Chương 3
She took one from her apron pocket and gave it to him without comment. He blew too hard, inspected the result, then folded the cloth with solemn care and put it on the table.
For several minutes they listened to the soft knocking of a branch against the window.
At last Owen said, “Is Aunt Celeste going to send you away?”
Nora kept her face still. “Why would she do that?”
“Because I told.”
“You haven’t told me anything.”
“She said servants get sent away when children lie.”
The branch tapped again.
Nora turned toward him. “When did she say that?”
Owen’s eyes moved to the carpet.
Julian had told her not to question him. Celeste had apparently already done so.
Nora wanted to ask everything at once—where, when, what else—but she felt the boy draw inward before she spoke. She placed one hand palm-up between them.
“You don’t have to tell me now.”
He studied her hand and put two fingers in it.
“I didn’t tear the papers,” he said.
“I believe you.”
“You’re not supposed to say that.”
“According to whom?”
“Uncle Julian said not to talk about it.”
“He told me not to ask what you saw. He did not tell me to pretend I don’t know you.”
Owen’s mouth shifted. It was not a smile, but it nearly became one.
Dr. Mercer arrived twenty minutes later carrying a black leather bag and smelling faintly of peppermint. He was a broad man with thinning gray hair who had delivered Julian, Celeste, and their late brother Thomas into the same upstairs room over the course of eleven years. He disliked Bellwether’s central heating and announced this opinion every winter as if the house might eventually apologize.
He examined Owen’s eyes and hands, listened to his breathing, and asked whether anything hurt. Owen said no.
“Anyone touch you roughly?” the doctor asked.
Owen glanced at Nora.
“No.”
“Anyone strike you?”
“No.”
“Did you fall?”
“No.”
Dr. Mercer put away his stethoscope. “Then your body seems to have survived the afternoon. Your dignity may require biscuits.”
Owen’s fingers relaxed around Nora’s.
The doctor looked at her over the child’s head. “Keep him warm. Quiet company. No interrogation.”
“I understand.”
“Someone should inform the household that crying is not a medical emergency. It is sometimes the proper response to adults.”
He left to speak with Julian.
Owen watched the door close. “He talks strange.”
“He thinks other people do.”
A tray arrived with tea, biscuits, and another cup of warm milk. The maid who brought it, Elsie, was nineteen and incapable of concealing curiosity. Her eyes moved from Owen to Nora and then to the corridor.
“Mrs. Pike says no one is to ask questions,” she said.
“Then don’t,” Nora replied.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You just did it without words.”
Elsie flushed, set down the tray, and noticed the spilled milk stain on Nora’s apron. She opened her mouth, decided against whatever she had intended, and left.
The house was already carrying the story from room to room. By dinner, the accusation would have acquired torn contracts, a missing jewel, perhaps a fire. Bellwether’s servants did not gossip more than other people. They simply inhabited a building where doors outnumbered occupations.
Nora gave Owen a biscuit. He broke it into four pieces and ate only one.
Across the hall, the library doors opened.
Julian entered alone.
He had removed his high-collared coat and carried it over one arm. Without it, he looked younger and more tired. The envelope was not visible.
“How is he?” he asked.
“Physically unharmed,” Nora said. “Dr. Mercer recommends biscuits.”
Julian sat in the chair opposite the sofa. He looked at Owen, then at Nora.
“I need to speak with him.”
Owen leaned closer to her.
Julian noticed. “You may stay.”
Nora waited.
He did not begin with the study.
Instead he said, “Your father used to hide in the organ loft when he was your age.”
Owen looked up.
“He did?”
“Frequently. He claimed the acoustics were better. They were not.”
“Did Grandfather get angry?”
“Grandfather always got angry. It saved him the inconvenience of deciding how he felt.”
Nora had never heard Julian speak of his father with humor, even dry humor. Owen seemed uncertain whether laughter was allowed. He settled for watching his uncle.
Julian rested his forearms on his knees. “I won’t ask you to tell me a long story. I need one answer. Did Aunt Celeste give you the music box?”
Owen’s breathing changed.
Nora felt it through his shoulder.
Julian waited.
The child looked at the yellow sofa, at the untouched milk, at Nora’s open hand. He placed his fingers in hers again.
“She said Mama liked the song.”
Julian’s face tightened.
Owen’s mother, Marianne, had died nineteen months earlier from complications after surgery. Before that, the music box had stood on the mantel in her room whenever the family visited Bellwether. She had wound it during thunderstorms because Owen hated thunder but liked the thin, imperfect tune.
“What happened next?” Julian asked.
“You said one answer.”
“You’re right.”
Owen looked surprised.
Julian leaned back. “Then we will stop.”
The child’s fingers tightened around Nora’s. “She told me to take it to the piano and make it play.”
“Celeste did?”
A nod.
“Where was she when she gave it to you?”
“The study.”
Nora kept her expression still. Julian did the same with more effort.
“Was the box open?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see what was inside?”
“She put the soft part back.”
“The velvet tray?”
Owen looked at Nora for help.
“The part where the dancer stands?” she asked.
“Yes. It wouldn’t sit down. She pushed it hard.”
Julian stared at the fireplace.
“Were there torn papers on the desk?” he asked.
Owen shook his head. “One fell down.”
“Did you touch it?”
“I picked it up.”
“What did it look like?”
“It had blue lines and your name.”
May you like
“Then what?”
“Aunt Celeste took it. She said I made fingerprints.”
