The dining room is stuffier but more beautiful than Rose expected. The entire west wall is made of glass, so that Rose feels as she can walk off the edge of the black marble tiles and into the starless night sky.

The long table is set and immaculately prepared for supper—white tablecloth, gold place settings, flickering candles, the works. But it's just Camille in the room, slowly chewing a piece of half-bloody steak and looking up briefly when Rose comes in. She smirks and raises an eyebrow, "Lovely outfit."

"Thank you," Rose smiles despite Camille's sarcastic tone. She picked out a hot pink micro-minidress with a twirling skirt and sequined, sleeveless corseted top. It reminds her of the hyper-girly dance outfits she wore to recitals as a child. Given how seriously Camille took this whole affair, Rose couldn't help but pick out the most ridiculous outfit from the closet.

"Sit down. Eat," Camille tells her.

"Is Mr. Hockley going to eat with us?" Rose asks, taking her seat across from Camille. They both sit beside the head of the table—Camille to the right of the empty chair and Rose to the left, the gap between them emphasizing the loneliness and emptiness in the room.

Camille rolls her eyes, "He's working, unfortunately."

Rose sighs. She's used to being neglected for more pressing matters.

"Hurry though—he wants to see you in his office."

This time Rose can't help but roll her eyes. Won't this woman let her slow down and enjoy anything? Camille reaches across the table and slaps Rose's wrist, so quickly Rose doesn't even have time to pull her arm away. "None of that attitude," Camille chastises. "Eat."

Rose picks at the food on her plate, too annoyed and uncomfortable with the new setting to feel hungry. Her sequined dress calms her down a little—she finds her own joke too funny to feel uncomfortable in the revealing thing, but really she wishes she could pull on an old t-shirt and curl up in the comfortable bed with one of her books.

"This isn't a game. You're expected to eat everything put in front of you," Camille tells her when she notices that Rose is spacing out more than eating.

"I don't like meat," Rose answers. "Or wine," she adds, glancing at the glasses—one red, one sparkling champagne—beside her plate.

"The wine is your choice. The food isn't." Camille finishes her dinner quickly, sits back, and watches until Rose eats her own plate clean.

"Dessert?" Camille asks when she's through.

"No thank you. I'm full," Rose tells her, inflectionless. She can play this game. She will find her limits, she will discover how much autonomy and control she's allowed to have, and then she will slowly, surely strive for just a little more, more, more, until she has her way.

"That's fine. Go see your new master. He's been waiting."

Rose isn't easily intimidated (being called "Princess" one's whole life does that to a girl), but something about this impending meeting makes her heart suddenly pound.

"Actually . . ." Camille reconsiders, "come." She stands and grips Rose by the arm, quickly leading her back to her bathroom upstairs. Camille pushes her against the counter, takes a tissue, and wipes the red lipstick from Rose's lips. "Maybe it's a good thing he didn't see you. You're stunningly gorgeous—that's fine, but you still need to know how to present yourself." Camille says this matter-of-factly, as if these details are long established and understood. "This," she holds up the crumpled tissue with soiled remnants of crimson lipstick, "makes you look like a whore." She rifles through a drawer filled with glosses, shadows, powders, and oils and picks out a black tube of pink lipstick. She firmly cups Rose's chin with her left hand to hold her head still, then dabs on the smooth lipstick. "Soft," she tells her. "Pretty. He'll love you."

Camille walks Rose to the fourth floor and leads her to the closed study doors, big, ornate double doors made from a sturdy dark wood and carved with figures Rose would have to run her hand across and touch in order to make out in the dim light of the corridor.

"He might still be working, but he's been expecting you. Go in."

Rose shoots her a scared, nervous glance, and this time Camille rolls her eyes. "Do you want me to knock and lead you in? I thought you said you weren't a child."

Rose's hands are shaking. She steps away from the door and leans against the wall, breathing deeply and looking up at the ceiling for some sort of salvation or validation. "I don't want to do this," she whispers.

"You have to."

"Please, no. I just want to go home. I want everything to be okay and normal again. I want to go home," she repeats.

Camille's tone softens. She reaches toward Rose but doesn't touch her, "Sweetheart, this is your home."

Rose shakes her head and opens her mouth to protest, but before she can speak the door of the study opens, and a tall, dark-haired man steps out. He's turned so that Rose only sees the back of his head and neck, and just a glimpse of his profile. Camille immediately turns to him. He leans forward and says something to her in a low tone, she nods, then leaves, walking past Rose and down the steps without glancing her way.

