Operation: Make Him a Gentleman

CHAPTER 5: The Counter Attack

If the first morning was a defeat, the second morning was an invasion.

Cathy didn't wait for 6:00 AM. She was up at 5:00 AM, fueled by a mixture of cold caffeine and pure, unadulterated spite. She had spent the last few hours of the night not sleeping, but planning. If Casper wanted to play a ghost, she would play the sunrise.

She walked into the kitchen, startling Martha, who was just beginning to set out the heavy iron pans.

"I need every lamp you can find," Cathy said, her eyes bright with a manic sort of determination.

"And fruit. The brightest, loudest fruit you have. Oranges, lemons, strawberries. I want this room to look like a tropical island."

Martha blinked, leaning on her rolling pin. "He’ll hate it. He’ll retreat to the cellar, and we won't see him for a week."

"Let him," Cathy said, rolling up her sleeves. "He wants to play games? I will give him what he wanted, I will play his game."

For the next two hours, Cathy worked with the intensity of a stage designer. She raided the storage closets of the East Wing, finding three high-powered floor lamps. She dragged them into the small, gloomy dining room and positioned them to hit the dark oak walls at an angle, bouncing light into every dusty corner.

She replaced the somber white tablecloth with a bright, checkered yellow one she found in the pantry. In the center of the table, instead of a dead leaf, she placed a massive bowl filled with citrus fruits. The scent of orange oil and lemon zest began to mask the smell of old dust.

Finally, she opened the heavy velvet curtains. They were stiff and protested with a cloud of grit, but she pinned them back with hair ties, forcing the grey morning light to flood the room.

By 8:00 AM, the room didn't look like Sterling Manor anymore. It looked like a protest. The door creaked open at the exact same second. Casper drifted in, his head down, his dark hair shielding his face. He took three steps into the room and stopped dead.

He recoiled as if he had walked into a physical wall. His eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly against the sudden glare of the lamps.

"My eyes!" he hissed, shielding his face with a pale hand.

"What is this? It’s... it’s blinding. It’s offensive."

"It’s called morning, Casper, haven't you heard of that?" Cathy smirked, standing by the window with a glass of orange juice.

She wore a bright teal sweater, a color she knew would pop against the gloom. "Sit down. I’ve made French toast with cinnamon. It’s much harder to be a Victorian ghost when you’re eating cinnamon."

Casper didn't sit. He glared at a floor lamp as if it were an enemy soldier. "You think this is funny? I told you, I don't like the light."

"And I don't like being harassed by charcoal drawings and ventriloquism tricks at 2:00 AM," Cathy shot back, her voice level and firm.

"We’re even. Now, sit down. We have to discuss your speech for the gala."

Casper slowly lowered his hand, his eyes adjusting. He looked at the yellow tablecloth with genuine disgust.

"This color is a crime against the eyes. It’s the color of cheap insurance commercials."

"Sit," Cathy repeated.

To her surprise, he did. He sat down heavily, the light from the lamps catching the sharp angles of his face. Up close, without the shadows to hide him, he looked even younger and more tired. The monster act was a heavy costume to wear every day.