He stepped forward to have a closer look. A small brass plaque affixed to the lower portion of the ornate black frame declared the portrait a gift to St. Anne’s from a Mr. and Mrs. Simon Scrully, in appreciation for the shelter’s many years of compassionate, good work.
He didn’t have to ask who the subject of the portrait was. Glancing at Willow, he found her transfixed by the old woman’s silent glower.
“That’s quite an accurate portrait of Sister Agathe,” she said. “When did she sit for it?”
“Oh, it must have been about three years ago, I suppose.” Madame Gauthier offered a sympathetic smile. “Just a few months before Sister Agathe passed away, bless her soul.”
“She’s dead?” Willow sounded both shocked and somewhat relieved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Madame Gauthier shook her head. “She went peacefully in her sleep from what I hear. She’d retired from St. Anne’s when I was brought in to manage things, so I’m afraid I didn’t know her well. I have heard of the Sister’s somewhat . . . harsh reputation.” She turned a gentle look on Willow. “There have been a lot of changes since you and your sister lived here. Changes for the better, I hope. Please, sit and make yourselves comfortable.”
They did as asked, Willow taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa from where Madame Gauthier had delicately perched. Razor opted for the chair to Willow’s left, which gave him a visual line to the room’s entrance and the hall outside while also putting him in easy reach of Willow should the need arise.
His Hunter senses had been heightened from the moment they entered the townhome, though he wasn’t yet certain if it was because of his indecision about Madame Gauthier or the way Willow’s entire being seemed coiled with anxiety and remembered pain.
He hated the circumstances that had sent her to this place as an infant. Now that he’d seen the cold, unkind face of the woman who’d been in charge of St. Anne’s during those early years of Willow’s life, he almost wished the old hag were still alive so he could personally terrify her into her grave.
“What other kind of changes have there been?” Willow asked Madame Gauthier.
“Well, we have fewer girls here, for one thing. The need has lessened. Twenty-odd years ago when you and Laurel came to live at St. Anne’s, sadly, it wasn’t uncommon for Breedmate girls to be orphaned during all of the violence of that time. Fortunately, those dark days are behind us now.”
Razor grunted. “Don’t be so sure. There will always be someone eager to profit off the suffering of others.”
She tilted her head at him. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“His name is Razor,” Willow replied. “He’s my . . . friend.”
“Hm.” Madame Gauthier scrutinized him for a long moment, and Willow casually leaned forward as though to block her view.
“How many girls live here at St. Anne’s now?”
“We’re down to four long-term residents,” she answered, pride in her voice. “My hope is that shelters like this one will become permanently obsolete before too long. The Order’s been instrumental in helping to place our girls with loving, suitable families.”
The news took Razor by surprise. “The Order?”
“Yes. St. Anne’s used to be dependent on private donors, but now this home and the rest of the remaining Breedmate shelters are funded wholly by the Order.”
Just then, a thin, middle-aged woman appeared in the entryway to the sitting room. She wore a gray housekeeping uniform that was almost the same color as the tightly contained bun that sat atop her head, not a single hair escaping. Upon seeing there were guests seated inside, she quietly cleared her throat.
“Oh! Madame Dupont,” replied their host. “Look who’s come for a visit.”
The other woman’s eyes lit first on Willow, then swung immediately to Razor. He couldn’t decide which of them had stirred the shock that briefly registered in her gaze. Her mouth sagged open for a moment but no sound came out.
Madame Gauthier turned to Willow. “I’m sure you remember Sister Agathe’s dear friend, Madame Estelle Dupont? She was one of the young ladies on the housekeeping staff at St. Anne’s during the time you and your sister lived here.”
“Yes, I remember,” Willow murmured.
“Madame Dupont is in charge of all our household staff now. Estelle, this is Willow Valcourt. Laurel Townsend’s sister.”
“Ah.Oui. Yes, of course.” The gray-haired woman offered a polite smile and bobbed her head in greeting. “Mademoiselle.”
The two older women spoke to each other in rapid French before Madame Gauthier asked Willow, “May I offer you some tea and a little something to eat? Madame Dupont tells me she has just taken a tray of almond biscuits out of the oven.”
“Tea would be nice, thank you.” Once the older woman had trundled off, Willow leaned forward and spoke to Madame Gauthier. “You said my sister was here recently. When was that, do you recall?”
“Yes, perhaps five or six months ago now. She didn’t stay long, but we had a lovely visit.”
“Did she come here by herself?”
