Clara pulled back, face wet but furious. “He said we can’t go home. Not ever. He said it’s not our house anymore.”
Henry whispered, “He is always in a mood.” He buried his face deeper into Nancy’s skirt.
“Never mind him.” Nancy turned Clara’s face up and wiped the tears with her own sleeve. “What else did he say?”
Clara frowned. “He said we may roam the manor, but we must not touch anything we are not supposed to. Mrs. Tullock says we are to be kept here until we grow up.”
Nancy snorted. “Then we shall simply have to grow up faster so Mrs. Tullock doesn’t get her victory. Won’t we?”
Henry peeked up at her, finally braving a question. “Are you taking us away?”
Nancy looked from one child to the other. They were both smaller than she remembered—thinner, paler, as if the last week had pressed years into them. Her heart twisted, and she gathered them both in, nearly crushing herself with the effort not to break down.
“I will never abandon you,” she whispered. “Not for anything.”
Clara, always the sharper blade, caught the uncertainty. “But are you taking us away now?”
Nancy’s throat closed. She wanted nothing more than to spirit them both out the window, run for the coast, and build a life far from these cold, suffocating houses. But she could not promise what she did not know.
“Not tonight,” she said. “But soon. I will come back, and we will decide together.”
Clara frowned but nodded, as if she’d already foreseen the answer. Henry held the rabbit to his nose and breathed in, trying to disappear behind its patchy fur.
Nancy pressed her lips to their hair, trying to memorize the shape of them, the scent, the weight. She would need it, soon enough.
Behind her, the housekeeper coughed, a sound so tentative it barely qualified as a suggestion. “Lady Nancy, the children ought to rest. Dr. Harkness said?—”
“Dr. Harkness can find a new occupation,” Nancy replied, not turning around. “I’ll let them rest when I am ready.”
The housekeeper made a soft noise of despair, then retreated. Good.
“Nancy?” Henry asked, voice so faint it barely escaped his mouth.
“Yes, my darling?”
“Why did Mama go away?”
There it was—the question she’d dreaded. Clara stared at the bedspread, jaw clenched. Henry looked up, eyes desperate for something solid to stand on.
Nancy took a long breath. “Mama was very ill. She tried her best to stay, but her body was too tired. Sometimes that happens, and it’s no one’s fault. Not yours, and not hers.”
Henry blinked at her, trying to process this. “But if she tried her best—why didn’t she win?”
Clara answered, “Sometimes people lose, even if they try.” She reached for Henry’s hand, holding it tight.
Nancy stroked his hair, wishing she had something better to say.
Henry asked, “Will you get sick, too?”
“No,” Nancy said, and though it was a lie, she told it with all the certainty she could conjure. “I am made of sterner stuff. And besides, someone has to keep you two out of trouble.”
Clara laughed, a short, brittle sound. “No one can do that.”
“We’ll see,” Nancy said. She kneeled there until her legs went numb, until both children leaned against her, half asleep, warmed by the comfort of touch and the promise of something less horrible tomorrow.
When their breathing slowed, Nancy eased herself out of their grip and arranged them on the bed, tucking Clara’s feet under the blanket and propping Henry’s head on a softer pillow. She sat for a moment, just watching them—studying the rise and fall of their chests, the peace that would not last, the proof of what had been lost and what she still might save.
She got up quietly. At the door, she looked back once, memorizing the scene as if it might be snatched away at any second.
