worked out.”
Violet sighed. There it was, then. She’d gambled and lost. Her fingers brushed against the tiny lumps made by the two coins in her pocket. If she had just—
“Very well.” Mr. Waldegrave turned to Violet, his features the same cold marble as ever, his eyes hard with disappointment. “Miss Smythe . . .”
“Ready, sir.” She crossed to join him at the door, pausing only once to glance at her erstwhile charge, who stood facing the boarded windows. Violet expected Mr. Waldegrave to yank her into the corpse-lined tunnels for an immediate sacking, but as she eased out of the room, he stepped further in. When he passed by, something tugged at her sleeve, ripping a tiny hole in the tattered homespun. Thorns. He’d brought fresh roses for his daughter.
Unwilling to slink into the murky passageway without so much as a candle, she froze in place with one hand on the doorjamb and half her body already in shadow.
Paying her no mind whatsoever, Mr. Waldegrave strode across the room, cutting directly to the small escritoire rather than risk passing too close to his still-silent daughter. With a practiced motion, he upended the crystal vase over a bin. The withered stems tumbled into its black depths.
He placed three stunningly perfect roses into the vase, and arranged their enormous red blooms to best effect. After filling the vase with water from a porcelain pitcher on the nightstand, he gathered the fallen petals from the desk and upon the floor—where was the maid who tended to such menial tasks?—and deposited them into the bin atop the dead flower stems. He turned toward his daughter and waited as she climbed into bed in silence.
At last, he turned away, and caught sight of Violet trapped in the cracked doorway like a moth entangled in a spider web.
Her face heated at having been discovered spying, and she floundered for an excuse for her behavior. “I . . . ”
“Don’t,” he said abruptly. “I’m not surprised you remained behind. The tunnel is dark, and I did not think to offer you a candle.” His tone, if not the words themselves, had sounded impossibly close to an apology. He lit a taper on one of the many candelabra protruding from the looming walls. “Now we are ready.”
Because he was facing Violet and not Lillian, Mr. Waldegrave did not see his daughter spin around. He likewise missed the split-second of hunger exposed in her fragile features. Despite repeated avowals of hatred, Violet realized, despite the kicks and punches and vicious bites, Lillian desperately hoped her father would stay. Yet she gave the man no inkling.
When Mr. Waldegrave reached the door, he handed Violet the extra candle he’d procured and followed her into the blackness of the tunnel. Before he could close the door behind them, however, Lillian’s trembling voice carried through the darkness.
“H-how inappropriate are those melodies, Miss Smythe?”
Hope exploded in Violet’s chest. Momentarily forgetting proper decorum yet again, she reached around him and pushed open the heavy door in order to look into Lillian’s pale gray eyes. Violet gave her an earnest smile. “Very.”
With his brow creased in apparent confusion—and rightfully so, for Violet imagined Lillian was as new to private jokes as her father was to not being privy to them—he pivoted toward his daughter. “What’s this, Lillian?”
“I require a pianoforte,” the girl announced, her tone imperious. Shoulders back and spine straight, she exuded confidence and authority. “And art supplies. Miss Smythe will instruct me in both.”
Mr. Waldegrave glanced at Violet in openmouthed surprise before returning his dark gaze to his daughter. “Dare I hope you shall also be learning to read?”
The coldness in Lillian’s gaze was matched only by the frigidity in her tone. “I have been able to recognize my own name since I was five. How hard can it be to learn to read?”
His jaw worked silently for a brief second. Rather than
Violet sighed. There it was, then. She’d gambled and lost. Her fingers brushed against the tiny lumps made by the two coins in her pocket. If she had just—
“Very well.” Mr. Waldegrave turned to Violet, his features the same cold marble as ever, his eyes hard with disappointment. “Miss Smythe . . .”
“Ready, sir.” She crossed to join him at the door, pausing only once to glance at her erstwhile charge, who stood facing the boarded windows. Violet expected Mr. Waldegrave to yank her into the corpse-lined tunnels for an immediate sacking, but as she eased out of the room, he stepped further in. When he passed by, something tugged at her sleeve, ripping a tiny hole in the tattered homespun. Thorns. He’d brought fresh roses for his daughter.
Unwilling to slink into the murky passageway without so much as a candle, she froze in place with one hand on the doorjamb and half her body already in shadow.
Paying her no mind whatsoever, Mr. Waldegrave strode across the room, cutting directly to the small escritoire rather than risk passing too close to his still-silent daughter. With a practiced motion, he upended the crystal vase over a bin. The withered stems tumbled into its black depths.
He placed three stunningly perfect roses into the vase, and arranged their enormous red blooms to best effect. After filling the vase with water from a porcelain pitcher on the nightstand, he gathered the fallen petals from the desk and upon the floor—where was the maid who tended to such menial tasks?—and deposited them into the bin atop the dead flower stems. He turned toward his daughter and waited as she climbed into bed in silence.
At last, he turned away, and caught sight of Violet trapped in the cracked doorway like a moth entangled in a spider web.
Her face heated at having been discovered spying, and she floundered for an excuse for her behavior. “I . . . ”
“Don’t,” he said abruptly. “I’m not surprised you remained behind. The tunnel is dark, and I did not think to offer you a candle.” His tone, if not the words themselves, had sounded impossibly close to an apology. He lit a taper on one of the many candelabra protruding from the looming walls. “Now we are ready.”
Because he was facing Violet and not Lillian, Mr. Waldegrave did not see his daughter spin around. He likewise missed the split-second of hunger exposed in her fragile features. Despite repeated avowals of hatred, Violet realized, despite the kicks and punches and vicious bites, Lillian desperately hoped her father would stay. Yet she gave the man no inkling.
When Mr. Waldegrave reached the door, he handed Violet the extra candle he’d procured and followed her into the blackness of the tunnel. Before he could close the door behind them, however, Lillian’s trembling voice carried through the darkness.
“H-how inappropriate are those melodies, Miss Smythe?”
Hope exploded in Violet’s chest. Momentarily forgetting proper decorum yet again, she reached around him and pushed open the heavy door in order to look into Lillian’s pale gray eyes. Violet gave her an earnest smile. “Very.”
With his brow creased in apparent confusion—and rightfully so, for Violet imagined Lillian was as new to private jokes as her father was to not being privy to them—he pivoted toward his daughter. “What’s this, Lillian?”
“I require a pianoforte,” the girl announced, her tone imperious. Shoulders back and spine straight, she exuded confidence and authority. “And art supplies. Miss Smythe will instruct me in both.”
Mr. Waldegrave glanced at Violet in openmouthed surprise before returning his dark gaze to his daughter. “Dare I hope you shall also be learning to read?”
The coldness in Lillian’s gaze was matched only by the frigidity in her tone. “I have been able to recognize my own name since I was five. How hard can it be to learn to read?”
His jaw worked silently for a brief second. Rather than
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