The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows. Rosette

ever, dissolved the fog and brought peace to my turbulent mind.

      “Did you sleep well, Miss Bruno?” She began.

      “I’ve never slept better,” I said, surprised to realize that it was true. For years, I hadn’t abandoned myself so serenely to sleep; I had set aside my negative thoughts for at least a few hours.

      “Do you want coffee or tea?”

      “Tea, please,” I accepted, sitting at the kitchen table.

      “Go to the living room, I'll serve it in there.”

      “I'd rather have breakfast with you,” I said, stifling a yawn.

      The woman seemed pleased and began to bustle around the stove. She resumed her usual chatter, and I was free to think of Monique. I wondered what she was doing at that hour. Had she already prepared breakfast? The thought of my sister again put the weight on my thin shoulders, and I gladly welcomed the arrival of my cup of tea.

      “Thank you, Mrs Mc Millian.” I happily sipped the warm and pleasantly perfumed drink, while the housekeeper served toast and a series of little jars full of various inviting jams.

      “Try the raspberry jam. It's fabulous.”

      I reached towards the tray; my heart was already in fibrillation. My diversity came back to bury me. Why me? Were there others like me in the world? Or was I an isolated anomaly, a wacky joke of nature?

      I randomly grabbed a jar, hoping that the old woman would be too busy to notice my mistake. There were five different jams, so I had a chance in five, two out of ten, twenty per cent to pick the right one at my first attempt.

      She hurried to correct me, less distracted than I thought. “No, Miss. That's orange.” She smiled, not at all conscious of the agitation that was mounting in me, and of my sweaty forehead. She passed me a jar. “Here, it's easy to confuse it with the strawberry jam.”

      She didn’t notice my forced smile, and resumed telling me of her love story with a young Florentine who in the end left her for a South American girl.

      I ate half-heartedly, still nervous because of the incident, and I already regretted not having accepted to eat alone. That way I would have had no problems. Avoiding potentially critical situations was my mantra. It always had been. I had to make sure that the delightful atmosphere of the house wouldn’t make me act recklessly and forget the necessary prudence. Mrs Mc Millian seemed to be a smart, intelligent and thoughtful woman, but she talked too much. I couldn’t count on her discretion.

      She paused to drink her tea, and I decided to ask her some questions. “Have you been working for Mr Mc Laine for many years?”

      She brightened, happy to be able to tell me new stories. “I've been here for fifteen years. I arrived a few months after Mr Mc Laine’s accident. The one in which... Well, you understand. All the previous servants had been sent away. It seems that Mr Mc Laine was a very cheerful man, who loved life and was always happy. Unfortunately, now things have changed.”

      “How did it happen? I mean... The accident? That is... please forgive my curiosity, it’s inexcusable.” I bit my lip, fearful of being misunderstood.

      She shook her head. “It's normal to ask questions; it's part of human nature. I don’t know exactly what happened. At the village I was told that Mr Mc Laine was to be married the day after the car accident and of course the wedding was called off. Some say he was drunk, but I think that it’s just an unsubstantiated rumour. What we know for sure is that he went off the road to avoid a child.”

      My curiosity was aroused, fuelled by her words. “A Child? I read on the internet that the accident happened at night.”

      She shrugged. “Right, it seems that it was the grocer’s son. He had run away from home because he decided to join the circus company which was on tour in the area.”

      I dwelled on that news. This explained Mr Mc Laine’s sudden mood changes, his constant bad mood, and his unhappiness.

      It was understandable. His world had crumbled, broken into pieces, as a result of a wretched fate. A young, wealthy, handsome man; a successful writer, about to fulfil his dream of love... And in a matter of seconds he had lost almost all he had. I would probably never experience such bad luck, but I could imagine it. You can’t miss what you don’t have. My only companion had always been Nothingness.

      A quick glance at my wristwatch confirmed that it was time to go. It was my first day of work. My heart beat faster, and in a glimmer of rationality I wondered if it depended on the new job or on the mysterious master of that house.

      I climbed the stairs two by two, irrationally afraid of being late. In the hallway I crossed Kyle, the nurse-handyman. “Good morning”.

      I slowed down, embarrassed because he caught me rushing. He must have thought that I was insecure, or worse yet, rash.

      “Good morning”.

      “It’s Miss Bruno, isn’t it? Can I call you by your name? After all we’re in the same boat, at the mercy of a crazy lunatic.” The harsh and brutal ruthlessness of his words surprized me.

      “I know, I'm disrespectful to my employer, and so on. You’ll soon learn to agree with me. What's your name?”

      “Melisande”.

      He bent in an awkward bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, red-haired Melisande. Your name is really unusual, it's not Scottish... Even though you look more Scottish than I do.”

      I smiled politely, and tried to move past him, still fearing to be late. But he blocked my way, standing on the landing with his legs stretched out. The timely intervention of a third person cleared the situation.

      “Miss Bruno! I won’t tolerate any delays!” The cry undoubtedly came from my new employer, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

      Kyle moved out of the way immediately, allowing me to pass. “Good luck, red-haired Melisande. You’ll need it.”

      I gave him a fierce look, and ran to the door at the far end of the hallway. It was half closed, and a smoke ring was coming out of it.

      Sebastian Mc Laine was sitting behind the desk, like the previous day, holding a cigar between his fingers, and his face was unyielding.

      “Close the door, please. And then sit down. I've already wasted enough time while you socialized with the rest of the staff.” His tone was harsh and insulting.

      An act of rebellion pushed me to answer, like a reckless lamb in front of a wolf.

      “It was just normal courtesy. Or would you prefer a rude secretary? In that case I can leave. Immediately.”

      My impulsive response took him by surprise. His face lit up with amazement, the same that probably was reflected on mine. I had never been so daring.

      “And here I had already labelled you as a toothless dog... That was hasty of me... Really too hasty.”

      I sat in front of him; my legs no longer supported me, regretting my irresponsible frankness. I was terrified of the potential explosive consequences.

      My employer didn’t seem offended, indeed. He smiled. “What’s your name, Miss Bruno?”

      “Melisande,” I replied automatically.

      “Debussy, I guess. Did your parents love music? Maybe they were performers?”

      “My dad was a miner,” I confessed reluctantly.

      “Melisande... A pretentious name for the daughter of a miner,” he remarked, his voice vibrant with a restrained laugh. He was playing with me, and in spite of my decision of the day before, I wasn’t sure I wanted to let him do it. It would surely become his favourite diversion.

      I straightened my shoulders, trying to recover my lost composure. “And why Sebastian? From Saint Sebastian, maybe? A very inappropriate choice.”

      He