Page 9 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

Isla drops the book to the floor and Marlene drops her crayon and jumps up to her feet. I make my way back to the cradle, finding baby Flora still awake and staring up at the exposed wooden beams above her head.

“Are you hungry too, sweetheart?” I coo at her before flipping through the booklet to the instructions on preparing her bottle.

The woman who cooked the older girls’ lunch is placing the plates down on the table. She moves to one of the cupboards and retrieves two glasses then a pitcher of water from the refrigerator.

I’m studying the two tall cupboards on either side of the stove, debating where I might find a pot to boil water. I’m not sure if the two women will remain in the kitchen while the girls eat or if they’ll go somewhere else. I don’t want to end up in another confrontation with the kapo.

The booklet dangles by my side as I stride into the kitchen and head for the nearest cupboard. The kapo’s stare burns into me as I open the bottom doors.

I find a small pot, grab it, fill it at the sink and bring it to the stove. Behind a glass-paneled cupboard, amber-colored baby bottles catch my eye. The canister of powdered milk sits on the shelf below.

While the water heats, I set out a bottle, remove the nipple, and reopen the instruction booklet:

~ Lastly, add three drops of chamomile

I’ve heard of this antidote. There had been a couple of babies at the orphanage with digestion troubles and the housemothers were advised to use a couple drops of chamomile.

I flip through a few more pages, searching for information on what finger foods Flora is allowed.

At ten months, she should be able to eat something simple alongside her sisters. But there’s nothing to be said.

I place the booklet down on the wooden table and search for the bottle of the calming herb, finding it just behind the powdered milk.

The girls return from washing up and jump into their seats at the table, wasting no time before digging into their slices of fried ham, buttered toast, and steamed tomatoes.

“Does your baby sister get a helping of toast too?” I ask Isla and Marlene.

“No, she only drinks her bottle,” Isla says, her brows furrowing with annoyance.

Odd.

Once the water is heated, I pour it into the bottle, add the powdered milk and remove the dropper from the bottle of chamomile.

A pungent odor of spice…and molasses or burnt sugar from the bottle strikes me like a splash of cold water.

I lift the small bottle up to my nose and jerk my head away. That isn’t chamomile. That’s?—

I blink, my mind turning over at high speed.

Gavriel…he was right.

I don’t want him to be. I didn’t want to believe what he said, or trust him, not so easily at least. But he was telling the truth, and I almost brushed it off. I could have poisoned this poor sweet girl because I didn’t want to believe someone who was clearly looking out for me.

I swish the powder around until it dissolves in the water and screw the nipple-top back in place.

After testing the temperature on my wrist, I make my way back to the cradle, finding her still staring in the same direction.

I place the bottle down on the wooden chair next to me and scoop Flora into my arms. Her lips quiver as she sets her focus on my face.

She’s looking at me though. She wouldn’t do that earlier when I arrived.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. I have your lunch too.

” I notice there isn’t a highchair at the table for her either.

I set the bottle down on the kitchen table and pull out a chair to join Isla and Marlene as they eat. With Flora propped up in my arms, I offer her the bottle. She doesn’t fuss, just takes the warm milk contently, her little hands pressed around the sides of the glass.

“Why is the milk so yellow today?” Marlene asks.

“Yellow?” I study the bottle, realizing she thinks it’s a different color because of the amber glass.

“It’s just the color of the glass, making the milk look like a warmer color,” I tell her.

“Usually, the milk is the same color as the glass,” she says.

“Could be the sun shining in through the window,” I offer as an explanation I’m not sure I believe.

Marlene takes slow bites of her toast while staring at Flora as she sucks down the milk. “Mama says good babies don’t cry. Flora is a good baby now that the last nanny went away.”

If silence defines the good in a person, what does that mean for me?

I’ve stayed quiet when warned and bitten my tongue when I’ve wanted to speak out.

Being quiet has done nothing for me. And it won’t do anything for Flora.

She’s too small to speak up for herself.

To defend herself. And I was brought here for a reason, one that makes little sense, but one that might make a difference in this little girl’s life.

My stomach tightens as I shift my weight around on the chair to get more comfortable. “Wh-what happened to your last nanny?” I ask, keeping my question quiet.

Marlene shrugs and takes another bite of her toast. “She just left. Mama wanted Flora to start sleeping again.”

Her words hit me like a sack of stones, and I peer back at the counter toward the bottle of chamomile.

Flora pulls the bottle out of her mouth and thrusts it against my collarbone just before releasing a shrill cry.

Her body flails as if she’s in pain and her cheeks burn into a crimson hue.

Isla and Marlene’s eyes grow wide, and they stop chewing the food in their mouths, both gawking at me as if I’ve done something very wrong…