot meets the first step before he drives off and disappears around the house. No one waits for me outside.

I’m not sure how I got here.

I don’tbelonghere.

Two weeks ago I was under the impression that I was stuck as substitute for the current season at the symphony. Not quite good enough to play the shows, according to Michael, the director, but good enough to string along for two seasons. I learned the parts, went to rehearsals. Only once did the principal ever call out. Sure, my name was on the program. But no one ever heard me play.

I didn’t ask questions when the butler called. Maybe Michael finally felt bad for me and sent Maxim my contact.

My cheeks instantly redden against the chill. The air is brittle, sucking up all noise.

Of a bygone era, but still gilded in the affluence of the family, the mansion is only three stories high. I can’t help but think about those centuries-old churches that stretch towards the clouds and the supposed heavens above. Painted gray, so that it nearly blends with the winterly lawn, the only pop of color is the polished copper gutters, which look dull at this hour. To the east, a spired tower with bay windows, taller than the rest of the house. A few soft lights shine through curtains and textured glass. Not a detail out of place.

Except, I notice wrought iron bars are bolted across some of the eastern windows. An odd Victorian decoration they’ve decided to keep, no doubt.

Taking another deep breath, I reach for what is a lion’s snarling face, framed by a heavy iron knocker. But before my fingers brush the metal, the door swings open.

I jump, falling back a step.

A man with dark hair combed away from his face and dark eyes peers down at me. The scowl setting his features seems permanent. “Mallary Doyle?”

“Yes.”

“You’re late.” He opens the door wider to allow me entry.

“Sorry.” As though it was my fault the bus was delayed.

Immediately the warmth of the house sets about thawing my frozen fingers, the red tip of my nose. The foyer I step into is massive—the ceiling peaked above us, two stories high, the entire second floor landing a balcony overlooking the entryway. Trailing up the grand staircase is a velvety green runner. A modest crystal chandelier hangs in the center of the space. And waiting at the far side of the room is an older woman, with a kind but forced smile on her face, her hands clasped together.