His Kind of Empire

Lorraine arrived before they finished packing.

She stood in the ruined doorway with her handbag clutched against her stomach.

"What have you done to my door?"

Raymond began talking at once.

Vince looked at him.

He stopped.

"Your husband wouldn't let them in," Damian said.

"He's got a temper. You have to give him a minute."

Clara carried her last bag into the room.

Its zipper had split. A sleeve hung through the opening.

Lorraine looked from the bag to Damian, then smiled with a speed that made Clara tired.

"How good of you to come. Shelby said you'd help."

"They're not staying tonight."

"Well, of course. A little holiday will do them good."

Clara fastened the broken bag with a piece of string.

"It's not a holiday."

Her aunt took her aside by the elbow.

"Don't start making accusations. In front of people."

"He locked us out."

"And who put paint on my door? His family. Audrey's family. All because you had to interfere."

Clara stared at her.

"You mean because she wanted to leave a man who hit her."

Lorraine clicked her tongue.

"You don't know what marriage is."

"I know what a bruise looks like."

"There you go. Always an answer."

Across the room, Damian stood and took the heaviest bag from Clara's hand.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

Lorraine caught her again.

"Don't blame Martin about the properties. He was trying to make something of the money."

Clara went very still.

"The money that was supposed to pay for my education?"

"He thought he'd double it."

"Did you?"

Her aunt's grip loosened.

Clara gently removed the hand from her arm.

"Good night, Aunt Lorraine."

She left before she could say anything else.

On the landing, Damian waited beside the bags.

He looked at her face, then at the open doorway.

"Don't," she said.

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

He picked up the last bag.

"I was going to ask whether you've eaten."

She hadn't.

That annoyed her too.

***

The Nightingale occupied half a block in the old south end of Briarhaven.

Its sign glowed gold against dark brick. Music thudded through the walls, and the front doors opened on warm air, expensive perfume, and a row of young staff dressed in black.

They straightened when Damian walked in.

"Evening, boss."

"Mr. Wolfe."

"Vince."

Clara followed with a canvas bag on her shoulder, feeling like a displaced student wandering into somebody's birthday party.

Shelby had gone quiet.

A woman behind the reception desk waved at her.

Shelby looked away.

Damian led them through a corridor lined with mirrors. A man emerged from a private room laughing, saw him, and immediately stopped.

"Everything good?" Damian asked.

"Couldn't be better."

"Then tell your friend to pay his bill."

"Of course."

They kept walking.

Clara nearly collided with Damian when he stopped to let a server pass with a tray.

He looked back.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What do you think?"

She looked at the mirrored wall, the marble underfoot, the discreet security camera above a door.

He was waiting for an answer with an odd, almost boyish expectation that didn't belong on his face.

"It's very impressive."

His mouth lifted.

"That's all?"

"It's also very loud."

The smile faded.

"You could have a room upstairs. Sing something. Have a drink."

"I have work in the morning."

"Always work."

"Yes. That's generally how a job goes."

"Your job pays less than I pay the guy opening the front door."

"Then your door attendant is fortunate."

He turned toward her.

"I'm offering you something."

"And I'm trying to say no politely."

A silence opened around them.

Shelby touched Clara's arm.

"She doesn't mean it like that."

"I do mean it."

Damian studied her for a second.

Then he pushed open a plain fire door.

Beyond it, the marble ended.

***

The staff accommodation was on the third floor of the annex, above storage rooms and a small training office.

There were shared bathrooms, a laundry room, and doors with numbers stuck to them. Someone had cooked noodles. A television played behind a wall.

Their room had two single beds, a desk, a small wardrobe, and a window overlooking the service yard.

Clara could have kissed the mattress.

"This is good," she said.

Damian stood in the doorway.

"It'll do for tonight."

"It's more than enough. Thank you."

He looked as though he didn't quite know what to do with her gratitude after the argument downstairs.

"Vince will get you what you need."

"We're fine."

"You don't have towels."

"Then towels would be lovely."

He nodded once and left.

Vince put the bags down.

"Breakfast starts at seven. Kitchen's downstairs. If you need anything, ask."

"Thank you, Vince."

He glanced toward the door, grinned briefly, and went after his employer.

As soon as they were alone, Shelby sat on the bed.

"Why do you do that?"

Clara knelt to pull out her nightclothes.

"Do what?"

"Argue with him."

"He offered. I said no."

"He's helping us."

"I know."

"You don't sound as though you know."

Clara stopped unfolding her sweater.

Shelby's face had gone pale beneath her makeup.

"This is my job, Clara. I have to work for him. I can't say whatever I like and have everybody think it's clever."

"I'm not trying to cause trouble for you."

"Then don't. Please."

Clara looked at the narrow space between the beds.

"All right."

Shelby rubbed her hands over her knees.

"I don't have your choices. You can find another job. Another man like Julian."

Clara almost laughed.

Instead she put her sweater away.

"I haven't managed either particularly well."

Shelby didn't smile.

That night, Clara put a cup of instant noodles on the desk, waited for it to soften, and discovered she couldn't bear the smell.

She poured it away and went to bed.

***

By the end of the week, she had learned which shower stayed hot longest and which stairwell smelled least of cigarettes.

She kept her toiletries in a plastic basket, wore earplugs, and ate breakfast before the late-shift staff came downstairs.

It was manageable.

It was also temporary. She told herself that every morning.

On Thursday, she was trying to hang a creased coat from the window latch when the door opened.

Damian stepped inside.

"Dinner."

Clara turned.

"Do you knock?"

He backed into the corridor and knocked twice on the open door.

"Dinner."

"You're not funny."

"You're difficult to feed."

Shelby came in behind him, carrying her wash basket.

"Clara."

The warning in her voice was unmistakable.

Clara bit back her answer and crouched to push a bag beneath the bed.

Damian looked at it.

"What's in there? Bricks?"

"Close."

He bent and lifted the bag before she could object.

Books slid against one another inside.

"Careful," she said sharply.

He stopped immediately.

She pulled out a large volume of architectural drawings, its corners wrapped in tape.

"That one cost a hundred and sixty dollars used."

He took it from her with both hands.

She watched him turn the pages.

His fingers were broad and scarred. He moved them carefully over the paper, avoiding the images.

"You understand all this?"

"Some of it. That's why I keep the books. For the rest."

He opened a foldout drawing.

Clara forgot to be wary.

"That building burned in the seventies. The roof you see now is a reconstruction. They used the original joinery marks to establish the frame. Here."

She leaned in and pointed.

Damian followed her finger.

"You can do that?"

"Not by myself. I worked on a restoration with my professor during my fourth year. Surveying, mostly. Materials records. Basic drawings."

"And you liked it."

She looked up.

He wasn't asking.

"Very much."

"Then why are you writing reports at that office?"

Her hand settled on the edge of the page.

"It's the job I could get."

He looked at her for a moment, then closed the book carefully.

"You ought to be doing what you're good at."

Across the room, Shelby set down her basket.

Neither of them heard it.