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.
