Page 135 of Caging Darling

“Well, my oldest brother, he’s hardly a year younger than me, so we were always more like the best of friends than siblings. He’s smarter than me, was too intelligent to be simply a servant. Is always right, too. Made his way in the world as an architect. He’s…” I fight the tears back.

“Dead?” asks Lady Whittaker, not looking at me.

A single tear streams down my face, not that Lady Whittaker notices. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Because no one says someone is always right about a living person,” she says, matter-of-factly. And then, apparently uninterested in dwelling on my pain, says, “And the other brother?”

“He’s still living,” I say, though it pains me inwardly not to know whether that’s actually the truth. “He’s…” I fight to find a way to describe Michael fairly to Lady Whittaker without rousing her suspicions. She asked earlier if I was good with children. It’s possible she’s looking for a governess for a child or children in the house. If Tink really is here, she could be lookingfor someone to keep Michael out of trouble, though I don’t want to appear too good to be true. “I believe he sees the world in a different set of colors than the rest of us. He’s beautiful, though I worry for him once my mother passes.”

“The father of your child won’t be inconvenienced at the notion of taking him in?” Lady Whittaker’s question is just shy of a scoff.

My heart aches, even with this fabricated story. “He doesn’t want his own child, ma’am. Why would he want another’s?”

“So you’re not lovesick, after all,” says the lady. “Well, you have that going for you, at least. Did you come to the conclusion that your master is not worth loving before or after you fell pregnant?”

“After,” I whisper.

“And before?” she says. “What made you believe his love?”

“I suppose I simply wanted to be wanted, my lady,” I say.

“And do you?” she asks. “Feel wanted?”

“He does want me,” I say, surprising myself. “Just not the less agreeable parts.”

The lady harrumphs, but says nothing.

To my surprise, we reach the end of the hall to find a looming door, made of metal and soundproofed with wool around the cracks, as if whatever is on the other side, the Whittakers wish no one to hear the evidence of.

Suddenly, with a passion I’ve yet to witness from Lady Whittaker, she spins around to face me and says, sharply, “Once I allow you inside this door, there is no going back. There is no telling your master or lover or abuser or whatever he is to you what occurs in this manor.”

I can’t help but shiver. She knows I know about their trafficking of infants. What could possibly be behind this door that could be worse?

“Do you understand, girl? Because if not, I’m more than happy to send your master’s money back and toss you to the streets. I won’t have anyone, no matter how pitiful their story, sabotaging my mission with loose lips and a propensity for falling prey to men with honeyed tongues.”

My heart turns hard, but I nod all the same. “I understand, my lady.”

“Good,” she says. Then she turns to the door, twisting the turnstile lock meticulously back and forth in an uneven pattern I can’t memorize.

As the door creaks, I don’t know what I’m preparing for, what my back is tensing for, my neck muscles throbbing. Fear lances through me, and I wish I could cry my brother’s name and race through these halls to search for him.

Instead, I wait.

And when the door opens and Lady Whittaker gestures to what’s inside, I gasp.

CHAPTER 48

For a moment, my mind fails to make sense of what’s in front of me.

The door lets out onto a balcony, which looks over a library, stairs curving down on either side of the balcony to the lower level.

Laughter of all tones echoes upward from the floor level, where children play with hand-carved wooden toys and paint abstract paintings with their tiny fingers. They’re accompanied by a set of five women and one man who are reading to them.

I find myself searching for Michael, any sign of his dusty brown hair, his wonderful songs, but my heart sinks into a pit when I fail to find him.

My ears are buzzing with,where’s my brother, where’s my brother, as Lady Whittaker shuts the doors behind us.

“I thought you only dealt in infants,” I say, horror enveloping my chest. Was Michael here at one point? Did Lady Whittaker sell him to the highest bidder?

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