Four Of A Kind

Chapter 38: [2.11] You May Go Now

I waited for additional instructions. Directions to the nearest kitchen. Maybe a map. A compass. Smoke signals. Anything that would help me navigate this mansion without getting lost for the fourth time tonight.

Sabrina said nothing.

She sat on the edge of her bed in her burgundy lace, watching me with those half-lidded purple eyes. Waiting. Patient as a cat watching a mouse figure out the maze.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

“Downstairs.” A pause. “Left at the main staircase. Through the informal dining room. Past the butler’s pantry.”

Butler’s pantry. Of course there’s a butler’s pantry. Why wouldn’t there be a butler’s pantry.

I turned toward the door.

“Isaiah.”

I stopped.

“Two times spicy. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

I left the room and closed the door behind me.

The hallway stretched in both directions. Empty. Quiet. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear what might have been music from Harlow’s room. Something with a heavy beat and lyrics in Korean.

I started walking.

Main staircase. Left. Informal dining room. Butler’s pantry. Kitchen.

The directions were simple enough. The execution was another matter entirely. I passed three staircases before finding the main one, a sweeping marble construction that belonged in a museum or maybe a wedding venue. The informal dining room turned out to be larger than my entire apartment. The butler’s pantry contained more serving dishes than I’d seen in my entire life.

The kitchen, when I finally found it, was a masterpiece of modern design. Stainless steel appliances. Marble countertops. An island the size of a small boat. Everything gleamed under recessed lighting that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

A woman in a chef’s uniform looked up from whatever she was prepping at the counter.

“Can I help you?”

“I need to make ramen.” I held up the packet. “Buldak. Two times spicy.”

Her eyebrow rose approximately three millimeters.

“The stove is there. Pots are in the cabinet below. Water from the filtered tap.”

I found a small pot. Filled it with water. Set it on the stove. Turned the burner to high.

The chef watched me work without comment. I could feel her assessment, the silent evaluation of someone who spent her life in kitchens observing others navigate the space. I wasn’t clumsy. I’d cooked enough meals for Iris to know my way around basic equipment. But this kitchen was designed for professionals, and I was very clearly not one.

The water boiled. I added the noodles. Stirred. Waited. Drained most of the liquid. Added the sauce packet.

The smell hit me immediately.

Two times spicy. Right.

My eyes watered slightly. My nose burned. This wasn’t food. This was a chemical weapon disguised as dinner.

I found a bowl in another cabinet. Transferred the noodles. Grabbed a pair of chopsticks from a drawer that contained approximately fifty different utensils I couldn’t identify.

“Thank you,” I said to the chef.

She nodded once. Said nothing. Returned to her prep work.

I carried the bowl back through the butler’s pantry. Through the informal dining room. Up the main staircase. Down the hallway. Past the angry ancestor painting.

Sabrina’s door was still closed.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

She hadn’t moved. Still sitting on the edge of the bed. Still wearing burgundy lace. Still watching me with those unreadable purple eyes.

I set the bowl on the cleared space next to her boba.

She looked at the ramen. Then at me.

“Feed me.”

I twirled noodles around the fork.

Held them up to her mouth.

Sabrina ate the noodles delicately. Her lips closed around the fork. She chewed slowly, thoroughly. A small hum of satisfaction escaped her.

Then she opened her mouth again. Waiting.

I gave her another forkful.

Throughout the entire process, she watched me. Those tired purple eyes never left my face.

This is just another customer. A weirder customer than usual. But still just a customer.

The ramen emptied.

I set down the fork and picked up the boba again. Brought it to her lips one more time.

She took a final sip.

Her eyes closed in quiet satisfaction.

“Acceptable.”

High praise, apparently.

I set down the empty cup on top of a biography of some French philosopher. My eyes landed on the fallen book, the one that had tumbled from her chest. The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The cover was worn. The spine was cracked. This was not a book that had been read once. This was a book that had been returned to again and again.

“My sister likes that movie.”

“The book is better.” Her voice had lost some of its drowsy quality. She was actually engaging now. “The protagonist understands the value of observation. Of watching instead of participating.” A pause. Her purple eyes focused on me with new intensity. “You have a sister.”

“I do.”

“Younger?”

“Fourteen.”

She processed this information in silence. Her gaze moved across my face like she was reading a map. Looking for details. Looking for tells.

Then she reached up.

Her hand landed on top of my head.

And she patted it.

Twice.

Soft. Deliberate. Like someone rewarding a pet for performing a trick successfully.

“Good.”

Did she just… did I just get head pats?

“You may go now.”

I stood there for a moment. Frozen. Processing.

I just got fed orders. Fed a girl in her underwear. Got patted on the head like a golden retriever.

Sabrina was already lying back down. Her eyes drifted closed. The burgundy lace shifted as she settled into the mattress. The chaos of books and empty tea cups surrounded her like a nest.

“Tell Cassidy her jealousy is showing.” Her voice was barely a murmur now, soft and already drowsy. “It’s unbecoming.”

How did she… we were nowhere near her room. The walls aren’t that thin. Does she have security cameras? Psychic powers? A network of trained house spiders?

“Close the door behind you.”

I walked out of the room.

Closed the door.

Stood in the empty hallway.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Sabrina.

Same time tomorrow. Don’t forget the extra pearls.

Below that, she’d added a single emoji.

A rose.

I stared at my phone.

Welcome to the Valentine household.

Population: four beautiful disasters and one scholarship student who was definitely not paid enough for this.