Art’s nicest shirt is an absolute piece of shit.
It’s a lost cause, wrinkles deep as canyons, frayed cuffs like a maypole caught in an ill-timed gust of wind. He doesn’t own an iron. He doesn’t own anything, which is why he’s standing in front of the gate of the most colossal house he’s ever seen. Art double-checks the address on the back of the business card. It’s a black square that reads Dubois on one side and nothing more.
The mansion itself is visible from the bottom of the steep hill it sits on. A long, cobbled road lined with pines and frost-kissed red oaks twists from the street all the way to the front door. A singular mansion atop a mountain. Is it as lonely as it looks? He glances at the black-and-gold placard shining next to a silver intercom box. The address doesn’t change.
The taxi honks twice. He turns to give the driver a thumbs up. Somehow, it’s the right place. The cab backs up, does a quick two-point turn, and vanishes beneath the dip of the hill.
Art’s left alone in the cold.
He drinks in the magnificence of the building before him. It’s red brick with white trim, dozens of wide French windows, and three sets of wrought-iron balconies that match the gate. Each point of the slate gray roof is accented by a polished spire, one upon which flies the Canadian and French flags, patriotic in the late-autumn breeze. It blows right through him, frigid and unforgiving, which in turn reminds him that he’s wearing old, baggy pants and a shitty, shitty shirt.
To an interview.
Great.
He clamps his teeth to stop cold sweat from breaking out on his forehead. The sweat comes anyway. Kinsey wants him to try and get the job. Seeing this place, actually being here, Art’s aware he’s far out of his depth. He’s used to cracked walls and peeling paint, not three stories of brick, multi-car garages, manicured shrubs, and polished glass.
Fuck it. The pay is really good. Art shoves the business card into his back pocket, pops his jaw, and mashes his thumb down on the intercom button. It crackles to life and a cool feminine voice cuts through the static.
“May I help you?”
“Uh, yes. I’m—I’m Arthur Culver. I’m here to meet Mr. Dubois? I have—”
“Doctor Dubois,” the woman corrects curtly.
“Sorry, Doctor.” There’s silence for several seconds; his heart pumps a little faster, his palms clammy. “I’m here for an interview,” he adds, voice cracking. “Doctor Dubois said to come Thursday at nine.”
There’s a mechanical whir, then a click. The iron gate slides back and to the left, exposing a curved, paved driveway. The intercom comes back online.
“Hurry. I will meet you at the door.”
“Christ,” Art mutters.
It’s Kinsey’s fault he’s here, interviewing for a position he has no credentials for, at a house so stupendous the prime minister would be jealous. Damn her and her persuasive use of language. Maybe it comes from dealing with drunk people every night.
There’s no way he’ll get this job, but he promised Kinsey to try. After he gets rejected he’ll go to all the gas stations he can find and hand out his resume like cheap candy.
Art slips through the opening gate and up the driveway. He’s ascending the steps to the entry when he glances at the windows, hoping for a peek inside. Thick burgundy drapes cover every pane of glass. He frowns; it’s a beautiful day.
Art reaches for the bell.
The door swings open before he can touch it.
Standing in the frame is a woman nothing short of eye-catching. She’s angular, sharply cut, elegant curled blonde hair and bright hazel eyes. A blood-red chiffon top clings to her shoulders and wrists, floor-length black skirt static and unmoving by her legs. Her makeup is dark and prominent, and she scares the hell out of him.
Art tastes her accent in the air before she even opens her mouth.
“I’m Danielle Reneux,” she begins, “Jean-Baptiste’s estate manager.” Ee-state man-ee-jer, she says. Like she’s speaking in cursive.
Art puts on his best smile and holds out a hand, button fastening his flannel sleeve catching the sunlight. It glints a little too brightly. “Nice to meet you, Danielle. I’m Arthur Culver.”
Danielle Reneux looks at his hand like it's dirty. She spins on her heels and retreats farther into the shadow of the house. “You will come with me.”
Art drops his hand.
Danielle’s shoes click against marble, soften on an ornate, crimson rug, clunk onto polished wooden floors. The entry hall is ovular, lined by pillars that reach up to the second floor. A wooden railing on the upper floor trims the open skylight. The living room is next on their tour, but it’s big enough Art wouldn’t be surprised if it hosted balls some decades ago. He can practically see them: glittering, gold, gorgeous.
Danielle doesn’t glance back at him once.
Maybe she’s heard about him from Caite. Maybe Doctor Dubois has, too. Art banishes the thought from his mind immediately. He prays she doesn’t hold their past against him enough to sabotage his chances of getting hired.
It’d be what you deserve, a voice whispers in his skull.
Anxiety courses through his veins, tightens his throat. Knowing Caite is somewhere in this house has knocked him completely off balance. He needs to focus.
They go up a floating hardwood staircase, through a wide-paneled hall hung with old paintings, and finally to a mahogany door with a heavy brass knob.
Danielle knocks twice.
Art swallows.
“Come in,” calls a familiar smooth voice. Art’s stomach flips. He’s dizzy, heart pounding.
Danielle’s eyes flash in his direction. She opens the door. “Doctor, your nine o’clock has arrived.”
“Bring him in, Danielle. We have much to discuss.”
Jean-Baptiste Dubois sits at his desk as a king would on his throne.
His styled, inky hair sweeps up and to the right, offsets his skin, unblemished, perfect porcelain. He cannot be a day over thirty-five, but the knowing light in his black eyes tells of wisdom far beyond his years. He even breathes with the refinement of royalty.
Art’s breath catches in his throat.
Jean-Baptiste smiles. “I’m very pleased to see you again, Arthur.”
It’s not a lie.
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