I can’t help it—my little smile shifts into a wide grin at her words.
Our last attendee, the one who was fired, told my little sister that she was adopted, or the daughter of adultery, because of her bright blonde hair and vivid green eyes. In reality, she looksexactlylike our paternal grandfather, and my parents have never cheated on one another.
Needless to say, that woman was fired faster than Atticus could open his mouth to curse at her. And now Julian is here as her replacement, and he seems to be…nice.
“Well, of course,” I say, turning back to my sister. “You look just like me.”
Abigail cackles, throwing her arms around me as she stands up on the bench. “No, I don’t, Atty. But I’m gentle like you.”
I raise a brow, tickling her sides. “Gentle, huh?”
“That’s what Julie said.” She shoves my hands away as she responds, giggling wildly.
“Julian said that I’m gentle?” My eyes flicker back to his, and he turns away abruptly, a blush coating his sharp features.
“Yep, and brave like Papa.”
I nod sincerely. “Yes, that is true. You are very brave.”
Abigail’s room is closest to the entrance of the west tower, and not once has she been frightened. Not that she truly understands what is happening.
“Julian,” Abigail says, jumping down from the bench and skipping over to him. He kneels before her, all of his attention focused on her sweet face. “Must you keep cleaning? Can’t we play a game?”
“Uh,” he starts, glancing at the feather duster in his hand. “I think Mr. Oscar would be sad if I didn’t finish my work, little miss. What if we played after dinner?”
Abigail agrees politely; she was always taught not to beg. And with that confirmation, she pats his cheek and runs out the door and off to do god knows what.
That leaves the two of us in the music room, which is feeling smaller by the second. Julian slowly rises to his feet, and he clears his throat.
“Young Master Atlas,” he says. “I’m sorry; I’ve yet to check on you; your sister has kept me busy. Is there any attending you need?”
I can think of some ‘attending’ I need.
But I don’t say that; instead, I shake my head softly.
“No, thank you. I can dress myself,” I joke.
Julian flushes red once again, his head bobbing furiously. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”
“For what?”
He seems startled by my question, and he looks around nervously. “Uh, I’m not sure. It just felt right to say.”
“Well, I’ll let you clean,” I say, releasing him from the awkward tension brewing between us.
His body relaxes as he smiles gently. “Thank you.”
“I’ll call for you,” I add. “The next time I need help getting dressed, I mean.”
With his face flaming once more, I leave the music room, an unbearable heat burning in the pit of my stomach.
Maybe Atticus was right; having Julian here might not be a good thing. It seems my symptoms are acting up again.
“Darling,” my mother’s sweet voice calls to me. “Come sit, yes?”
I pause in the hallway, the door of the drawing room open wide, revealing where she sits on the chaise in the center of the room.
“Hello, Momma,” I greet, sitting next to where her feet are pulled up and tucked under herself, her silky black dress clinging to her frame beautifully.
