It was a valid question, but not one I would ever answer honestly. Jember may have raised me and trained me to be a debtera, but he’d also first bought me from my birth parents. People who bought children could never hold them in high enough regard to write a letter designed to praise their accomplishments. Besides, even if by some miracle he had the heart to, he couldn’t be bothered.

“He was too busy to meet my deadline,” I said, trying not to stuff too much food in my mouth at once. I hadn’t eaten in two days, but no one had to know that.

“Is that so?” Mr. Rochester watched me for a moment, and only then did I realize this was my fourth fingerful of food since I’d last spoken. Slow down. “It’s not that I doubt your ability—your résumé is strong. But I don’t seem to know anyone who’s familiar with your work.”

He wouldn’t. Just stepping into the house, it was obvious that we moved in very different social circles. People like him hired people like Jember, who was the best debtera of his generation, licensed and supported by a highly respected church. People like him passed people like me—unlicensed and unrecognized by the church because a bitter mentor had thrown her out before she could earn it—on the street without a second glance.

“Jember and I traveled to many different villages to see clients. You may not be familiar with the ones who live further away.”

He looked a bit embarrassed. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to imply anything.” He took a folder from his briefcase and laid it in front of me, removing a few pages and placing them on top. “This is your contract. Take your time reading before you sign, of course. Most of it is standard—free room and board, meals, amenities. I know your line of work is normally paid by the hour, but I believe I’ve settled on a flat weekly rate that’ll better serve the both of us. And—not so standard—there’s a list of rules that you’ll be required to abide by.”

He centered a numbered list in front of me, gesturing to the first line. “The first two rules are the most relevant to you: Don’t leave your room after ten o’clock at night, and social time after dinner is mandatory. The rest are a bit trivial, but Magnus gets very bent out of shape if they aren’t followed to the letter.”

Peggy had warned me about the curfew, but mandatory socials? “Who is this Magnus?”

“Magnus Rochester, the owner of Thorne Manor.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You’re not…?” I cleared my throat. “I thought you were the owner of this castle.”