“My daughter,” he began, then stopped to consider his words. The uncharacteristic hesitation was somehow more alarming than all the previous declarations together. “Lillian,” he said at last, “can be difficult. But please know that I will allow no harm to come to her. None. She is my reason for living just as I am her only hope. Having a governess instruct her will be beneficial in many ways, but my desire for her education is secondary. Your aid will allow me to dedicate more time to the one goal that drives me above all others: finding a cure.”
Her brow creased. “I thought you said your condition was incurable.”
“I shall never stop searching,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. His gaze slid from hers as he murmured, “But what we need is a miracle.”
As she watched him fit the key into the lock, her stomach soured with suspicion and remembered nightmares. “Why keep a nine-year-old child behind lock and key?”
He closed his eyes as if her words caused him injury. “Allowed to roam free, Lillian cannot resist the allure of the sun. She escaped into the back lawn when she was but five years old, and very nearly died that same day. I immediately installed automatic locking mechanisms on every door as a precaution. I long to take her out-of-doors at night, but between the dangers of being discovered and Lillian’s propensity to run away, the risk is too great. She is my world, and I cannot lose her.” His eyes opened. He gave the key a sharp turn and the lock disengaged with a soft click. “Other reasons for her solitude, you are bound to discover on your own. Come.”
What other reasons? But before Violet could inquire further, he swung open the door.
He nudged her inside, leapt into the sanctuary beside her, and closed the door behind them with the speed and finesse borne of long practice.
Before her eyes finished adjusting to the oddly lit sanctuary, a white blur flew at them from across the room. Violet dove out of the way with an alacrity learned in London alleyways and nearly re-twisted her ankle in the process. When Mr. Waldegrave’s head smacked backward into the door with enough force to concuss, she realized she hadn’t been the intended victim.
Mr. Waldegrave lifted a kicking and screaming waif by her ribs and contained her far in front of him.
She lashed out with her feet and fists. “Why must you lock everything? I hate you! Let me out!”
He set the child on her feet as if he’d heard none of her shrill accusations, but he was not so trusting as to release her just yet. “Lillian,” he said calmly, as if such a display were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was. “You have a visitor. This is Miss Violet Smythe, your new governess.”
“I don’t want a governess.” The child kicked and twisted, unsuccessfully trying to free herself from her father’s grasp.
“Miss Smythe is here to teach you maths and Latin and history, and even has a particular talent for—”
“I don’t care about maths and history! I want to see the sun! Let me go. Let mego!”This last was accompanied by a snarl and a nearly successful attempt to bite off her father’s hand at the wrist.
Violet slid her own hands into her pockets. She was fair-to-middling with maths and didn’t speak a word of Latin, but by the looks of things, the likelihood of bending heads over a schoolbook was close on zero. A greater concern would be discovering where in this medieval crypt the Waldegraves kept their battle armor. There was no longer any doubt as to the “evil creature” to which the old woman had referred. Nothing short of hammered steel would serve as protection from nine-year-old Lillian Waldegrave. And, Violet was beginning to suspect, no salary would be worth the scars.
“Lillian, enough. Bid goodnight to your new governess and get back in bed.”
“Isit nighttime, Papa? How wouldIknow? It’s not as if I havewindows.” When her father made no response, Lillian ceased struggling and bowed her head in defeat. “I have nothing.”
Mr. Waldegrave’s face twisted in pain, but he continued to guard his tongue. Or perhaps there was nothing more to say.
Violet stood awkwardly to one side, not trusting the apparent truce enough to approach. She took advantage of the moment to observe her new charge.
Lillian, not unlike her father, very much looked like someone who had never experienced sunlight. She was far too pale, too thin. Too... small. Her dress and slippers were well made and expensive, but she looked more a child of six or seven than nine. Her slender fingers curved into claws. A tangle of pitch-black hair streamed down her back and covered most of her face, giving only brief glimpses of a pert nose and the curve of a pock-scarred cheek.
“I see the roses have lost their bloom,” Mr. Waldegrave said softly. “Would you like me to bring you some new ones?”
“No,” Lillian whispered. And then slowly lifted her gaze toward Violet.
Violet’s fingers clenched at the abject misery reflected in Lillian’s blank gray eyes. Her actions were vicious, angry, vengeful, but she was not fighting her father after all. She was fighting despair.
This little girl was lashing out only because she didn’t know what else to do. Violet’s throat tightened. She knew despair intimately... and hated seeing it in the face of a child. She was at Lillian’s side within seconds.
“Leave us for a moment,” she murmured to her new employer. “Please.”
His incredulous gaze snapped toward her. His strong hands (one of which now bore ruddy teeth marks) fell from his daughter’s thin shoulders. “I hardly think that’s wise. For years, no one but me has been able to touch her.”
How many had even tried? Violet was not afraid of being pushed or bitten. She’d survived far worse over the years. She was more afraid of not giving the right first impression—that of ally, not enemy. But how could she convince Lillian that she was on her side?
Gently, carefully, Violet pulled the child’s wooden body into her arms. As anticipated, Lillian immediately began to buck and fight. Violet simply hugged her tighter, ignoring the elbow jabbing into her belly and the tears in her eyes from her chin being half-shattered by a blow from the back of Lillian’s head.
“Get. Off. Me.” Lillian kicked backward at Violet’s shins. “Go away. I hate you, too!”
“You’re entitled to,” Violet said calmly. “But I don’t hate you. As it happens, you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone I liked very much.”
