Page 136 of Caging Darling

And…my heart falls at the thought. Would that even be so bad for him if she had? I picture Michael, safe at home with a family caring for him. It’s more than I could ever give him,and my stomach twists with self-loathing over how I could be so selfish.

There’s no sign of Tink, either, and dread fills me.

“Dealing in infants was my husband’s work,” says Lady Whittaker.

“Was?”

“Yes, well, it’s difficult to maintain the family business when one is as dead as a doornail.”

I blink. “Dead?” How did the Nomad not know this?

“My husband died two years ago. Nasty case of croup. Did you know it’s an illness that most often afflicts babies? Though, they often recover. Apparently, adults don’t handle it as well. Ironic, don’t you think?”

I struggle to try to process what I’m hearing. Lord Whittaker is dead. And there’s no infant in sight in this room. In fact, the children seem to be happy, well taken care of.

There’s something else too.

There’s a little girl at the bottom who looks to be in early adolescence. She’s singing a song, rocking back and forth in her chair as she removes the pieces from a wooden puzzle.

Confused, I examine the other children. There’s a boy spinning on his tiptoes in the corner, making a buzzing sound with his lips. Yet another is chatting with one of the adults in the room, delving into what sounds to be a dissertation on how pollination works.

They’re like Michael, yet not like Michael.

So where is my brother?

“My husband was a horrid man. I wasn’t aware of his family’s business until I had already married into it. At the beginning of the marriage, I begged. As you can probably surmise, dear, I am naturally no beggar.” She says it with a disgusted sneer. “Pleaded with him at his feet to cease his wickedness. But my husband was a greedy man. Unfortunately, so were the authorities. When Iwent to them, exposing my husband’s crimes, they told me I was hysterical. Delusional. Do I seem delusional to you, my dear?”

“No, my lady.”

“I was locked in the basement for three days after that, only given stale bread and water. I thought he’d leave me in there forever. And then I gave up. Weak. Too easily beaten.”

I sense the hatred of her younger self in her voice. “But I plotted. And thirty-five years later, when my miraculously healthy husband finally fell ill, I switched out the healers’ remedy for a little remedy of my own and sent them away, telling them he’d recovered. They didn’t care for him either, so they didn’t question me.”

“If he’s been dead for two years, why keep it a secret?” I ask.

“I unfortunately have a son who inherited his father’s propensity for cruelty and his infatuation with financial gain. Thankfully, he had no love for his father, only his greed. He’s been sailing the seas for the past five years, no desire to come home and visit. But my husband left everything to him, so you can see why it will be a tragic day when my son realizes his father is dead.”

“But these children…” I ask, confused. “Why are they here?”

“These children,” she says, “are my penance. My husband reaped great evil, stealing infants from their mother’s wombs. I begged him to source them another way, to take the children whose families had died, who were to die in the streets otherwise. The babies who had no one to take care of them. Or the babies of women who asked for someone else to take care of their child. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t take babies who were different, either. Any sense of defect, and the midwives were commanded to toss the infants to the streets. It would have been easy just to give the children back to their mothers, but my husband felt he was doing those women a favor by removing them of a burden. It’s how he justified the entire process tohimself, you see. So I told myself that the day he was dead, I’d take care of them.”

“Where do they come from?” I ask.

“All over,” she says. “Some were abandoned by their parents. Others are here on a temporary basis.”

“You mean their parents know they’re here?” I ask.

She nods. “For some, it’s an orphanage. For others, it’s more akin to a boarding school. Of course, their parents are sworn to secrecy. We began that precaution after…” She pauses, swallows. “Well, let’s just say that I prefer to prevent rather than punish the temptation to sell our information.”

My ribs go cold, and I can’t help but wonder who tried to sell out the existence of the orphanage, and what happened to them subsequently.

“You said your brother is different,” she says.

I nod.

“Then I expect I won’t have to worry about you,” she says. “But know that if you ever tell a soul, even that master of yours, what goes on here, it will be the last piece of information you ever exchange. I’ve lingered by the side while children were kidnapped and murdered. Killing an adult who seeks to profit from ruining the lives of these children will not stain my soul any further.”

“I understand,” I say, because I do.

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