CHAPTER TWO

I wake early, as I always do. The morning light filters gently through my windows. They face the west, so the light is soft and gray, made softer and grayer by the dense cloud layer that has moved in over the night.

I don’t like gray, but I feel a sense of peace come over me as I dress. My bedroom walls are paneled with the same varnished gray hardwood as the exterior of the house, and the floor is a softer brown than the living room. Despite the varnish, the texture is muted rather than bright. The furniture is of oak and like the walls and the floor is unstained but coated in a thin layer of varnish. The bed is a plush queen, and the quilt is filled with down and immaculately hand-stitched. The pillow is a gel foam that makes me regret leaving it. It comes with a private bathroom as well, floored in sensible white tile with somewhat less sensible granite countertops. It is small but has enough room for the toilet, sink, shower and small vanity.

Overall, the room, like the house, is cozy. I step onto the balcony to see if the view can match it.

It’s beautiful, but I wouldn’t say it’s cozy. Looking down, I can see that the lower floor’s deck extends for several yards beyond the balconies of the upper floors. A wooden fence encloses each deck, and the lower floor’s has a gate that leads to a steep path with wooden steps set in the dirt. The path leads down to the cove, a narrow but deep inlet that extends for half a mile beyond the house on either side, widening considerably when it reaches the ocean. Rocks at its more distant end moderate the crashing waves, leaving the water that enters the cove far calmer. I don’t see sand or a beach of any sort near the bottom, but from this angle, it might be hidden.

It's peaceful, but with the ocean crashing a half mile away and the path so steep with no sign of a plateau or landing, I feel the same sense of foreboding that comes over me during the drive. I head back inside, keeping my eyes firmly fixed ahead. I am determined not to allow superstition to cloud my thoughts.

Downstairs is still empty. I head to the kitchen to see what’s available for breakfast. My compensation includes board, so I’m not stealing or trespassing.

I am greatly relieved when I look at the statues and no longer feel disturbed by them. They’re out of place and perhaps a little garish, but they’re not omens of darkness. I laugh at myself a little as I start coffee. Sometimes I am as imaginative and flighty as a girl.

I make eggs and toast with jam for breakfast. When Celeste wakes, I’ll make her food as well. She retires early the night before, so I assume she’ll wake early.

She doesn’t. Neither does Victor. Neither does Evelyn, the housekeeper I have yet to meet. I finish breakfast and coffee and wash my dishes alone.

I check my watch. Eight o’clock. Not late, I suppose, but I will want Celeste ready for breakfast no later than seven-thirty during the school year. We’ll work our way there, I suppose.

I head to the second floor to prepare the study for today’s lessons, and when I walk in, Celeste sits at the small desk, hands folded, face fixed on the ocean visible outside of the window. She is tall, like her father, and just as thin, but where his hair is nearly as gray as his eyes, hers is jet-black and hangs in loose waves below her hips. Were she standing, it would reach down to the small of her back.

She turns to me, and I stifle a cry. For a moment, her eyes appear to be empty black holes. I blink, and my vision adjusts to reveal eyes that are perfectly normal, albeit with very dark brown irises.

I remember myself and smile. “You must be Celeste.”

“I must be,” she replies.

Her face doesn’t change. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. “I’m Miss Mary, your governess.”

“Hello, Miss Mary.”

Once more, her expression doesn’t change. Her eyes focus on me with a disconcerting steadiness, and when I walk to the front of the larger desk, they follow me.

“You don’t want breakfast?” I ask.

“I’ve eaten,” she replies. “I usually eat in my room.”

“Ah. You enjoy the view?”

She looks beyond me at the ocean beyond. “No. Not really.”

“You’re not a fan of the ocean?”

“All I see is the vanishing point.”

My brow furrows. “The vanishing point? What’s that?”

“It’s where they vanish.”

“Who?”

“Everyone.”

I don’t speak for a moment. I’m really not sure where to go from here. What I want is to ignore this and move on with a more ordinary and more pleasant introduction.

But my curiosity is piqued. The urge to know , to have nothing hidden or secret or kept from me, is nearly overwhelming. It’s the curse that has gotten me into trouble with so many employers in the past.

I really don’t want it to get me into trouble now, though. I like this house, and I had a great first impression of Victor. I don’t want that poisoned by another mystery. Anyway, I’m here in the first place to try to figure out what happened to Annie. It’s high time I stopped worrying about other people’s problems and addressed my own.

I fight the urge to probe further and say, “Well, I’ll be honest, I’m not a huge fan of the ocean either. What do you like?”

“Drawing.”

“Ah. An artist, just like your father. What do you like to draw?”

“People and places.”

I can see I’ll have my work cut out for me. My experience with children has taught me that forcing them to open up to me is rarely effective. I’ll need to be patient.

“I would love to see some of your work sometime. If you’re willing to share it, of course.”

“Sure.”

Her facial expression doesn’t change the entire time. It’s almost vacant. Her lips remain flat, not smiling and not frowning. Her hands stay folded on the desk, and she sits… it’s hard to explain. Almost as though she’s been placed there and lacks the will to move.

"So," I begin. "For today, I thought we'd review what you've been working on last semester. Over this week, we'll make a plan for the rest of the year. We'll identify any areas that you might need extra help with, as well as areas of aptitude we can leverage for your college applications. How does that sound?"

“Fine.”

She really will have to speak more than that at some point.

“So you have an interest in art. That’s good to know. I think I’ll let your father handle your instruction in that area, though. I’m afraid I—”

“He won’t teach me,” she says.

The interruption stuns me less than what she says. “He won’t? Why?”

“He’s rarely available,” she says. “He’s working all the time. He doesn’t seem to like it.”

I’m wholly unprepared to deal with this admission. Celeste’s attitude makes far more sense knowing that her relationship with Victor is strained, but my impression of him was so good that it’s hard for me to reconcile the charming if distracted man I meet with the neglectful parent Celeste describes.

Then again, the line between distraction and neglect can be a thin one, and to a lonely child, Victor’s distraction might be mistaken for disinterest. Also, I don’t know Victor or Celeste well. I should reserve judgment for the moment.

“Well, we’ll work on that,” I say with a wink. “Now, let’s get to your lessons.”

I review the key subjects and competencies that a senior in high school must have a firm grasp of. Today is a very broad review, mostly to gauge her interest and get a general impression of where she stands.

I find that exceedingly difficult to do. Celeste gives only brief answers to my questions and shows no emotion. She rarely makes eye contact with me, choosing to spend most of her time staring at the ocean, out to the “vanishing point.” When she does make eye contact, those dark eyes unnerve me. I assume she blinks, but I have yet to see it happen. It’s almost as though I’m speaking with a computer program and not a real person.

Superstition aside, I sense a deep sadness in her. I’ve seen such melancholy in only one person before.

Annie was always cheerful. She was a very bubbly and outgoing young woman, never introverted or emotionless like Celeste. Behind her smile, though, was a sense of isolation, much like what I see behind Celeste's unnerving stare.

I never took that melancholy seriously. I assumed it was the struggle of reaching adulthood that we all go through. I’m afraid I scoffed at Annie’s depression, not believing that my cheery sister could really suffer from anything more than surface sadness.

I won’t make that same mistake with Celeste.