Chapter 2 - Cold Stone
The marble drank every ounce of warmth from Fay's flesh within the first twenty minutes.
The east gallery was a forgotten cavern within the Cain mansion, designed to buffer the private living quarters from the public reception halls.
Its tall French windows looked out over the black, churning waters of the Mississippi River.
Because no guests were meant to wander here, the brass steam radiators had remained shut tight for the season.
A continuous, damp river draft slipped beneath the weatherstripping, licking across Fay’s bare ankles and creeping beneath the hem of her apron.
Fay rested her palms flat against the tops of her thighs.
She did not slouch.
She refused to collapse into a miserable heap against the wainscoting.
Her mother had spent thirty years scrubbing the halls of wealthy households without ever bowing her head in spirit, and Fay refused to surrender that lineage tonight.
Every few minutes, a temporary server would scurry through the gallery carrying buckets of melted ice or crates of dirty crystal.
Most averted their gaze in shame, terrified that looking at her might draw Celeste’s wrath upon their own heads.
A young dishwasher paused, his eyes wide with horror, but Fay gave him a subtle, stern shake of her head.
She would not drag another working person into her punishment.
Around one in the morning, Mrs. Odette slipped through the shadows, holding a folded wool runner beneath her coat.
"Fay, take this," the older woman whispered, kneeling beside her and attempting to slide the fabric beneath her knees.
"The cold will ruin your joints forever.
Nobody is watching."
Fay reached out and gently pushed Mrs. Odette’s hands away.
"Do not risk your contract, Mrs. Odette," Fay murmured, her teeth chattering against her will.
"If she finds this runner, she will destroy your catering firm and use it as an excuse to call the police on me.
Go back to the kitchen.
Please."
"She is a monster, child," Mrs. Odette wept, dabbing her apron against her eyes.
"And Mr. Cain...
if he had any idea what that woman does—"
"Mr. Cain is the sovereign of the New Orleans underworld," Fay cut her off gently.
"Men who rule through fear do not weep for the knees of a serving maid.
Go, before someone sees you."
With a heavy, broken sigh, Mrs. Odette retreated back into the warm glare of the reception hall.
The silence returned, heavier and colder than before.
Pain began its deliberate, agonizing progression.
At first, it was a sharp, localized burning where the bone pressed directly against the unyielding stone.
By the second hour, the sharp burn had transformed into a heavy, sickening ache that radiated up into Fay’s hips and deep into her lower spine.
Then came the numbness, but it offered no relief; it felt as though thick bands of rusted iron were tightening around her calves, starving her legs of circulation.
Fay closed her eyes and reached into the left pocket of her apron.
Her numb fingers curled around the folded paper tucked inside.
Josie’s drawing.
She stroked the waxy ridges of the crayon marks through the paper.
She picture-mapped every detail in her mind: the giant yellow sun drawn with clumsy strokes, the two figures standing hand-in-hand, and the blue paper boat sailing across the bottom margin.
She remembered the gentle weight of Josie’s small palm resting against her jawline.
Whenever Fay spoke, Josie would close her eyes, feeling the gentle vibration of her mother's vocal cords to understand the world.
I am holding this floor for you, my darling, Fay prayed silently into the freezing dark.
Every minute I spend on this stone brings us closer to your ears.
You will hear the riverboats.
You will hear the rain.
The grandfather clock in the gallery chimed three times.
Down the long corridor, the orchestral music finally began to fade into silence.
Car engines rumbled in the front driveway, tires crunching across gravel as the city's elite dispersed into the night.
Yet no one came to release her.
Celeste had gone to her bed, leaving Fay to freeze in the dark like an abandoned dog.
Fay’s breath came in thin, ragged plumes of white mist.
May you like
Her back screamed with exhaustion, but she held her spine rigid, her eyes fixed on an oil painting of a solitary clipper ship battling an iron-gray sea.
If her body broke tonight, it would break while she was still looking straight ahead.
