Carissa was alone in the house when Naomi came home after midnight. The maid could tell at once that Naomi had been drinking heavily, because the girl slammed doors and threw her boots across the hall floor, crashing her way upstairs to her room. The Codringtons themselves were long asleep, dulled by their sleeping pills and booze. Their snores could be heard throughout the house, even in her little cell sunk in the basement under thick floors. It was a disgusting sound, a sound commensurate with her bestial employers, and usually she wore earplugs to specifically screen it out when she tried to sleep.
That night they were in full roar, like huge fattened tropical frogs. Carissa stepped into the corridor outside her room and crept to the stone stairs leading up to the ground floor. Her curiosity was aroused. The family’s tensions were mysterious, almost magical to her, and she lost no opportunity to observe them. Sensing before long that the entire family was unconscious, she went up to the hall and picked up the boots that had been thrown down so insolently. It sometimes shocked her, Naomi’s disrespect to her own father. But she also felt solidarity with the tormented girl against her overbearing and arrogant stepmother. She arranged the boots neatly against the wall and noticed that they were caked with fresh mud. So Naomi had gone on a long walk somewhere in the rain, and not in the port. She must have wandered up to the hills. It was a curious detail. Carissa went into the salon and sat for a while in the armchairs that were forbidden to her during work hours, then stole a sip of brandy from one of the decanters standing on the drink service trolley. She often did this when her employers were asleep. It was her little revenge.
She stopped by the family photographs on the large table in the salon and looked at the faces of Naomi at twelve, fifteen, and twenty—you could see trouble coming into the eyes. She went up the stairs a little and tried to catch a noise from Naomi’s room, but the girl seemed fast asleep too and unlike her elders her sleep was always silent. Carissa went back to her own room half tipsy and determined to wake up at dawn exactly. This she was able to do.
When she started cooking in the kitchen at first light it was still raining, a fine soundless drizzle. She made a potato tart, which Jimmie loved in the morning, and a honey-and-egg concoction baked with filo. They were always up early and they were always hungry. At six-thirty the master came down first in his dressing gown, his hair wet and brushed back. He found her in the kitchen and gave her a playful pat on the behind, to which she had grown accustomed. She led him on a little; it made the tips bigger. As she was pouring his coffee, he said, “Carissa, have you seen my daughter?”
“She came in late last night.”
He asked her where Naomi had been and she said she had no idea.
“Bloody nuisance,” he muttered, and went into his food with a pleasureless resolve. It was, after all, the best way to avoid domestic troubles.
Carissa went back to the kitchen and hovered by the door, listening. The master was talking on the phone to one of his henchmen in London. His name was Rockhold, a sort of private investigator. Her English was now good enough to understand most of what they said, and she thought that he was asking this Rockhold to check Naomi’s records and bank accounts in England and Italy. The family had a large villa just north of Rome that Naomi also used. Their affairs were complex, and the master could not manage them alone. Soon the mistress came in, the master ended his call abruptly, and Carissa went out to serve her coffee. Phaine, as always, inspected the food casually and made a few sharp criticisms. The toast was a little burned; the eggs were a little dry. Carissa bowed with a “Yes, madame” and apologized. It was a ritual without much substance, a quiet way of humiliating her and keeping her in her place and on her toes. Like the pats on the behind, she had gotten used to it.
“And, Carissa,” Phaine said then, “don’t ever boil the coffee a second time. I know you do it occasionally because you’re lazy. Don’t. You think I can’t tell the difference, but I certainly can.”
“Yes, madame.”
The day passed glumly. Naomi came down at midday for her coffee and drank it while Carissa made her pancakes. The girl seemed restless and distracted. When the sun came out she took her coffee onto the terrace and sipped it with her knees drawn up under her chin. The tension in her had increased. The Codringtons had gone out for lunch, and Carissa took the opportunity to talk to her. She was allowed to do it, since Naomi treated her as the only person in the household in whom she could confide.
“They went to Athens yesterday,” the maid said now. “I think Phaine wanted to buy summer clothes.”
“Did my father say anything to you?”
“No. He was on the phone to London. Something about an investigator. I didn’t hear anything else.”
Naomi put her face in her hands, and Carissa noticed that her nails were filthy and jagged.
“God, they never let up, do they?”
“No, miss.”
“I couldn’t sleep last night. I remember you told me once you knew an herbal sleep aid that the islanders use. Do you know how to get some, Carissa?”
“I can find some for you.”
“Maybe some hemlock. I know it grows here. My friends used to talk about it all the time. They were convinced the Mialou widow was killed with it.”
They chuckled—the Mialou story was a famous one.
“It’s certainly true,” the maid agreed.
“It’s a Greek specialty. Socrates and all that.”
“Yes, miss.”
“But just some lemon balm would be all right. Just to relax and chill.”
“I know a woman who sells everything.”
“Ne pethani o charos!”
“Yes, miss. I’ll go up the mountain this afternoon and find her. I promise.”
Naomi went up to her, kissed her cheek.
“You’re my savior in this madhouse. If it wasn’t for you I’d have gone mad myself.”
Maybe you already did, the maid thought. It’s possible.
“And, Carissa—I need some antibiotics and some bandages. Can you get me some of those too?”
“I’ll get them.”
“I scratched myself yesterday on my hike.”