Then, because cruelty is rarely satisfied with obedience alone, she adds, “If my guests see blood on the floor, you’ll wish a broken glass was the worst thing that happened to you today.”
The guests.
You had forgotten. She has some sort of luncheon this afternoon, another event for women with diamond bracelets and soft voices who praise the house, taste the canapés, and talk about charity in rooms where actual suffering is only permitted if it is framed tastefully. Caroline likes these parties because they let her perform being adored.
And you, when possible, are hidden before they arrive.
She leaves the kitchen in a cloud of expensive perfume and sharp impatience. You wait until her footsteps fade before letting yourself take one full breath. Then you press the towel against your cut and lower your face to Oliver’s.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, though it is not. “I’ve got you.”
He blinks at you through wet lashes, lower lip trembling, then buries his face in your shoulder like he already knows your arms are the safest place left in the world.
That is how the day begins.
It becomes worse by degrees.
By noon, the house has transformed into Caroline’s version of perfection. White flowers in crystal vases. Platters of tiny pastries. Thin music drifting from hidden speakers. Every surface polished, every pillow fluffed, every staff member moving with the tense precision of people who know one mistake can cost them a job. Caroline has sent you upstairs with strict instructions to stay out of sight, but Oliver is fussy and hot, and the nursery window catches too much afternoon sun, so you take him into the back hallway near the pantry where it is cooler.
You sit on the floor with him in your lap, showing him the cloth bunny your mother stitched before he was born. One ear is crooked. One button eye is slightly loose. To you, it is more valuable than anything in the mansion.
Oliver gums the bunny’s paw and giggles softly. The sound is so sweet it hurts.
Then two women round the corner from the breakfast room, voices floating ahead of them. They are dressed in pale dresses and too much jewelry, and both stop when they see you seated on the runner rug with the baby.
One of them lowers her voice and says, not quite low enough, “That must be the daughter.”
“The one from his first wife?” the other whispers back.
You look down and pretend not to hear.
Such pretending has become one of your hidden talents. You can pretend not to hear pity, contempt, curiosity, discomfort. You can pretend not to notice when people’s smiles flatten at the sight of your brother, because he reminds them of tragedy entering a room in a stroller. You can pretend a lot of things. Children in unhappy houses become excellent actors.
Then Caroline appears behind them with a dazzling smile that freezes when she sees you.
“Lily,” she says, every syllable lacquered with warning. “What are you doing here?”
You scramble to your feet, almost losing Oliver in the process. “I’m sorry. The nursery was hot and he was crying.”
The guests exchange one of those tiny rich-lady looks, the kind that manages to contain judgment, amusement, and relief that the problem belongs to someone else.
Caroline steps forward, still smiling at them while her eyes cut into you. “Take him upstairs. Now.”
Oliver starts fussing again, rubbing his face against your shoulder.
You hurry away with him before the moment can become bigger. But as you round the corner, you hear one guest murmur, “That poor child.” You do not know whether she means you or the baby. You are not sure it matters.
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