The woman Emmie would have wanted her to be.
Chapter Nine
The screaming started at half past six in the morning, jolting Sybil from her first decent sleep in three days. She bolted upright in the unfamiliar guest bed, her heart hammering as the sound of children crying echoed through the corridors of Vestiaire Castle.
Fire. There’s another fire.
But no—there was no smell of smoke, no orange glow beyond her windows. Just the heart-wrenching sound of a child in the grip of a nightmare and the gentle murmur of voices trying to provide comfort.
Sybil threw on her wrapper and rushed toward the ballroom where the girls were sleeping, her bare feet silent on the cold marble floors. She found little Emma sitting bolt upright on her makeshift bed, tears streaming down her face as she sobbed about flames and falling roofs.
“Hush, sweetheart,” Beverly was saying, her arms around the trembling child. “You’re safe. There’s no fire here.”
“But the roof was falling!” Emma wailed. “And Miss Sybil was trapped, and I couldn’t reach her!”
Poor darling. The trauma is just beginning to surface.
“Miss Sybil is right here,” Sybil said softly, kneeling beside the bed. “See? I’m perfectly safe.”
Emma launched herself into Sybil’s arms with desperate force, her small body shaking with residual terror. Around them, several other girls had awakened and were watching with wide, frightened eyes.
They’re all going to have nightmares. How could I have been so naive to think they’d escape unscathed?
“I dreamed you died,” Emma whispered against her shoulder. “I dreamed the fire took you away, and we were all alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sybil said firmly though the words felt like lies in her mouth.Not yet, anyway. But soon.
It took nearly an hour to settle Emma back to sleep, and by then, the damage was done. The other girls were restless, whispering among themselves about their own fears and uncertainties. What would happen to them? Where would they go? Would they be split up?
Questions Sybil couldn’t answer. Not honestly.
Because I’m going to abandon them. I’m going to refuse the Duke’s offer and condemn them to exactly the fate they’re afraid of.
By breakfast time, the crisis had passed, but Sybil felt as though she’d been beaten with a bat. She sat at the small table that had been set up in the morning room, watching her girls file through the adjacent servants’ hall where they were taking their meals.
The contrast was impossible to ignore.
Their cheeks, which had been gaunt and hollow just days ago, already showed signs of proper nourishment. The dark circles under their eyes were fading, replaced by the healthy glow that came from sleeping in warm, draft-free rooms. Even their posture was different—straighter, more confident, as though the simple act of being properly fed and housed had reminded them they were worthy of care.
Look at them. Really look.
At the orphanage, there had always been something—a leak in the roof that sent icy water dripping onto their beds during storms, drafts that whistled through cracks in the walls no matter how many rags she stuffed into them, the constant struggle to stretch every meal far enough to feed everyone.
Here, in the Duke’s household, they were thriving.
“More porridge, Margaret?” one of the kitchen maids was asking. “Cook made extra, and there’s honey to sweeten it.”
Honey. When was the last time they tasted honey?
Margaret’s face lit up as she nodded eagerly, and Sybil felt her heart crack a little more.
This is what they deserve. This comfort, this abundance, this sense of safety and belonging.
“Miss Sybil?” Sarah had approached her table, her expression hesitant. “Might I ask you something?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Are we… are we going to stay here? Permanently, I mean?”
