He composed a carefully worded inquiry to his solicitor, authorizing him to spend whatever coin necessary to take care of the problem as discreetly as possible, and to immediately send notice upon success or setback. There, that should do. He pulled a bit of wax and a ring bearing the Waldegrave family crest from the parchment drawer and prepared to seal the inquiry.
He hesitated before heating the ring in a candle’s flame. Was this truly the right path? If he sent this missive, he effectively relinquished Violet to the fates of the courts. When his barrister took her as a client, the case would progress rapidly. Once cleared of all charges, why would any young woman as beautiful and as talented as she give up an entire world of inspiration and beauty for claustrophobic catacombs and windowless chambers?
She would not, he realized, his stomach sinking. No one would.Hehad not chosen this life—God had thrust it upon him, like it or not. His grip on the sealing ring tightened. By ensuring Violet’s freedom, he’d likely also be ensuring she take it. Elsewhere.
So be it.
He jerked his fingers back from the flame and pressed the heated ring into the soft wax before he could change his mind. It was the right thing to do. He didn’t have to like it. He owed her as much. Wishing the entire matter out of sight, he slid the sealed missive atop a stack of open medical books and tugged forward yesterday’s pile of unopened correspondence.
He regretted that decision immediately.
Half the letters were from the great minds present at his recent conclave. The other half were from equally great minds, kindly refusing an invitation to attend a future such retreat. And every last one of them held the same message: No.
No, there was no magic tincture. There was no solution in any form. There was no hope for even finding answers to “why” or “how” without extensive in-laboratory study, and even then, no promises could be made. There was not now, nor was there likely to ever be, a cure for such a violent and deadly disease. There was nary a hint of optimism for even ameliorating the symptoms. He might as well have asked them to fly to the moon.
He slumped as if punched in the sternum. Was that it, then? The last chance for hope? It had been nearly a decade. Was it not time to face the truth? Lily would never get better. Alistair swayed, lightheaded. The life they had now was the one they would always have. Just this, nothing more. Forever.
“Master?”
Alistair’s startled gaze snapped from the blurry letter in his hand to the manservant hovering uncertainly at the open door. In his abstracted state, Alistair had apparently neglected to close the door behind him. Not that it mattered. If he was wasting his time searching for a nonexistent miracle—if he had wasted the first nine years of his daughter’s life chasing an impossible dream—then it was far past time to break free from his office once and for all.
Roper’s scarred face filled with concern. “Is everything all right, master?”
“No,” Alistair answered as he rose to his feet. “Nor shall it be, so it is up to me to make of it what I will.”
“Sir?” Confusion lined his manservant’s brow. “Is there aught I could do to help?”
Alistair paused in the act of rounding his desk. Slowly, he pivoted toward the pile of open books and retrieved the thick inquiry he’d penned to his solicitor. Here it was, then. The moment of truth. Sending this missive was tantamount to sending Violet from their lives, but what else could he do?
He handed Roper the letter. “See this gets posted, please.”
“Of course, master. As you wish.”
The corner of Alistair’s mouth sagged despondently. If only hecouldhave what he wished. None of this heartbreak would be necessary.
Chapter 31
Violet arrived in the sanctuary to find her suspiciously cheerful charge had no interest in visiting the makeshift schoolroom this morning.
“No learning today,” Lily announced before Violet had even had a chance to secure the door behind her. “I am not of a mood for maths.”
“No?” Violet returned, careful to keep her expression blank. She, for one, was never of a mood for maths. “And what, pray tell, would Princess Tiger Lily prefer to be doing with her valuable time?”
Lily clapped her hands with glee. “I want to paint the walls.”
Violet frowned. “Paint them... pink?”
“No,”Lily burst out. “I want to putpictureson them. Like in my books, but better.Colorpictures. Of real things and not-real things. And I want you to help me.”
“You want to paint... murals?” Violet asked doubtfully.
“I do if that means pictures-on-the-walls.” Lily’s eyes glimmered with mischief. “Ooh, see that? A new word! I’m learning evenwithoutmaths. This will be positively educational.”
Violet suppressed a smile. “It’s certainly hard to argue with that logic. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t feel comfortable painting a single inch of these walls without consulting your father.”
“First,”Lily interrupted imperiously, “I already asked him, and he said I could paint whatever I want wherever I want.Second, Papa wants me to be happy. Putting pictures on the walls will make me happy. So can we start right now instead of doing maths? Please? I promise to study sums twice as hard tomorrow.”
If Violet had found the original twisted logic too humorous to argue with, she could find no quibble whatsoever with this line of reasoning. A day without maths would hardly impact Lily’s future. And her assessment of her father’s desire to see her happy was inarguable. Whether or not he’d specifically agreed to a sanctuary covered in child-created murals was a bit more suspect, but Violet could see nothing wrong with using some of the window planks as canvases until she could clarify the rest with Alistair. After all, the sanctuary had once boasted floor-to-ceiling stained glass. Why not replace art with art?
