The baby.
The child had lived.
Somewhere down the hall, the infant began crying harder—thin, weak little wails that sounded almost like a kitten.
He hesitated only a moment before throwing back the blankets. The floorboards were cold beneath his bare feet as he crossed to the door. He pulled on his dressing gown hastily and slipped into the dark corridor beyond.
No candles burned in the long gallery. No music drifted faintly from the drawing room. Even the servants moved softly, their footsteps muted as though loud sounds themselves might prove disrespectful to the dead.
The crying continued, and he followed the sound toward the nursery wing. One door stood slightly ajar with candlelight spilling through the opening.
He approached quietly. Inside, a nursery maid sat slumped in a chair near the fire, clearly asleep from exhaustion. One hand still rested against the cradle beside her. The baby cried weakly within it.
Fitz stepped cautiously into the room.
The nursery smelled faintly of milk, lavender water, and sickness.
His chest tightened painfully.
Mother should be here.
Instead there remained only silence and shadows and one tiny crying infant who would never remember the woman who died bringing her into the world.
The cradle looked enormous compared to the baby lying inside it.
She was so small.
He stared down at her uncertainly and tucked the edge of its blanket awkwardly around it. The corner of the blanket smoothed out and revealed a name, embroidered on the edge.
Georgiana.
A sister.
A tuft of dark hair curled across her forehead from beneath her sleeping bonnet, and her tiny face was red from crying. One little fist waved weakly in the air above the blankets.
The only thing left of Mother.
The baby’s cries quieted slightly as he leaned closer, though tiny hiccuping breaths still escaped her.
Without entirely knowing why, Fitz reached one finger carefully toward her hand.
Her fingers closed around it instantly.
The contact hit him like a physical blow.
His throat tightened violently.
“She’s got your eyes.”
Fitz jumped and spun around. Old Mr. Wickham, Georgie’s father, stood quietly in the doorway, a candle in one hand. The steward’s usually steady face looked worn with grief.
“I did not mean to wake anyone,” Fitz whispered quickly.
“You didn’t.”
The older man stepped farther into the room, lowering his voice instinctively. “Poor little mite’s had a hard welcome into the world.”
Fitz looked back toward the cradle.
