“He wants you up in the study right now,” Booker said. “Take the back stairs. Third door on the left. Knock twice and wait till he calls you. You hear me?”
Sarah nodded. Her heart quickened. She had been called to master’s studies before; usually it meant new chores, an arbitrary reprimand, or simply an exercise of absolute power.
She ascended the narrow, uncarpeted servants’ staircase, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. The upper floor was hushed, illuminated only by a low oil sconce in the hallway. Reaching the third door on the left, she raised her hand, knocked twice, and waited.
“Enter,” Thornwood’s voice carried from within.
Sarah pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of leather-bound books. A heavy walnut desk dominated the floor, strewn with ledgers, correspondence, and drafting tools. Heavy velvet drapes blocked the windows overlooking the drive. Oil lamps cast circles of yellow light amid long, pooling shadows. The air carried the scent of pipe tobacco, old leather, and a faint, sweet chemical undertone she could not place.
Thornwood sat behind the desk in his evening clothes, a glass of bourbon near his right hand. He inspected Sarah for several seconds, his pale blue eyes measuring her with detached calculation, as if assessing livestock.
