Chapter 3
Leopoldine stepped between Oswin and her daughter, her fair skin flushing a dangerous, blotchy red. "Clarissa is a child, Oswin! She doesn't know what she’s saying!"
"Children repeat what they hear at breakfast," Oswin said, his voice flat. "Silas. Bring Dr. Albright to the terrace."
"Right away, Boss," Silas answered, already moving toward the interior salon.
"Wait!" Leopoldine cried, reaching out to grab Oswin’s lapel. "Oswin, don't do this! Albright is an old friend of my father! He was just conducting a routine pediatric evaluation!"
Oswin stripped her hand from his chest with a single, contemptuous twist of his wrist. "My daughter has her own physician. Why was Albright in my private quarters while I was at the docks?"
Celia tugged on Oswin’s trousers, her little Mary Janes shifting nervously. "Daddy, the man with the yellow glasses gave me the cherry syrup. He said it would make the bad dreams go away."
Oswin knelt once more, his hand cupping Celia’s soft cheek. "Did you feel sleepy after the cherry syrup, sweetheart?"
"I couldn't move my legs," Celia whispered, tears spilling over her lashes. "I wanted to call for Martha, but my mouth felt like cotton. And then Auntie Leopoldine took my teddy bear out of the drawer."
Oswin stood up. The air around him seemed to freeze despite the bright afternoon warmth.
"Chloral hydrate," Oswin murmured. "You sedated a three-year-old in her bed."
"She was throwing a tantrum!" Leopoldine shrieked, backing away until her thighs hit the gift table, rattling the silver boxes. "She wouldn't stop crying about her dead mother! Clarissa couldn't practice her piano with that screeching down the hall! Albright gave her a mild pediatric sedative to help her rest!"
"You sedated my daughter so you could pack her clothes without her screaming," Oswin said.
"I was helping you!" Leopoldine shouted, her aristocratic composure completely shattering as she looked at the silent, horrified crowd. "Look at yourself, Oswin! You're forty-five years old, running three cartels, fighting federal grand juries every Tuesday! You don't have time to raise a broken little girl! My mother has an estate in Vermont with twenty-four-hour specialized nurses! She would have had gardens, tutors, everything!"
"An asylum," Oswin said.
"A private facility!" she corrected frantically. "A sanctuary! Where no one from the papers could take her photograph and connect her to your trials! It was for the family’s protection!"
The glass French doors opened with a heavy click. Silas emerged, his hand firmly clamped around the collar of Dr. Julian Albright.
The doctor, a sixty-year-old man in a bespoke pinstriped suit, stumbled onto the flags, his wire-rimmed glasses crooked on his nose.
"Mr. Marlowe," Albright gasped, sweating through his starched collar. "There has been an egregious misunderstanding—"
"Did you sign an involuntary psychiatric commitment order for my daughter, Albright?" Oswin asked.
May you like
Albright swallowed, looking desperately at Leopoldine. "I... I was acting under the statutory authority of the family’s prospective legal guardian—"
"She is not her guardian," Oswin said, stepping forward until his polished Oxford shoe rested against Albright's toe. "And you have five seconds to tell me where the paperwork is before I feed your prescription pad down your windpipe."
