Rebecca was up at 5:30. She showered, dressed in clean, simple clothes, and made herself a small breakfast, bread and tea, eaten standing at her kitchen counter because her table was covered with things she had been sorting through the night before. She had wanted to make sure she left her apartment tidy before starting the new job. It felt important somehow, like beginning something properly.
She looked at her mother’s photograph before she left. “Wish me luck,” she said quietly.
The photograph said nothing, of course, but the woman in it was still laughing, still tilting her head back, still looking free.
Rebecca picked up her bag and went downstairs.
She arrived at the villa at 6:55, 5 minutes early. She pressed the bell and waited, her bag over her shoulder, the morning air still cool and smelling faintly of wet grass from somewhere nearby.
The gate opened, but it was not Grace. It was Mr. Caleb himself, dressed already in work trousers and a white shirt, reading glasses pushed up on his head.
He looked at her, then at the small watch on his wrist, then back at her.
“5 minutes early,” he said.
“Good morning, sir,” Rebecca said.
He stepped aside to let her through. “Grace left a folder in the kitchen. Everything she told you is written down in it. The schedule, the shopping list, the house rules. Read it today when you have time.”
He was already turning back toward the house as he spoke.
“Coffee is in the third cabinet on the left. The kettle is already filled.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I take my breakfast at 7:30.” He glanced back once. “Not 7:25. Not 7:40. 7:30.”
“7:30,” Rebecca said.
He nodded and went inside.
Rebecca stood in the garden for just a moment, looking up at the big white house in the early morning light. She breathed in slowly through her nose.
All right, she thought. Let’s begin.
The first day was about learning.
She moved through the house quietly and carefully, the way you move in a place that is not yet yours, touching only what needed to be touched, opening only what needed to be opened. She read Grace’s folder at the kitchen table while the kettle heated. It was 3 pages of neat handwriting, organized exactly the way the kitchen cabinets were organized, everything in its right place.