Page 13 of The Silent Princess

“You do not know me.”

“It isn’t safe to be outside during the night.”

“The bus is perfectly safe.” I tilt my head to the side. Is she serious? The bus.

At night. Alone. My fist tightens against my thigh, the sudden need to hit something pulsing through my knuckles.

“Please do not tell me you have been coming here to work at night by bus.”

“How else would I…” She stops herself, as if realizing too late that she has given me another piece of information. “I came here for my bag, sir. Could I please…”

I let the subject drop outwardly, though my mind has already begun turning around the unpleasant and unsafe shape of her situation. She cannot come here at night by bus, it’s way too dangerous. I will arrange someone to pick her up and drive her home. It is purely out of concern for an employee’s safety. That is what good bosses do. Right. I accept her attempt to lead the conversation elsewhere now that the bus situation has been settled in my mind.

“Why were you looking at the picture?” I ask again. “You said it was for a stupid reason, and I would very much like to hear it.” She looks away at the endless skyscrapers, a shadow of sadness pressing on her shoulders.

“Please don’t fire me,” she signs, a wince crossing her delicate face.

“I don’t believe I ever mentioned firing you.” I frown, her distress unpleasant enough to make my blood sizzle in an unexpected way. She sighs and it sounds heavy, heavy like the weight of the world, or the silent desperation of someone who doesn’t have a plan B to fall back on.

“Your office felt cold and empty last night. I wondered who could ever feel at peace in such a place. When I was cleaning the shelves, I saw the frame and felt that it was your office, your eyes, they…” A knock at the door interrupts her signing, and my molars grind together. I adjust my posture. I’d very much like to remove my jacket, but I’m afraid it would catch her attention and break the spell of her opening up.

“Hey, have you seen the last article on-” Nate pushes the door, then stops as he takes in the peculiar setting. “Shit, sorry,” then shuts the door and disappears. I’m going to hear about whatever he thinks he saw for the next decade. Whatever article was published will have to wait. I have a far more interesting endeavor right in front of me.

“My apologies for the interruption. Please continue,” I tell her, and a heavenly shade of pink paints the apples of her cheeks. I could exclusively sign, but my voice seems to have an effect on her. The tips of her fingers brush delicately over her forehead.

“I…I just meant that you looked like you were carrying the world on your shoulders.” My hands lie flat on my thighs, lips sealed, and I take a minute to appreciate her candor, her honesty in the face of someone obviously older and in a position of power over her. Even then, she chooses the truth. Carrying the world on my shoulders. Could she tell from a simple photograph and a few minutes in my office? Is it that obvious?

“So that’s why you picked up the frame? To look more closely at someone else’s hardship?”

“No.” She shakes her head, shaping the syllable silently, frowning, eyes locked on mine. “It didn’t feel right, all that pressure on one man. It…it made me want to comfort you,” she signs and silence meets us again, pressing against the walls from every angle until there is no air left to breathe. In a rough motion, I loosen my tie and fold it into my fist. She jumps at the sound of fabric sliding quickly from my collar, her body a violin responding to my every movement.

“I have to admit, Ella,” I rasp, “your boldness is quite…refreshing.” My tone remains incisive and sharp, digging into her delicate nature as she meets my gaze hesitantly.

Abruptly, I stand and reach for my vault, the lock opening to reveal her bag in the middle of my hidden dark treasures. I retrieve it and shut the vault again, the photograph concealing it once more. Why I opened it in front of her, I do not know. Nate is the only one who has ever seen me use it. She remains seated, next to my chess set, and a part of me trusts her obedience to stay there unless told otherwise. I come close to her, towering over her as she stills. Handing her the bag, I hold it by the top handle, and her hand, without nail polish or manicure but with clean, short nails, reaches to take it back. The ends of our fingers brush in the exchange, a fraction of a second where gasoline meets fire and burns every one of my senses to ash. As if she could feel the damage she has just done to me, she clutches the bag against her chest. I step back, searching for clarity.

“When are you working again?” Words escape my mouth before I can stop them.

She frowns, taken off guard. “Tonight. If I still have a job.”

“You do,” I say aloud, then sign, “but you need another bag. This one is barely holding together.”

“I can’t afford one, and it works perfectly.”

“That is debatable.” I wait for her to ask to leave, but she is still here, still seated in my chair, in my office, arguing with me with that pillow-soft pink mouth I would very much like to taste.

“Your earphones have seen better days too.”

“Did you look inside my bag?” Her lips form a small oh of disapproval.

“You looked inside my office.”

“It’s not the same.” She closes her eyes tightly, inhaling and exhaling with deliberate control. Impressive. She must be accustomed to keeping her temper in check. I respect that.

“If that’s all, then I would like to go now, please.” Why is she asking for my permission when she could slam the door in my face for digging into her private life? A woman’s bag, my mother always said, is unforgivable to search.

Leaving me speechless, which is a rare occurrence, I watch her rise and shoot daggers at me with those pretty almond eyes. I would smirk if it did not portray me as a complete asshole, but instead, I simply watch her reach for the door, offering me one last glance over her shoulder.

What on earth was that?