Chapter 2 - Chamomile Tea and Cold Warnings
The cold had always lived in Roman Calder’s mansion.
It was an eighty-room fortress of gray limestone perched over the water.
I had worked there for five years.
Five years of silent mornings.
Five years of learning his habits without ever being invited into his world.
He took his coffee black as tar.
He despised onions.
He skipped meals whenever the harbor unions went on strike.
He was a ghost who signed checks and ruled Baltimore from a mahogany desk.
To him, I was just hands that cooked broth.
A shadow in an apron.
Until the rainstorm three weeks ago.
It was three in the morning.
A gale off the Atlantic was rattling the library windows.
I had come down to secure the patio latches.
The library door was cracked open.
Inside, Roman wasn't sitting upright like an emperor.
He was slumped in the wingback chair by the dying fireplace.
His expensive silk shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.
His fingers were clenched into the leather arms until his knuckles were chalky.
"Don't jump," he was whispering in his sleep.
His deep voice cracked with a boy's terror.
"Mother... step back. Please."
A cold sweat shone on his forehead.
I froze in the doorway.
Nobody was allowed to see the waterfront king bleed.
Nobody was allowed to see him break.
I should have turned around.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I walked to the kitchen, heated spring water, and steeped dried
chamomile.
I found a wool throw blanket in the hallway armoire.
When I stepped back into the library, his breathing had slowed slightly.
I set the mug on the walnut coaster.
I unfolded the blanket.
Carefully, without daring to brush his skin, I draped it over his broad
shoulders.
His hand shot out like an iron clamp.
He seized my wrist.
His gray eyes snapped open, wild and sharp as broken glass.
"Who gave you permission?" he growled.
His grip didn't crush my bones, but the power behind it made my breath hitch.
"You were shivering, Mr. Calder," I said quietly.
My voice didn't waver.
When you raise a sick child alone, you learn not to panic.
He stared at me.
His gaze drifted to the steaming mug.
Then to the blanket on his chest.
Slowly, the tension left his fingers.
He released me.
"I wasn't sleeping," he lied.
"Of course not," I replied. "The tea is just in case you weren't."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Just a fraction.
It was the closest I had ever seen Roman Calder come to a smile.
"Nora, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Calder."
"You've been here a long time."
"Five years, sir."
He looked at my face, really looking at me for the first time in five years.
He saw the tired circles under my eyes.
He saw the cheap silver band on my thumb.
"Go to bed, Nora," he said softly.
I nodded and turned toward the door.
And there stood Evelyn Sterling.
She was wrapped in a black silk robe.
Her arms were folded across her chest.
Her eyes weren't looking at Roman.
They were digging into me like twin bayonets.
She had seen the blanket.
She had seen the tea.
Most dangerous of all, she had seen the softness on Roman Calder's face.
The next morning at dawn, she found me in the walk-in pantry.
She closed the heavy oak door behind her.
May you like
The lock slid home.
"How long have you been sleeping with him?" she asked without blinking.
