I stepped on a broken rose. I leaned over to pick it up; it was dead, lethargic in its death, but it still smelled nice.
“What are you doing here?”
I brushed my hair off my forehead, and regretted not tying it up in my usual chignon. It was hung over my nape, and was already soaked with sweat.
“I have to pick some roses for Mr Mc Laine,” I said laconically.
Kyle smiled at me, the usual smile full of irritating allusions. “Do you need help?”
In those hollow words, empty and ambiguous, I found a solution to my problem, an unexpected shortcut, and I jumped at it.
“Actually you were supposed to do it, but you weren’t around. As usual,” I said bitterly.
His face was crossed by a quiver. “I'm not a gardener. I already work too much.”
This statement made me laugh. I put a hand to my mouth, as if to hide my hilarity.
He looked at me furiously. “It's the truth. Who do you think helps him to wash, dress and move?”
The thought of Sebastian Mc Laine naked almost caused me a short circuit. To wash him, dress him... I would have done it very willingly. The following thought, that I would never be the one to do it, made me answer harshly.
“But for most of the day you are free. Of course, at his disposal, however, he rarely disturbs you” I reinforced the message. “Come on, help me.”
He finally gave in, still annoyed. I handed him the shears, smiling. “Red roses,” I said.
“All right,” he grumbled, setting to work.
In the end, when the bunch was ready, I escorted him to the kitchen where we picked up the vase. It seemed more practical and easy to split the task between us. He would carry the ceramic pot, I the flowers.
Mr Mc Laine was still writing, fervently. He only stopped when he saw us come back together.
“Now I understand why it took you so long” he hissed at my address.
Kyle hurried away, clumsily placing the vase on the desk. For a moment I feared that it would fall down. He had already left when I started to arrange the roses in the vase.
“Was it such a difficult task that you had to ask for help?” He asked, his eyes glowing with uncontrollable anger.
I floundered, like a fish that had stupidly bitten the bait. “The vase was heavy,” I excused myself. “The next time I won’t bring it with me.”
“Very wise”. His voice was deceptively sweet. In truth, with his face shadowed by a two day stubble, he looked like a malicious demon that had come straight from the underworld to bully me.
“I didn’t find Mrs Mc Millian,” I insisted. A fish still clinging to the bait and hasn’t yet realized that it’s a hook.
“Oh, right, it's her day off,” he acknowledged. But then his anger, only temporarily alleviated, reappeared. “I won’t tolerate love stories among my employees.”
“The thought never crossed my mind!” I said impetuously, so earnestly that I got a smile of approval from him.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” His eyes were icy despite the smile. “Of course that doesn’t refer to me. I have nothing against having an affair with my employees.” He stressed the words, as to reinforce the fact that he was mocking me.
For the first time I felt like punching him, and I realized it wouldn’t be the only time. Unable to vent my rage on who I would have liked to, my hands tightened over the bouquet, the thorns forgotten. The pain surprised me, as if I were immune to thorns, since I was busy fighting off other ones.
“Ouch!” I snatched my hand away.
“Did you prick yourself?"
My look was more eloquent than any answer. He stretched his hand out to catch mine.
“Let me see.”
I gave it to him like a robot. The drop of blood stood out on my white skin. Dark, black to my abnormal eyes. Crimson red to his normal eyes.
I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was strong. I watched him, bewildered. His gaze didn’t abandon my finger, fascinated, hypnotized. Then, as usual, it all ended. His expression changed to the point that I couldn’t read it. He seemed nauseated and hurriedly looked away. My hand was free, and I put my finger in my mouth to suck the blood.
His head turned in my direction again, as if driven by an unrelenting and unwanted force. He had an agonized and distressed expression. It lasted just a moment, though. It was incredible, and illogical.
“The book is going well. I recovered my streak,” he said, as if answering a question I had never made. “Do you mind bringing me a cup of tea?”
I clung to his words, as if they were a rope thrown to a person who was drowning. “I’ll go right away.”
“Will you be able to manage on your own, this time?” His irony was almost pleasant after the scary look he had given me earlier.
“I'll try,” I replied, playing along with him.
This time I didn’t meet Kyle, and I was relieved. I moved through the kitchen with greater ease than I had in the garden. Since I ate all my meals there, in the company of Mrs Mc Millian, I had learned all her hiding places. I easily found the kettle in the cabinet beside the fridge, and the tea bags in a tin can in another one. I went upstairs with the tray in my hands.
Mc Laine didn’t look up when he heard me come in. Evidently his ears, like radar antennas, had already understood that I was alone.
“I brought both sugar and honey, not knowing which one you prefer. And milk.”
He sneeringly looked at the tray. “Wasn’t it too heavy for you?”
“I managed,” I said with all the dignity I could muster. Defending myself from his verbal jokes was becoming an exceptional habit; certainly preferable to the terrible expression he had a few minutes earlier.
“Sir...” It was time to tackle an important issue.
He gave me a smile full of frank kindness, like an amenable monarch towards a loyal vassal. “Yes, Melisande Bruno?”
“I’d like to know when I’ll have a day off,” I asked breathlessly, gathering all my courage.
He opened his arms and stretched out, voluptuously, before answering. “Day off? You've just arrived and you already want to get rid of me?”
I stood on one foot and then on the other while I watched him pour a drop of milk and a tablespoon of sugar in his tea, and then sipped it slowly. “Today is Sunday, sir. Mrs Mc Millian's day off. And the day after tomorrow will be exactly one week from my arrival. Maybe we should talk about it, sir.” It seemed like he didn’t want to give me any day off.
“Melisande Bruno, do you think that I don’t want to give you a day off?” He asked mockingly, as if he had read my mind.
I was already mumbling that no, I wouldn’t have dreamed of thinking such an absurd thing, when he added. “...because you would be perfectly right.”
“I don’t understand you, sir. Is this another of your jokes?” I asked in a thin voice, in the effort to control it.
“What if it’s not?” He replied, his eyes as unfathomable as the ocean.
I stared at him with my mouth open. “But Mrs Mc Millian...”
“Kyle doesn’t have a day off, either,” he reminded me with a sly smile. I had the distinct feeling that he was having fun.
“He doesn’t have fixed hours like mine,” I said dryly. I longed to explore the village and the neighbourhoods around the house, and I was annoyed that I had to fight for my rights.
He didn’t even blink. “Anyhow he’s always at my availability.”
“Then when should I go out?” I asked, raising my voice. “At night maybe? I'm free from dusk to dawn... Should I go out instead of sleeping? Unlike Kyle I live here, I don’t go home in the evening.”
“Don’t you dare go out at night. It's dangerous.”
His soft words set in my conscience, causing a shiver of fury. “Then we're at an impasse,” I said, my voice as cold as his. “I want to visit the area, but you don’t want to give me a day off. On the other hand, however, you ordered me not to go out at night, saying it was dangerous. What else can I do?”
“You're even more beautiful when you’re angry, Melisande Bruno,” he said. “Anger turns your cheeks a lovely pink colour.”
I basked in the joy of that compliment for a delightful moment, then I was overwhelmed by anger. “Well? Will I have a day off or not?”