Chapter 7 A Cold Welcome

She must have dozed off, because the next thing Emma heard was the gentle double-tap of knuckles against the door, exactly spaced. She blinked, surfaced, and found Marisol already inside the room, eyes sweeping over Emma's unpacked detritus with the same clinical curiosity as before.

"The orientation will begin now," Marisol said, as if it were a summons to court rather than a courtesy. She waited, not impatient but utterly certain of compliance, while Emma slipped her feet back into shoes and smoothed her shirt.

The hallway felt different now-less gallery, more gauntlet. The windows had adjusted their tint, turning the bright afternoon outside into a silvery wash.

Overhead, the lighting had recalibrated to a warmer tone, banishing the blue-white clarity from before. Emma realized the house never settled; it responded to its inhabitants in real time, always recalculating for optimal effect.

Marisol's heels clicked in a syncopated rhythm, just ahead of Emma, as they moved down the corridor. "Household protocol is precise," Marisol said, voice pitched for maximum projection with minimum volume.

"Breakfast at 0800, lunch at 1300, dinner at 1930. You may take meals in the staff lounge, the kitchen, or your own quarters. Dining with the family is by invitation only."

Emma nodded, trying to absorb the rules as data rather than evidence of her social standing. She tried to imagine the staff lounge-a fluorescent-lit basement filled with breakroom detritus-then mentally upgraded it to match the rest of the house.

"Mr. Dawson's schedule is confidential," Marisol continued, "but you will be informed of relevant appointments at the start of each day." She steered them through a series of interconnected spaces, each with its own microclimate and personality. One room was a stark cube filled with modular seating and a vast, wall-mounted display that ran a silent stream of global news. Another was a meditation area, so still and deliberately empty that Emma felt guilty for breathing too loudly.

They passed a set of double doors flanked by twin panels that glowed in a low, orange pulse. "This is the office wing," Marisol said. "Access is prohibited unless summoned. Attempted entry will trigger immediate security lockdown."

The warning was delivered without drama, but Emma pictured herself tripping the alarm, being hustled out by black-clad guards before she'd even made it a week. She realized this was probably not an unfounded fear.

Next, they reached the kitchen-a space that somehow managed to look both commercial and intimate. Stainless steel islands floated like icebergs over a floor of dark slate.

At one counter, a man in a chef's jacket and a woman in utilitarian black were assembling trays with the efficient choreography of a seasoned pit crew. Marisol made a perfunctory introduction, "This is Ms. Carter. She'll require coffee in the mornings, and no red meat," and then she moved on, leaving Emma to exchange an awkward half-wave with the chef.

The chef-mid-thirties, soft around the edges, tattooed forearms-offered a polite but impersonal smile. "Welcome," he said, voice low, with a trace of some regional accent Emma couldn't place. "Let us know if you have allergies."

"I'm fine with anything," Emma said, realizing the absurdity of claiming flexibility in this environment.

Marisol was already disappearing through a side door, forcing Emma to half-jog to catch up.

"Don't take it personal, she's like this with everyone," the chef murmured, barely audible, before returning to his mise en place.

Back in the hall, Marisol resumed at full speed. "You are to report daily to the study center," she said. "Alex will meet you there at nine sharp. The syllabus and behavioral plan are preloaded on your work tablet."

Emma was struck by the clinical detachment in the word "behavioral plan." Not a schedule, not a curriculum-a protocol for risk mitigation.

"What's the expectation?" she asked, unable to keep the edge of nerves from her voice. "For his progress, I mean."

Marisol glanced over, something almost like sympathy crossing her features. "Mr. Dawson expects measurable results. Academic and personal."

Before Emma could parse the "personal," Marisol led her through a brief detour-down a short flight of steps, into a wide corridor that looked more like an art gallery than a passage.

Here, the walls were hung with pieces that alternated between striking and confounding: a tangle of fiber-optic cables woven into a tapestry that seemed to blink with its own rhythm; a series of ink and graphite sketches, each depicting the same pair of hands in different positions-clenched, open, torn; a six-foot canvas covered in what looked, at first glance, like random black slashes but, as Emma looked longer, seemed to spell out a phrase she couldn't quite decode.

"This is Mr. Dawson's personal collection," Marisol said. "Some pieces are irreplaceable. Please do not touch anything unless instructed."

Emma kept her hands at her sides, though a magnetic pull drew her closer to the blinking tapestry.

Marisol didn't slow. "You may receive visitors during scheduled hours, but they must be approved in advance. No media contact, no unauthorized devices, no photography outside the family's consent."

Emma's mind jumped to her phone-she'd left it in her room, but she imagined it being scanned and monitored by some omniscient house AI.

The tour ended at a small, sunken lounge, where Marisol stopped abruptly and turned to face her.

"Alex has driven away five tutors in the past year," she said, not as a warning but a statement of fact. "The last one lasted three weeks before resigning without notice."

Emma blinked, processing. "Was there a... specific reason?"

Marisol's mouth twisted-humor or bitterness, it was hard to tell. "He is very clever. And he does not wish to be here. He will do whatever is required to return to his mother in London."

The air between them stilled. Emma sensed this was her own test: Would she flinch, or press for details?

She straightened, forcing herself to hold Marisol's gaze. "And what does Mr. Dawson want?"

"Results," Marisol said. "And no drama."

The phrase landed with a strange resonance, as if it were less a hope and more a legally binding clause.

Marisol stepped aside, motioning Emma into the lounge. "You may use this space to prepare for tomorrow. If you require anything, ask. Someone will hear."

Emma entered the lounge, taking in the low sofas, the sunken table stacked with untouched magazines, the view out to the garden-a perfectly composed rectangle of raked gravel and three, exactly three, obsidian stones.

She turned back, but Marisol had already vanished. Only the faintest trace of sandalwood and citrus lingered.

For a moment, Emma just stood, feeling the inertia of the house press in. She picked up one of the magazines, thumbed it open to find a feature on quantum computing, and realized she'd have to Google half the words before understanding the headline.

She replaced the magazine, then sat, knees pressed together, hands folded, the position instinctive from years of waiting rooms and interviews and parent-teacher conferences. She stared at the garden, trying to imagine the boy she would meet tomorrow. Trying to imagine a version of herself who could last more than three weeks.

She pictured the other tutors, the succession of hopeful faces and their gradual, inevitable unraveling. The house had probably absorbed them too, in its own way-catalogued their efforts, filed them under "attempts," and moved on without a flicker of regret.

Emma refused to picture her own face among them.

Instead, she listened to the silence, and prepared for morning.