Chapter 5
Saskia’s breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. She clutched her torn skirt against her thighs, staring up at the man who held her life in his hands.
"She’s... she’s safe," Saskia whispered, her eyes darting toward her brother. "I didn't hurt her, Bramwell! I swear to God, I didn't hurt Clara!"
"You locked my wife in a cage for three years and told me she was ash," Bramwell said, the rage in his voice so tightly coiled it sounded like an engine running at redline. "That is not safety. That is an execution sentence you wrote for yourself."
Behind him, a small, tentative tug pulled at the vent of his overcoat.
Bramwell went still.
The monolithic violence that radiated from his shoulders seemed to halt in mid-air. Slowly, with infinite precision, he pivoted and knelt on one knee in front of the little girl.
Dulcie had chocolate smeared across her chin, and the front of her cardigan was ruined. Her small shoes were dusted with powdered sugar from the dessert table, but her blue eyes—so terrifyingly identical to Clara’s—searched his face with pure, uncorrupted innocence.
"Does Mommy have to stay in the dark room now?" she asked, her voice trembling in the vast, silent room.
Bramwell reached out. His large, scarred hand, capable of crushing bone without hesitation, gently cupped the side of her small head. His thumb wiped away a fleck of dried chocolate from her cheek, his signet ring cold against her flushed skin.
"No, sweetheart," Bramwell said, his voice softer than anyone in that gallery had ever heard it. "The dark room is finished. Where did you see Mommy last?"
Dulcie sniffled, her tiny hand reaching up to touch the lapel of his jacket. "The ladies in the white coats gave me to the driver. They told me to give the paper to the tall man with the ring. Mommy cried. She said... she said the tall man would bring the big car and make them stop giving her the sleepy medicine."
Bramwell’s eyes narrowed into slits of black obsidian.
Sleepy medicine. Chemical restraint.
He stood up, the gentleness vanishing from his posture as quickly as it had appeared. He turned back to Osric, who was still groveling on the floorboards, trying to stem the blood flowing from his shattered nose with his silk pocket square.
Bramwell took two measured strides and planted the heavy sole of his leather oxford directly onto Osric’s left hand, crushing the manicured fingers against the concrete floor.
Osric shrieked in agony, his heels drumming against the carpet. "The sanitarium! The sanitarium in Cold Spring! St. Margaret’s! She’s under the name Sarah Cole! Room 402! Please, Bramwell, don't break my hand!"
Bramwell did not lift his foot. He applied five more pounds of pressure until a tiny, sickening pop sounded beneath his sole.
"Who owns the facility, Osric?" Bramwell asked, his tone conversational.
May you like
"My uncle!" Osric wept, saliva and blood dripping onto the parquet. "It’s our family’s private foundation! We have private security there! They don't know who she is—they just think she’s an unstable ward of the state!"
Bramwell lifted his foot. Osric curled into a fetal position, sobbing into the shattered dessert plates.
