No. No. No.

She fled. She’s here. She’s in London. She’s safe. She will never see him again.

Kneeling down, she loads the dirty clothes from the laundry basket into the washing machine, as Krystyna showed her. She goes through the pockets of his black jeans and pulls out the loose change and the customary condom that he seems to carry in all his pants. In the back pocket, she finds a scrap of paper with a phone number and the name Heather scrawled on it. She slips it with the change and the condom into her pocket, tosses one of the detergent capsules into the wash, and switches on the machine.

Next she unloads the dryer and sets up the iron. Today she’ll start with the ironing and stay hidden in the laundry room until he’s gone.

What if he doesn’t go?

And why is she hiding from him? He’s her employer. Perhaps she should introduce herself. She’s met all her other employers, and they aren’t a problem, apart from Mrs. Kingsbury, who follows her around critiquing her cleaning methods. She sighs. The truth is, all the people she works for are women—except him, and she’s wary of men.

“Bye, Krystyna!” he calls, startling her from her thoughts and the shirt collar she’s ironing. The front door closes with a muffled bang, and all is quiet. He’s gone. She is on her own, and she sags with relief against the ironing board.

Krystyna? Doesn’t he know that she’s taken Krystyna’s place? Magda’s friend Agatha organized this job. Hasn’t Agatha told him about the change of staff? Alessia resolves to check this evening if the owner of this apartment has been informed. She finishes another shirt, hangs it on a clothes hanger, then goes to check the console table in the hall and finds he has left her money. Surely that means he won’t be returning?

Her day brightens immediately, and with renewed purpose she runs back to the laundry room and grabs the pile of freshly ironed clothes and his shirts and heads to his bedroom.

The master suite is the only nonwhite room in the apartment: all gray walls and dark wood. A large gilt mirror hangs above the biggest wooden bed that Alessia has ever seen. And on the wall facing the bed, there are two large black-and-white photographs of women, their naked backs to camera. Turning away from the photography, she assesses the room. It is in complete disarray. Quickly she hangs his shirts in the closet—a closet that is bigger than her bedroom—and places the folded items on one of the shelves. The closet is still a mess, and it’s been like this since she started here with Krystyna last week. Krystyna always ignored the mess, and though Alessia wants to fold and put away all the clothes, it’s a big project, and she doesn’t have time now, not if she wants to play the piano.

Back in his room, she opens the curtains and glances through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Thames. It’s stopped raining, but the day is gray; the street, the river, the trees in the park beyond are all muted grays, so unlike her home.

No. Home is here now. She ignores the sadness that rises like a tide within her and places the items that she retrieved from his pockets into a dish on the nightstand. She then begins to clean and tidy his room.

The last job in the bedroom is emptying the wastebasket. She tries to avoid looking at the used condoms as she dumps the contents into a black plastic trash bag. It was a shock the first time she did this, and it’s still a shock now. How can one man use so many?

Ugh!

Alessia moves through the rest of the apartment, cleaning, dusting, and polishing, but avoiding the one room she’s not allowed to enter. Fleetingly she wonders what’s behind the closed door, but she doesn’t try to open it. Krystyna was very clear that the room is off-limits.

* * *

She finishes mopping the floors with half an hour to spare. She puts the cleaning caddy away in the laundry room and transfers the washed clothes into the dryer. She removes her housecoat and undoes her blue scarf, stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans.

Carrying the black bag full of trash, she deposits it by the front door. She’ll take it to the dumpsters in the designated area in the alley beside the apartment block when she leaves. Anxiously, she opens the front door and checks up and down the hallway. There’s no sign of him. She can do this. She wasn’t brave enough the first time she cleaned here alone. She was afraid he might return. But since he left and said good-bye, she’ll take the risk.

She rushes down the hallway into the living room and sits at the piano, pausing to enjoy the moment. Black and shiny, it’s lit up by the impressive chandelier that hangs above it. Her fingers trace the golden lyre logo and the words beneath.

STEINWAY & SONS

On the rest there’s a pencil and the same half-finished composition that has been sitting there since the first day she came to the apartment with Krystyna. As she studies the pages, the notes sound through her head, a sad lament, lonely and full of melancholy, unresolved and unfinished in hues of pale blue and gray. She tries to connect the profound and reflective tune to the indolent but handsome naked man she saw that morning. Perhaps he’s a composer. She glances across the wide room to the antique desk in the corner cluttered with his computer, a synthesizer, and what might be a couple of sound mixers. Yes, they look like they belong to a composer. And then there’s the wall of old records that she has to dust; he’s certainly an avid music collector.

She pushes these thoughts aside as she stares down at the keys. How long has it been since she last played? Weeks? Months? A sudden, acute feeling of anguish steals the air from her lungs, making her gasp, and tears form in her eyes.

No. Not here. She will not break down here. She clutches the piano in an effort to fight off her heartache and her homesickness, realizing it’s been more than a month since she last played. So much has happened since then.

She shudders and takes a deep breath, forcing a feeling of calm. She stretches her fingers and strokes the keys.

White. Black.

The mere touch soothes her. She wants to savor this precious moment and lose herself in her music. Gently, she pushes down the keys, sounding an E-minor chord. The sound rings clear and strong, a bold and verdant green, the color of the Mister’s eyes, and Alessia’s heart fills with hope. The Steinway is tuned to perfection. She launches into her warm-up piece, “Le Coucou”; the keys move with ease and a smooth, fluid action. Her fingers fly across the keyboard vivace, and the stress, fear, and sorrow of the last few weeks fade and finally mute as she loses herself in the colors of the music.

* * *

One of the Trevelyan London homes is on Cheyne Walk, a brisk stroll from my flat. Built in 1771 by Robert Adam, Trevelyan House had been Kit’s home since our father died. For me it holds many childhood memories—some happy, some less so—and now it’s mine to do with as I wish. Well, it’s held in trust for me. Faced once more with my new reality, I shake my head and pull the collar of my coat up to fight the biting cold, cold that seems to emanate not from outside but from within me.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this house?

It’s been two days since I saw Caroline, and I know she’s furious with me, but I will have to face her sooner or later. Standing on the doorstep, I contemplate whether or not to use my key. I’ve always had a key to the house, but to burst in unannounced feels like an intrusion.

Taking a deep breath, I knock twice. After a few moments, the front door opens and Blake, the family’s butler since before I was born, answers the door.

“Lord Trevethick,” he says, bowing his balding head and holding open the door.

“Is that really necessary, Blake?” I ask as I stride into the entrance hall. Blake remains mute as he takes my coat. “How’s Mrs. Blake?”

“She’s well, my lord. Greatly saddened by recent events, though.”

“As are we all. Is Caroline at home?”

“Yes, my lord. I believe Lady Trevethick is in the drawing room.”

“Thank you. I’ll see myself up.”

“Of course. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please. Oh, and, Blake, as I said last week, ‘sir’ will suffice.”

Blake pauses, then gives me a nod. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

I want to roll my eyes. I was the Honourable Maxim Trevelyan and referred to as “Master Maxim” here. “Lord” applied only to my father, then my brother. It will take me some time to get accustomed to my new title.