Chapter 7
The terrace fell into an eerie, ringing silence as the sound of screaming engines and squealing tires faded down the long private driveway.
The bright daylight began to soften, taking on the rich, honeyed brilliance of late afternoon. Long shadows of the limestone balustrades stretched across the empty tables, where crystal glassware sparkled in the golden rays.
Oswin walked slowly toward the French doors, carrying his daughter against his chest. Celia’s breathing had slowed, her small fingers tracing the peaked satin lapel of his dinner jacket.
"Daddy?" she murmured.
"Yes, little bird?"
"Is the apron gone?"
"The apron is burned," Oswin said softly, kissing her forehead. "Your room is clean. Silas is putting your stuffed animals back in their baskets."
"And the bad doctor?"
"The bad doctor is never coming back," Oswin said, his voice entirely devoid of the lethal frost he had shown to the Crofts. "Nobody will ever give you bad medicine again. I promise you."
Celia sighed, a deep, shuddering release of child-terror, and rested her temple against his shoulder. "I want chocolate milk."
"Martha is making it right now," Oswin smiled faintly. "With the marshmallows you like."
He carried her into the grand salon, where the high ceilings and oil paintings of Marlowe ancestors stood watch in the fading light. Silas was waiting by the sweeping marble staircase, holding a manila folder under his arm.
"Boss," Silas said, stepping forward with a hushed tone.
Oswin paused, keeping his hand flat against Celia’s back. "Is she asleep?"
"Almost," Oswin murmured. "Give me five minutes. Wait in the library."
Oswin carried Celia up the wide staircase, down the carpeted hallway of the south wing, and into the sunlit nursery. The room was vast and bright, painted in pale cream, with arched windows looking out over the private bay. Her white-canopy bed was neatly made, her pink leather suitcase already unpacked in the corner, her toys arranged on the low shelves.
He laid her down on the mattress, slipping off her buckle-fastened Mary Janes and pulling the soft linen duvet over her cardigan. He tucked the small embroidered pillow beneath her golden curls.
Celia blinked sleepily, her eyelids heavy. "Stay, Daddy."
"I'm right downstairs, sweetheart," Oswin whispered, stroking her forehead until her breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of true rest. "Sleep now. You're safe."
He stood by the bedside for two full minutes, his broad frame completely motionless, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
Then, his face hardened back into granite.
He turned, walked out of the nursery, and pulled the heavy mahogany door shut until the latch clicked into place with absolute finality.
Two armed guards in dark suits immediately flanked the threshold.
"Nobody enters this corridor," Oswin commanded. "Not even the kitchen staff. If anyone approaches without my direct radio clearance, put them down."
May you like
"Understood, Mr. Marlowe," the lead guard replied, checking the chamber of his sidearm.
Oswin descended the stairs and pushed open the double doors of the private library.
