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professional formality. “As fiscal agent of the Trust, I’m responsible for the finances. I don’t feel comfortable writing checks until I have a chance to see what’s going on.”
    Mark frowned. “I can sign the check. Our dysfunction shouldn’t be Sylvia’s problem.”
    Flames engulfed Nora as she debated what to do. Her face burned. Should she play nice and make friends or be responsible, buck her boss , and probably lose her job on the first day?
    Sylvia never lost her expression of expectation. This was a woman used to getting her way.
    Tick, tick, tick.
    In the kitchen, which sat at the bottom of the servant’s stairs at the end of the maze from Nora’s office, someone’s cell phone jingled, followed by the murmur of a woman’s voice.
    Did a new stack of papers just materialize on the desk?
    She shouldn’t write a check. She really shouldn’t.
    Sweat slimed her underarms.
    Tick, tick, tick.
    Sylvia’s foot started to tap. Those had to be incredibly expensive shoes.
    Something crashed in the kitchen. A howl like the death throes of a rabbit rent the air, soaring from the kitchen, down the hall, and into Nora’s office, strangling her.
    The sound of death.

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    Sylvia froze. Her mind vibrated with suppressed panic. The scream snaked up the stairs into the base of Sylvia’s spine, slithering through her heart. Survival instincts honed in her dangerous childhood told her to run.
    Nora leapt past Sylvia and Mark, sprinting through the hall and flying down the narrow servants’ stairs. Was she an athlete? She acted like some kind of superhero out to save the day.
    Sylvia knew better than to involve herself with others’ crisis. She spent three seconds regaining her control.
    Mark gave her an exasperated expression. “It’s Petal. I suppose we should go see what it is this time.”
    Sylvia brushed past him. “I’m very busy, Mark. You can handle this.”
    He whined. “She works for you. I think it’s best if you help her.”
    She instantly calculated and quickly found her best option : c ooperation. “Of course.”
    Her beatific smile would do Mother Teresa proud. Great power and gifts had the annoying flipside of great responsibility. Someone always needed her wise counsel or her attention in some way.
    Honestly, Sylvia’s time would be better spent using her formidable mind solving the problem at which she alone could succeed. But a leader needed to help the little people from time to time. It kept Sylvia humble and human.
    When they reached the kitchen, Nora was kneeling on the floor next to a puddle of gauze and bird’s nest of hair. She patted Petal’s back and cooed soothing words.
    As if this nothing of an accountant could possibly give comfort.
    Mark crossed his arms and sounded annoyed. “Petal, please pull yourself together. We can’t help if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.”
    Sylvia stepped up. Coddling Petal would only encourage her drama. “Enough of this, Petal. Either tell us what upset you or stop the histrionics and let’s see if we can get some work done today.”
    Nora appeared shocked. She probably thought they should perform a group hug and talk about their feelings. This bleeding - heart attitude, so common among the nonprofit do-gooders, demonstrated why Nora slaved as a simple accountant while Sylvia hob-knobbed with the world’s elite.
    Sylvia placed her hands on her hips and distanced herself from Petal’s current meltdown. She hated this kitchen. It stretched twenty feet end to end and was little more than an extra-wide hallway. The sink and old-time cupboards of thick, white-painted wood ran the length of one wall. A window with a cheap aluminum frame opened above the sink. The countertop was pre-Formica, the floor spread with some kind of linoleum. It peeled away at the corners, reminding Sylvia too much of the house where she grew up.
    There was no stov e; a toaster oven and microwave filled the bill. Sylvia wished they’d get rid of those, too, since it