Page 61 of Sigma

“I see.”

He eyes me. “You do not approve?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t say that. If he was kidnapping, selling, and doing disgusting things with children, then he deserves whatever happens to him.” I sigh. “You surprise me.”

“I am not my grandfather.”

“Clearly.”

He gestures at the hallway. “Shall we?”

I indicate the kitchen. “I would still like to see the kitchen.”

A frown, but it shifts into something not entirely unlike but nearly a smile. “The kitchen, then. I assure you, it is merely a kitchen.”

It’s a short hallway, the stone walls, beamed ceiling, and aged floor transitioning abruptly to an industrial kitchen—nonslip tile floors, a high ceiling with exposed wires and plumbing and sprinkler system, a row of burners, a row of deep fryers, a section for cutting and prep, an assembly and presentation section, storage, refrigeration, dishwashing. It’s a massive space, rivaling the kitchen of a five-star hotel restaurant.

It’s bustling with people, men and women of a variety of ethnicities all dressed in the black and white chef uniforms found in kitchens the world over.

“Quite an operation for a little lunch for two,” I remark.

He snorts. “They are not cooking for us.”

I glance at him. “They’re not?”

“Consuela cooks for me—I have a much smaller, private kitchen near the tower.” He gestures at the kitchen. “They’re cooking for my staff.”

“Your staff?”

“This castle is my headquarters. I have a staff of over a hundred who live and work here. Not in this castle, but on this property. There are other buildings. Landscaping, housekeeping, maintenance, a construction crew which is renovating an old hunting lodge, as well as the operational staff for my various business endeavors. They are all fed by this kitchen.”

“You provide their meals? The entire staff? Even housekeeping?”

A shrug. “A tidy home is vital to one’s wellbeing. My housekeeping staff is important to me—they provide and vital and much appreciated service to me. They are well compensated, work reasonable hours, and yes, meals are included, as is lodging, child care, and medical care.”

I blink. This is…unexpected.

He accepts my stare of confusion, and simply turns to walk away without explaining further. I follow, because the smell of the cooking food reminds me that I told Consuela I’d eat later, but never did, and it’s now past noon.

The long hallway continues, more glass looking out over the rear of the property, which is now a garden full of flowers and flowering trees and small bushes, an explosion of color and greenery, now framed on one side by the hulking presence of the castle. Here, the castle wall is a rising face of glass, like a greenhouse, with even the roof a steeply-angled bank of glass soaring upward easily a hundred feet.

We round a corner, and the hallway simply…falls away. We’re in…well, he called it an orangery. And I see why: a small orchard of orchard trees, growing indoors, covered by the glass, and surrounded by a wild profusion of flora. Vines writhe along the walls and creep across the floor and reach for the ceiling, dotted with huge blossoms. Terra-cotta pots explode with flowers. Small flowering trees shelter smaller, more delicate blossoms.

It’s a huge, echoing place, warm and wild and smelling verdant and alive. There’s a small wrought iron table with a pair of chairs tucked into an open space between the bowers of the orange trees, the seats cushioned. There’s a door in the huge glass wall, standing open and leading out into the garden, which I realize is a continuation of the garden in here. I hear a bird and look up: a large red macaw perches on a vine far overhead, a piece of fruit in one of its clawed feet.

Apollo follows my gaze. “Her name is Maia.”

I gesture at the door. “Won’t she fly away?”

He shrugs. “She could. She hasn’t.” He looks up, clicks his tongue. “Maia. Here.”

Dozens of feet overhead, the huge red and gold bird looks down at Apollo. She drops her fruit, and it falls to the floor with a loud splat; there’s a flutter of wings and Maia settles on his shoulder with a loud squawk and a series of clicks and whistles. He rubs the side of her head where her ear would be, and she nuzzles into his touch, but her eye is on me. She allows his scratching a moment, and then turns and nips at his earlobe.

“Hey, quit that.” He taps her beak. “Not nice, Maia.”

“You interrupted her lunch,” I say.

He tucks the edge of his hand under her talons, and she steps onto his hand, side-stepping to his wrist. Glances at him, squawking and clicking.