Chapter 3 - The Midnight FeastThe apartment smelled faintly of old radiator steam and lavender soap.
Inside the tiny kitchen, seven-year-old Eli sat at the worn wooden table wearing his oversized blue dinosaur pajamas. His dark hair was messy, his hazel eyes wide and bright as he watched me unwrap the crisp white linen napkin on the counter.
When I set the container down and popped the clear plastic lid open, a cloud of fragrant, buttery steam filled the room.
Eli gasped, his jaw dropping in pure, unadulterated awe.
"Mom!" Eli squeaked, pointing a trembling finger at the crisp, golden chicken skin and the mountain of garlic mashed potatoes. "Is that... real restaurant food?!"
"It sure is, sweet pea," I laughed softly, kissing the top of his head as I set a fork and a napkin beside his plate. "Straight from the Hartwell Grand Hotel."
"Did you cook it?!"
"No," I smiled, sitting down across from him, opening my own smaller container. "A very tall gentleman named Mr. Hart made sure we got it."
Eli dug into the chicken, his small face lighting up with absolute bliss as he chewed the tender, herb-crusted meat. "Mom... Mr. Hart is a superhero. This chicken skin is ten out of ten!"
I let out a low, breathless laugh, feeling tears of pure, weightless relief well in my eyes as I watched my son eat a full, warm meal. For the first time in six weeks, the tight, suffocating knot of panic in my chest loosened.
While Eli ate, I reached into my canvas bag to pull out my notebook to calculate our weekend bus fare.
My hand brushed against a thick, smooth paper envelope tucked inside the side pocket.
I frowned, pulling it out.
It was a heavy ivory cardstock envelope stamped with the crest of the Hartwell Estate.
I hadn't put it there. Gabriel must have slipped it inside my bag when he helped me with my coat near the hotel exit.
My heart took a fast, fluttering leap as I broke the wax seal.
Inside was a handwritten note in sharp, elegant gold ink, accompanied by a heavy brass key stamped with the number 402.
Clara,
My private library at the Hartwell Cultural Center on Michigan Avenue holds twelve hundred 17th-century legal and historical folios that are currently deteriorating due to improper climate storage.
I require a master restorer. The position pays $8,000 a month, includes full medical benefits for you and Eli, and starts tomorrow morning at nine.
The brass key opens the street entrance.
— Gabriel Hart
I stared at the thick white card, my fingers trembling so violently I nearly dropped the key onto the table.
May you like
$8,000 a month. Full medical benefits. Restoring rare folios.
I pulled the card against my chest, covering my mouth with both hands as silent, hot tears of pure, overwhelming gratitude spilled over my lashes, washing away six weeks of terror under the warm kitchen light.
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