Chapter 55

• NOVEMBER
• The smell of seared duck still lingers in the kitchen as I abandon the last wiped counter and make a run for my room. Dinner’s been served, but I’m catastrophically late. And I still smell like garlic.
• I’m halfway up the stairs when I yank the elastic from my hair and race toward my door, already shrugging out of my apron. My mind is a scrambled checklist: shower, dress, face, hair, perfume, God, shoes. I barely manage to shut the door before tugging off my clothes and diving into the bathroom. The shower’s hot, rushed. I scrub too hard, after covering my hair with a cap, and keep glancing at the fogged mirror like the clock is out to kill me.