Dear Diary,
It’s been two weeks since I moved in with the Hawthornes. So far, I’ve broken three antique vases, committed fourteen etiquette violations, and I’m currently mediating a territorial war between my dog and a very judgmental cat.
On the bright side, the new housekeeper hasn’t quit yet.
Abigail West
(Formerly human. Currently questioning all my life choices.)
* * *
The Hawthorne mansion’s dining room reeked of old money. It had crystal chandeliers. Shiny cutlery. Gleaming china. Mahogany everything. And, last but not least, several portraits of stern-faced Hawthorne ancestors who looked like they’d never committed an etiquette violation in their very long lives.
Meanwhile, I was still recovering from yesterday’s parlor incident.
In my defense, no one had told me that the arrangement of objects on the mantelpiece in the formal sitting room had been exactly the same for going on five decades. Apparently, moving the antique clock a few inches to make room for a cute photo of me, my best friend Ellie, and my dog was a giant no-no. Although Victoria had returned the antique clock to its original position without a word, her silence had spoken volumes.
There was a right place for everything in this house and I had yet to develop the supernatural ability to detect it. Quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“By the way, the Pemberton family sent a lovely gift welcoming you as the new Hawthorne luna,” Victoria said without looking up from her newspaper. “A handwritten response is required within forty-eight hours. I’ve left the stationery on your desk.”
I masked a grimace. I was sharing Victoria’s study while she taught me the ropes of being a Hawthorne luna, AKA dumped all her duties on me. I now had my own appointed mahogany desk, which I had already marked with a coffee ring stain.
That had been etiquette violation number five.
“I already thanked them,” I said, reaching for my cup. “I sent a text.”
Victoria’s newspaper lowered by a fraction of an inch. The look she gave me could have curdled milk.
“A text,” she repeated leadenly.
Existential guilt had me biting my lip.
“It was a nice text,” I said defensively. “With an emoji.”
Across the table, Samuel made a sound suspiciously like a laugh. His badly masked amusement danced across our mate bond.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
His smile widened.
My belly clenched, my irritation fading like damp mist in overzealous sunshine. Damn that werewolf was hot.
I was distracted from my impure thoughts by Victoria.
“We discussed this, Abigail.” The Hawthorne matriarch’s voice held the patience of a saint who was rapidly approaching martyrdom. “Formal correspondence requires a formal response. On proper stationery. In ink.”
I suspected she was not joking.
“Is there a specific ink color, or—” I hazarded.
“Blue or black. Never red.” She returned to her newspaper, her expression cooling. “And we should also review proper greetings. I heard about your encounter with Meredith Ashworth in town.”
I winced. I’d run into the elderly vampire outside a bookshop.
“Why, what happened?” Samuel asked.
“I said hi,” I muttered.
Victoria sniffed. “She greeted her with a “Hey, Mrs. A!” and a wave.”
Samuel’s lips twitched. I sighed.
I’d since learned that casual waves were not done in polite supernatural society. There was a hierarchy of nods and acknowledgments that I had completely bypassed in favor of behaving like a normal human being.
“She looked down,” I protested. “You know, like she needed cheering up.”
“She’s been undead for three hundred years,” Victoria said. “That’s just her face.”
Samuel hid behind his coffee cup again, his shoulders trembling.
I was debating whether to withhold sex tonight when Bernard glided into the dining room carrying a fresh pot of coffee.
The Hawthorne butler had been with the family for forty years and had perfected the art of pretending not to notice the daily chaos unfolding around him.
“More coffee, Miss Abigail?”
“Please.” I held up my cup gratefully. “And Bernard, you can just call me Abby.”
“As you wish, Miss Abigail.”
I’d been trying to get him to drop the formality for two weeks. It was a losing battle so far.
A noise drew my attention to the bay window, where the morning sun streamed through the glass. Pearl had claimed the prime sunbeam and was grooming herself with the smugness of a queen surveying her domain.
Bo sat three feet away, staring at her with the intensity of a dog who’d been robbed of his rightful napping spot.
“That’s my sunbeam,” he huffed.
Pearl delicately licked her paw. “I don’t see your name on it.”
“I was here first yesterday,” my dog argued.
“Yesterday is irrelevant. Today, I am here. Therefore, it is my sunbeam.” She fixed him with a superior stare. “Perhaps you should try the garden. I hear it’s lovely this time of year. Very outdoorsy.”
Bo’s ears flattened. “Are you saying I’m a peasant?”
“I would never be so crude.” Pearl examined her claws. “I merely suggested you might be more comfortable in your natural habitat.”
Bo stamped his feet. “I’ll show you natural habitat, you damn fur ball!”
“Bo,” I warned.
My dog whined and flopped down where he sat, still staring daggers at the cat. Pearl resumed her grooming while radiating one hundred percent satisfaction.
The honeymoon period was definitely over between those two.