The man turns to Rose and smiles. Her lips part. She expected someone older, fatherly. But this man is handsome. Youngish—maybe thirty. Definitely not her father's age. Still, there's something comforting about his smile, like he can make all her anxieties and problems disappear.

"You must be Rose."

She struggles to find her voice. "Yes."

"Come in." He holds the door for her, and she takes a seat across from his, at a massive desk. Everything—the vaulted ceilings, arched windows that reach from the ceiling to the floor, desks, chairs, and, she quickly notices, shelves and shelves of books, so many and reaching so high that some can only be accessed by a moving ladder—make Rose feel as if she's stepped into a giant's world.

"I hope Camille didn't scare you off too quickly."

Rose laughs but can't think of anything to answer.

"She cleaned you up and fed you?" Rose detects a hint of something mocking in his tone.

"Yes," she answers simply. "Thank you," she hastily adds.

Cal raises an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For . . . dinner. And for taking me in at all," she fiddles with the fabric of her skirt, hitched up even higher now that she's sitting. Cal takes his eyes off her face for the first time. "Nice dress." This time the sarcasm in his voice is obvious.

"Isn't it great? I couldn't help myself."

"I think you might be the only woman walking the earth who can pull it off. Stand up. Let me appreciate the full affect."

Rose stands, looking down at the dress rather than meeting Cal's eyes.

"Turn," he tells her. She obeys, spinning slowly in her patent nude heels, and, when she faces forward again, she finds his eyes once again resting on her face. "Beautiful. Sit." Rose sits, crosses her legs, and licks her lips, tasting the candy sweetness of the lipstick Camille used.

Cal leans forward and shoves his business papers aside. "You can imagine how surprised I was when Mrs. Freight called me up," he tells her.

"Yes," she nods.

"I was very sorry to hear about . . . your loss."

"Thank you."

"Your father was—is—near and dear to my heart. He put his faith in me when I was a stupid, struggling young entrepreneur, straight out of business school, with nothing but a few internships under my belt. He was the only one who would listen to my ideas. I remember. He was the only person who had any faith in me." Cal laughs, "Even my own parents wanted me to quit and wanted me to become a doctor instead. A doctor. Can you imagine? But I knew even then—thank God—that med school wasn't for me. I wanted to start a company. A successful company. Useful. Brilliant. Your dad was my first investor. It wasn't just the money—I mean, after his influence, the contacts and investments just sort of snow-balled—but, really, I couldn't have done it without knowing that there was someone out there who believed my ideas were worth something."

"Forgive me, but what kind of business are you in?"

"Steel. Manufacturing. I developed a cheaper, faster method of production, and the whole thing took off thanks to your dad. I never had my opportunity to properly repay him."

Rose nods. "He was a good business man. If he believed in an idea, it meant it was a good one. He always had a knack for these sorts of things." Rose sighs. "Well . . . I guess near the end, his choices weren't the best."

"Rose, your father did his job well. He was too trusting. He had too much faith in people's goodness and decency. He was lied to. Cheated. Never think that your father's knack faltered—only his appraisal of human nature."

Rose shakes her head, "Thank you, but I don't want to talk about this. I'm sorry."

Cal nods, "I understand. But, what I wanted to tell you is that I owe a debt to your father. That's where you come in. I couldn't say no to Mrs. Freight. I couldn't deny your father's child—not after everything he's done for me. All this," Cal motions to his study but indicates the house and grounds at large, "is thanks to him. I can't lock you out of a property I only have because of your dad."

"Thank you very much, for your kindness and your generosity."

"But," Cal pauses, "my debt was to your father," he continues. "Not you, dear. I do expect something in return."

He waits for her to nod before he continues. "I expect your absolute obedience. What I say, goes. In my absence, what Camille says goes. You will listen. You will learn. My understanding is that you're on Winter Break. Immediately following the holidays, you will have private instructors in math, art, English, foreign language, and dance. I expect you to do well. I expect you to study hard."

She nods.

He points and shoots her a reprimanding look. "And that. You will not speak or act flippantly or disrespectfully. You are to say, 'yes, Sir.'"

"Yes, Sir."

"You are only to speak when spoken to."

"Yes, Sir."

"And you are to follow my instructions and will absolutely." Butterflies dance in Rose's stomach, flit up and down her arms and legs, then flutter in her heart so that her cheeks flush pink. "Yes, Sir," she answers.