“Well, things will be okay,” I assure her, extending a hand in her direction. “Let’s play some music, yeah? It’s too sad in here.”
Abigail grins, hopping down from the couch to come and take my hand.
As her little fingers play a complicated series of notes, filling the space around us with a beautiful melody, my mind stays firmly planted on the peculiarness of Atlas Chastain and how much I crave clarification.
As if she were manifesting by speaking it into existence, I do not see Atlas for several days after my conversation with Abigail. Eventually, I asked Oscar about it, and he said that Atlas is currently very ill and only Hannah is allowed to care for him during this time.
I’ve seen her slip into the small, dark door that sits at the base of the stairs that lead to the top of the west tower a few times now, and my curiosity and concern have only grown.
But there’s nothing I can do, short of barging up there and checking on him myself, which isnotallowed.
Does he become contagious after dark? Does he become volatile?
I slip under the thick cotton duvet that covers my bed, sighing softly as my head hits the pillow. With Atticus wanting nothing to do with me, and Atlas being sick, I spend all day with Abigail or cleaning the estate.
In the spring, I’ll tend to the garden.
I don’t feel I’m doing enough. My father and I are paid very well and given stellar benefits for working here at Chastain Castle, and I don’t believe I’m earning them.
At least Dad is constantly at work: running errands for Master Abraham or helping Oscar with grunt work. I, on the other hand, play with dolls, take braiding lessons from a nine-year-old, and clean.
I’m an in-house nanny taking care of only one of the three ‘children’ I’m supposed to be attending.
Before I can wallow any further, the bell by the wall titledW4: Abigailbegins to ring.
The emergency bell!
I’m out of my bed a moment later, sliding on a pair of grey sweatpants and a black crewneck sweater, slipping my feet into my house slippers as I book it out of my room.
It takes me maybe a full minute and a half to reach Abigail’s room on the second story, across the estate. The air isstifling.
I knock once, loud and hard, before swinging the door open.
“Abigail?!” I rush inside, frantically searching for her.
The young lady is sitting on her bed, her blonde hair a mess and her pink nightdress soaked in sweat. She’s crying.
“S-sorry, Julie,” she forces out. “I’m having such a bad dream.”
“You are?” I sit next to her on the bed, running a hand soothingly over her hair.
“I’m dreaming that Atlas is being hurt. Right now, he’s being hurt,” she says, her big green eyes welling up with more tears.
“You’re not dreaming anymore, Missus Abigail. You’re safe now.” Only as the words leave my mouth do I hear it.
A soft groaning, as if it’s filtering in through the vent above her closet and coming from far away.
Like the top of the west tower.
“I’m awake now? Atty is safe?”
Terror courses through me. The soft, breathy groan comes again, and I know with everything in me that it’s him. The pitch, the softness, the way it rises an octave at the end, the same way half of his sentences do.
I’m hyper-aware of Atlas—of course I would recognize his groans of pain.
“Yes, my friend,” I tell Abigail, hiding my fear behind a gentle smile. “Let’s sleep now; everything is fine.”
“O-okay, Julie. Good night.” She lies back down, rolling onto her side to close her eyes.
