My breath catches hard in my throat. “Jesus!” I practically scream.
The man is wiry in his skinniness, but there exudes a certain deadly vitality about him.
He’s bald, which only serves to make his eyes more piercing.
“W… who are you?”
“My name is Quinn,” he replies formally. “I am the butler. My apologies for startling you.”
I am the butler. He says it almost ominously.
“Oh. Right. Wow,” I breathe, still trying to get my heart rate down. “Um, well, I’m the Saoirse. I mean, I’m Saoirse.”
My cheeks color with embarrassment, but he doesn’t crack a smile.
“Master Cillian wanted me to inform you that breakfast is ready for you downstairs.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
He doesn’t say a word as he turns for the door, but I follow him anyway. He’s definitely spooky, but there’s something intriguing about him, too. As much alien as he is human.
The moment we hit the staircase, I recognize the general layout. At the bottom, we make a right that’ll lead us to the kitchen.
I can’t help looking around for Cillian.
No sign of him, though.
“Master Cillian is addressing the men in the automobile garage,” Quinn says as though he can read my mind.
He hasn’t even glanced back at me.
I frown. “Oh. Thanks.”
“If you wish to speak with him, I can let him know.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I say quickly. “He must be busy.”
He stops at the entrance of the kitchen and ushers me inside. I give him a grateful nod, but he doesn’t react at all. When I glance behind, he’s already gone.
“Don’t worry. You get used to him.”
I gasp and turn around again.
The woman behind the kitchen counter is the polar opposite of the austere butler I’d just met. She’s short, plump, and rosy-cheeked, with dark brown hair streaked with grey tied into a tight bun at the back of her head. She’s wearing a floral dress beneath a well-worn white apron covered in stains, most of which look old, though a few still gleam fresh.
“Hello, love,” she murmurs. “Dear God, you look hungry.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m, uh—”
“And look at how skinny you are! This just won’t do.”
When I don’t move forward, she comes out from around the kitchen counter, grabs my arm, and drags me to one of the leather barstools that surround it.
“Take a seat,” she says. “I’ve made a full Irish for you.”
Without asking, she pours a tall glass of juice and pushes it towards me.
“Drink up, darling. I added a little protein powder. You look like you need it.”