Finley led Ophelia to the kitchen, where she met Caitlin, the chef. Caitlin, a woman in her late 40s with a stern expression, exuded professionalism.
"Let's get started, Ms. Johnson," Caitlin said curtly, her voice firm but not unfriendly. "I'll teach you how to brew the special red tea. Remember, precision is key."
Ophelia nodded, eager to learn.
"The Brooks family has a distinct preference for their tea," Caitlin explained, measuring out the rare, crimson-hued leaves. "They take it warm, with exactly one sugar cube. A dash of water is added to create a subtle, velvety texture."
As Caitlin demonstrated the brewing process, Ophelia watched intently.
"However, Reginald's taste differs significantly," Caitlin whispered, her eyes darting around the kitchen as if sharing a secret. "He prefers his tea chilled, with three sugar cubes. No water is added, allowing the rich, crimson liquid to retain its thick, almost syrupy consistency."
Ophelia's curiosity piqued, she wondered why Reginald's preferences diverged from the rest of the family.
Caitlin handed Ophelia a delicate, porcelain teapot. "Your task is to replicate this precise blend. The family's satisfaction depends on it."
As Ophelia carefully poured the steaming tea into dainty cups, she couldn't shake off the feeling that there was more to the Brooks family's tea rituals than met the eye.
The ominous words still lingered in her mind: "rampage and death."
What secrets lay hidden behind the family's polished facade?
" Remember you have ten minutes to serve the,before it strucks 4:00pm." Caitlin reminded Ophelia who seem to be thinking else where.
" Ophelia asked, her curiosity piqued. "How long exactly have you been working for the Brooks family, Caitlin?"
Caitlin's expression softened, and for a moment, Ophelia saw a glimmer of warmth beneath her stern exterior.
"Let's just say I've seen generations come and go," Caitlin replied, her voice low and measured. "Mrs. Brooks's mother was still alive when I started. I've watched the children grow up, and now their children are grown."
Ophelia's eyes widened. "That's remarkable. You must know the family's secrets."
Caitlin's expression turned guarded, and she glanced around the kitchen as if ensuring they were alone.
"Discretion is key in this household, Ms. Johnson," Caitlin whispered. "Remember that."
Ophelia nodded, sensing that Caitlin had revealed more than she intended.
With the teapot in hand, Ophelia headed to the dining room, her heart beating in anticipation. The clock ticked closer to 4:00 pm.
As she entered the dining room, the family's eyes turned to her. Mrs. Brooks looked at her expectantly.
"right on time. Serve the tea, please."
Ophelia poured the steaming liquid into delicate cups, her hands steady.
Reginald's eyes locked onto hers, his gaze piercing.
"Welcome to our little family tradition, Ophelia," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Ophelia's skin prickled, but she maintained her composure.
"Thank you, sir," she replied, handing him his chilled tea.
As the family sipped their tea, Ophelia sensed an undercurrent of tension.
What secrets lay hidden behind their polished facade?
"Ms. Johnson, please retire to your room now," Mrs. Brooks commanded, her voice unwaveringly firm.
Ophelia knew better than to inquire further, so she offered a respectful curtsey to the family and swiftly exited the dining room. She hastened up the stairs to her quarters, her footsteps light and urgent.
As she entered her room, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, listening intently as the clock struck four. With a deep breath, she allowed her back to slide down the door, her tension easing slightly.
She took a deep breath ,and swallowed the lump on her mouth,the room was quiet, with no sounds coming from outside. It was a big contrast to the tense atmosphere in the dining room. Ophelia knew she had to stay in her room, not just because she was scared, but because she didn't want to disobey the Brooks family. They were paying her $50,000, money she desperately needed for her sick mother's hospital bills.
Thinking about her mother made Ophelia's heart ache. She pictured her mom's weak face and frail body. Ophelia knew she had to be brave and do her job to help her family.
She walked to the window staring out at the empty air ,she felt very alone ,Ophelia's mind wandered to her mother's health as she reached for her phone to text her brother. But the screen displayed "No Signal." She cursed under her breath and tried leaning against the window, hoping to catch a faint connection.
They was no connection even as she kenaed in further ,frown marred her forehead, as she flung the phone in the air. "
A faint whisper echoed in her mind, like a gentle breeze rustling leaves. "Climb out, Ophelia. You'll find signal out there."
At first, she dismissed the thought, attributing it to her desperation. But the voice persisted, its softness deceptive.
"Climb out, Ophelia. Stand on the ledge. You'll be free."
The words wrapped around her brain, seeping into her consciousness like a slow-moving fog. Her eyes took on a glassy sheen, her pupils dilating as if possessed.
Without hesitation, Ophelia pushed the window open, the creaking wood echoing through the stillness. She hoisted herself up.
The wind whipped her hair into a frenzy as she stood on the narrow ledge, her feet balancing precariously on the ornate stonework. The historical house's façade loomed above her, its ancient stones bearing witness to secrets and whispers.
The voice guided her, its tone low and hypnotic. "Follow the ledge, Ophelia. Find the truth."
Her eyes fixed on some unseen point ahead, Ophelia began to move, her footsteps light as a cat's. The wind buffeted her, but she didn't flinch.
Just as she rounded a corner, a hand clamped over her mouth, yanking her back into the shadows.
A figure pinned her against the wall, their grip like a vice. Ophelia's eyes flashed wide, her mind reeling from the sudden interruption.
The voice in her head screamed silence, its presence receding like a tide.
As the figure's grip relaxed, Ophelia's vision cleared, revealing a pair of piercing eyes. Reginald's face loomed inches from hers.
"What do you think you were doing, Ms. Johnson?" he whispered, his breath cold against her skin.
Ophelia's mind reeled, the voice's influence fading. She struggled to form words, her lips trembling.