Part 2
“That isn’t relevant.”
“It may be if she changed or bathed him.”
“She did neither.”
“How did she notice the rash?”
The muscles beside his mouth shifted.
Claire had learned not to rush into the space after a question. People who meant to lie often depended on interruption. They expected a professional to soften the silence, offer possibilities, or allow the conversation to move on.
Étienne removed his hand from his pocket. “My mother noticed it. I misspoke.”
“Your mother or the nanny?”
“My mother.”
“You said your mother became concerned. You didn’t say she found it.”
“This feels less like an examination and more like an interrogation.”
“It’s a history.”
“It’s a rash.”
“Then the history should be easy.”
A faint sound came from somewhere below them, silverware being gathered or a tray set down. The château was hosting a dinner that evening; Claire had passed several black cars in the courtyard and heard voices behind the closed doors of the west salon. None of that noise reached the nursery clearly. The walls swallowed it.
Étienne crossed behind her toward the cabinet. He did not open it. His fingertips rested briefly against the polished walnut surface before he turned.
“I invited you here as a courtesy to my mother,” he said. “Louis has been examined. He is healthy.”
“By whom?”
“Our family physician.”
“When?”
“Recently.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the answer available to you.”
Claire looked down at the baby.
Louis breathed in, paused, breathed out. His mouth made a small sucking motion in sleep.
She had been warned before coming that the visit might be awkward. Dr. Renard, the pediatrician covering the clinic that evening, had called her while she was eating lentil soup at the staff kitchen table.
Private home evaluation, he had said. A family known to the clinic. No fever. Skin concern. The grandmother requested discretion.
Claire had asked why he was sending a nurse instead of going himself.
Because they asked for you.
Who is they?
The line had gone quiet long enough for her to hear him tapping a pen.
Madame de Varenne, he said at last.
Claire had met Hélène de Varenne once, three months earlier, in the clinic’s waiting room. The older woman had accompanied a kitchen employee’s daughter to an appointment after the girl’s mother was delayed at work. Hélène had worn a cream suit and pearls then too, composed without seeming cold. She had thanked Claire by name after hearing it once.
The memory had been too ordinary to matter until the call.
Now, inside the nursery, Claire wondered why the woman who had asked for her was nowhere in sight.
“Has Louis been unsettled?” she asked.
“No.”
“Sleeping more than usual?”
“He sleeps.”
“Any change in crying?”
“No.”
“Wet diapers?”
“Normal.”
“How many since this morning?”
Étienne’s eyes cooled. “I don’t count.”
“Who does?”
“The nanny.”
“The one who went home.”
“Yes.”
“And you can’t call her?”
“She is not on duty.”
Claire reached into her bag for a small digital thermometer. “I’d still like her name.”
“No.”
The word landed quietly.
She looked up.
He had not raised his voice. His posture had barely changed. Yet something in the room contracted around it.
Claire had spent the first year of her career being impressed by certainty. She mistook it for competence because inexperienced people often did. Her supervisor, a woman named Marianne with nicotine-stained fingers and a laugh that startled newborns, had corrected her during a difficult visit in Lyon.
Confident people can still be wrong, Marianne had said afterward. Sometimes confidence is just fear with expensive shoes.
Claire slid the thermometer carefully beneath Louis’s arm without waking him. “I’m going to document that you declined to identify the caregiver.”
Étienne gave a thin smile. “Document it where?”
“In the visit record.”
“This visit is private.”
“All medical visits are private.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He looked toward her bag. “You won’t photograph him.”
“I haven’t asked to.”
“You won’t send information outside this room.”
“I send relevant findings to the supervising pediatrician.”
“No.”
Claire held the thermometer in place. “You invited a medical professional. You don’t control what becomes medically relevant.”
His gaze settled on her face with a stillness she recognized. He was deciding whether she was troublesome enough to remove.
The thermometer beeped.
Normal.
She cleaned it, recorded the reading on her tablet, and noticed there was no wireless signal. Thick walls, perhaps. Or the estate’s network was restricted. Her phone showed one bar, then none.
Étienne watched the screen. “There is no need to create a permanent record of a temporary irritation.”
“Skin findings don’t become more permanent because I write them down.”
“Everything becomes more permanent when someone writes it down.”
That was the first thing he said that sounded entirely honest.
Claire placed the tablet aside.
“Tell me exactly what your mother saw.”
“I told you.”
“No. You told me she noticed a rash this afternoon. Where?”
“His back.”
“How large?”
“A few red areas.”
“Raised?”
“I didn’t inspect them.”
“Then why are you certain they’re ordinary?”
“Because infants develop rashes.”
“Some do.”
“They become warm. They perspire. Skin reddens.”
“The room isn’t very warm.”
“It was earlier.”
“How warm?”
“I don’t monitor the nursery thermostat.”
Claire turned her head toward the wall control. Twenty-one degrees Celsius.
He followed her eyes. “It has been adjusted.”
“By whom?”
“Does every temperature change require testimony?”
“No. But unexplained changes are still changes.”
His ring clicked once against the gold edge of his watch as he folded his arms. A small habit, perhaps. A way of discharging anger without moving enough for anyone to accuse him of it.
May you like
Claire returned her attention to Louis.
The infant’s face looked peaceful. That did not reassure her as much as Étienne expected it to. Babies could be quiet for many reasons. Still, nothing about Louis’s breathing, color, or small movements suggested visible agony. Whatever was beneath the blanket, she would examine it gently.