“They’ll sort it out eventually,” Samuel reassured as he picked up on my consternation.
“Will they?” I asked skeptically.
“Probably.” Victoria turned a page of her newspaper. “Like they say, hope springs eternal.”
Great.
The sound of rapid footsteps thundered down the main staircase. It was followed by a crash that made Bernard’s left eye twitch almost imperceptibly and had Samuel’s shoulders stiffening.
Hugh burst into the dining room like a man fleeing a mob. His hair was wet, he was still buttoning his shirt, and—I squinted—he was definitely wearing my vintage band t-shirt.
“Is that my Guns N’ Roses shirt?” I demanded indignantly.
“What? No.” Hugh glanced down. “Maybe. There was a laundry situation.”
Bernard and the rest of the Hawthornes froze. I tried hard not to roll my eyes.
The words ‘laundry’ and ‘Hugh’ struck terror in everyone’s heart and with just cause.
“What kind of laundry situation?” Samuel said carefully.
“The kind where everything I own is currently pink.” He grabbed a piece of toast from the sideboard and shoved half of it in his mouth, oblivious to the tense stares focused on him. “Including my underwear.”
Victoria closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, her expression had achieved a new level of glacial calm.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I just put my clothes in the machine like Nora showed me.” He swallowed the toast. “She said to separate the colors. So I did. I put all the red things together.”
“All the red things,” Victoria repeated slowly.
“Yes. The red things. In hot water, because red is a hot color.” Hugh seemed genuinely confused by our expressions, which currently ranged from disgusted to scornful, if you included Pearl’s. “What?”
“I’ll add ‘laundry basics’ to the household manual,” Bernard said in a funereal tone.
I could tell this wasn’t the first time he’d made such an addition and it wouldn’t be the last either.
The door to the kitchen swung open. Nora Moorbridge emerged carrying a platter of what smelled like the most incredible bacon I’d ever encountered.
The Hawthornes’ new housekeeper was a tall, thin woman in her fifties with sharp cheekbones and a streak of white running through her otherwise dark hair that made her look like supernatural nobility. Which, technically, she was—ghouls had their own hierarchy and Nora carried herself like she’d seen the top of it.
She’d arrived a week ago, months after the previous housekeeper had handed in her notice citing “irreconcilable differences with the household atmosphere.”
Everyone knew she meant Pearl.
Nora had taken one look at the cat, made a dry comment about having worked for worse, and earned Pearl’s grudging respect within the first hour.
She was also an extraordinary cook, a fact which had initially worried everyone. Ghouls had specific dietary preferences that didn’t typically align with the living. Nora had assured us that her culinary skills were strictly for the benefit of others.
So far, nothing she’d served had contained any questionable ingredients.
“I see Master Hugh has discovered the washing machine again,” Nora observed, setting down the bacon like she was noting mild weather.
“There was a color-related misunderstanding,” Hugh said defensively as he reached for a cup.
Bernard filled it with coffee and watched stoically as Hugh sloshed some on the floor straightaway.
“Indeed. I noticed the pink explosion when I went to retrieve the towels.” Nora straightened, her hands clasped primly in front of her. “I’ve taken the liberty of reorganizing the laundry room. The detergents are now arranged alphabetically and I’ve created a color-coded chart for sorting.” She paused. “I’ve laminated it.”
Samuel and I exchanged a guarded glance. It hadn’t taken long for the two of us to become convinced that Nora and Mindy Parsons, Hawthorne & Associates’ mostly friendly ghost, would get on like a town on fire.
“That’s very, er, thorough,” I managed.
“Organization prevents chaos, Miss Abigail.” Her gaze flicked to Hugh like the Grim Reaper passing judgement. “In theory.”
Hugh avoided her eyes and grabbed another piece of toast. “By the way, has anyone seen my good watch? I’m running late.”
Victoria’s eyebrow rose a fraction. “Late for what?”
Hugh suddenly became very interested in finishing his food as fast as he could. “Nothing. Just, you know, plans.”
“Plans,” Samuel echoed suspiciously. “On a Tuesday morning. On your day off.”
“People have plans on Tuesdays. That’s a thing that happens.” Hugh began backing toward the door with a hunted expression. “Normal people. With normal plans.”
“You’re not normal,” I said, deadpan.
“Hugh.” Victoria’s tone could have frozen lava. “What aren’t you telling us?”
Hugh’s retreat halted at the doorway. He looked like a man weighing his options and finding them all terrible.
“I have a date.”
The dining room went deathly quiet.
“A date,” Victoria repeated.
“Yes, Mother. A date.” Hugh’s chin lifted defiantly. “It’s when two people who like each other spend time together. Socially.”
“Who with?” Samuel asked.
Hugh hesitated. “Beatrice Lupton.”
I sucked in air and earned a mildly disapproving glance from Victoria.
