CLANK!

I jump out of my skin, but down the hall the professor assures me, “Don’t mind that. Just the air conditioner! I can’t get the damn thing to stop making that godforsaken noise.”

I have a vision of the professor staring blankly at the air-conditioning system, scratching his head while grumbling to himself. Yes, he seems like the kind of guy who would at least “give it the ol’ college try.”

“I’m so sorry to hurry off like this. I feel a bit guilty—”

He comes barreling in, two suitcases in hand.

“No, no. It’s fine, really. I appreciate the note. And the opportunity.”

He’s making his exit and I really do hate long, drawn-out goodbyes, so I nod an efficient nod and assure him, “I won’t let you down, sir.”

He finds this amusing, nods, and gives me an exaggerated salute.

“Well, then, goodbye.”

He very officially marches out the front door, leaving me there with nothing but a thud and an immediate sense of silence. A deep, overwhelming silence.

Oh my God. What did I get myself into?

CLANK!

The air-conditioning unit agrees that this is perhaps the worst idea ever.

Chapter 3

You may be wondering why I have chosen to fling myself into this lonely, if not pathetic, existence during the usually liberating, super fun, silly summer before college. Well, dear witness, I could tell you.

But first, let’s have a look around this place, shall we? From what I can assume, I am standing next to the formal sitting room. Where no one looks to have sat for half a century, despite its impeccable cleanliness. Looming over the entire affair is an enormous oil painting of a foxhunt. Horses. Hunters in red coats. Dogs salivating. Everyone looks very enthusiastic except, I am assuming, the fox, who is hopefully hiding somewhere far outside the parameters of the painting. One can only hope he somehow escaped this particular perilous moment in time.

The walls of this room are a kind of burnt pomegranate, a textured wallpaper that blends seamlessly into the enormous, intricately carved black fireplace. There are a few oil portraits of respectable-looking relatives staring down from the centuries, looking vaguely judgmental. A striped sofa, a mismatch of wingback floral chairs, and Victorian lamps on the side tables. It really seems as if this room is waiting for a party that was supposed to have happened more than a hundred years ago.

To the other side of me, camouflaged by the wooden panels to the entry hall, is the library, filled from floor to ceiling with books, curiosities, elaborate chinoiserie vases, and plants, which I am assuming I’ll have to water. The fireplace in this room is green marble surrounded by dark wood, and above it is a very calming painting of what I can only assume is the English countryside. The bookshelves are lit from within, so as to feature the curios and knickknacks. There is a globe on the table with dated place names: Leningrad, Bombay, Burma. I guess they felt there was no need for updating. Really, you get the idea. It’s Earth.