Page 48 of Caging Darling (The Lost Girl #3)

CHAPTER 48

F or 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?

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 I went 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 to himself, 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.

“We’re in need of more governesses,” she says. “Especially those with experience with this population. Patience. A genuine love for them. I imagine you will be of help during your time here.”

“And when my time runs out?” I ask.

“Should you work well and your master still want you back, I would be willing to find a sum to appease him to keep you here. But if he will not be dissuaded, I won’t risk him poking around and exposing the children for your sake.”

I nod.

“I will make sure your child is well taken care of, though,” says the woman. “And should we be able to work out a means for you to stay, your child would be welcome to remain with you, obviously.”

Tears well at my eyes. There’s no baby growing within my belly, but there’s a kindness about the woman I find refreshing. She’s by no means warm or gentle, but there’s a fierce protectiveness about her I admire.

Just then, a door to the side of the library opens.

And in walks a faerie with cropped blonde hair.

Holding her hand, singing a tune I don’t recognize, is my brother.

He’s tall.

There’s so much pain, so much pride, wedged in the several inches he’s grown since I last saw him on the beach in Neverland.

His typically unruly hair is cut shorter on the sides, longer on the top and combed back. I don’t know how they got him to allow that. Michael’s never been one to let anyone style his hair daily, much less sit for a haircut without a fidget. Meaning his hair has always been unkempt, cut unevenly.

Tink leads my brother to a center table, where there’s a little girl playing with a governess. Michael takes the seat across from her. I watch, tears in my eyes, as he takes the train car in his hand, and without looking at her or addressing her, places it in the hand of the little girl across from him.

I wait for him to snatch it back, but he doesn’t. He watches the toy carefully as she runs it back and forth across the table. My brother fidgets in his seat, and from down below, I hear him say, “Michael’s turn.”

The girl pays him no attention, and he begins to rock more intensely, but the other governess leans over and whispers something into the little girl’s ear. After a moment of appearing to ignore her governess, the little girl pushes the train car across the table and toward Michael, who snatches it up and hugs it to his chest.

I let out a small laugh, then quickly wipe the tear from my cheek when Lady Whittaker says, proudly, “He’s been with us for six months now. He and his governess came together. She took him in after his parents died. She herself has difficulties speaking verbally, though she’s a beautiful writer. Writes the old language of the fae, if you can believe it. Why her governess chose to teach her that, but not how to write Estellian, I’ve no idea. But it’s certainly kept my mind fresh—our conversations at night when she writes to me.”

My heart skips in my chest at the idea that Tink has found someone who can read her language.

“I’m teaching her to write Estellian, too,” says Lady Whittaker. “Not nearly as sophisticated as the old language of the fae, but certainly more practical in the modern era. I want her to be able to communicate effectively once I’m gone.”

I’m still watching Michael, speechless, as he scoots closer to the girl playing next to him.

“Would you like to meet them?” asks Lady Whittaker.

Yes, yes, please take me to them, my heart sings. But even if Tink can mask her shock at seeing me, there’s always the risk that Michael will run up to me and call my name, exposing my identity.

I can’t imagine Lady Whittaker will take well to having been lied to.

“Actually, I’m feeling ill,” I say, placing my hand on my belly. “Perhaps I could have a lie down before meeting them?”

“Of course,” says Lady Whittaker. “And a small meal, too. An empty stomach is the enemy of the expecting.”

“Thank you,” I say, turning my head back to get one last look at Michael before Lady Whittaker leads me back into the hall and locks the door behind her.

He looks up at me. Just once. And points.

Tink glances up, shock overcoming her face as soon as she recognizes me, and then Lady Whittaker locks the door behind her.