Chapter 5 - The Glass in the Bread
When Laurel woke up, the sun was high enough to hit the mahogany panels of the library with a hard, yellow light that made her eyes sting.
Her rib felt like a hot nail was being driven into her side every time she drew a breath. She reached out instinctively, her fingers searching the velvet cushion for Leo.
He wasn't there.
Panic hit her like a cold bucket of water. She sat up too fast, a sharp gasp tearing out of her throat as her side buckled.
"Quiet," a voice said from the doorway.
Damian was sitting in a winged armchair by the bookshelf, a leather folder open on his lap, a coffee cup resting on the small table beside him. He wasn't wearing his jacket now; his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the long, grey line of a surgical scar running from his wrist down into his forearm.
Leo was sitting on the rug near his feet.
The boy was holding a large, expensive silver spoon, tapping it rhythmically against the leg of the mahogany chair while a maid in a black dress offered him small pieces of toasted bread with butter from a porcelain plate.
Leo looked up when he heard Laurel move. His eyes brightened, but he didn't run to her; he held up the spoon, showing it to Damian with a solemn nod.
"Look," Leo said.
Damian didn't look at the spoon. He looked at Laurel.
"He likes silver," Damian said, his voice flat. "He’s been hitting my floorboards with it for forty minutes."
Laurel swung her legs off the sofa, her hand pressed against her left side, her face going white with the pain. "Give him to me."
"He’s eating," Damian said. "He hasn't eaten real butter in six months, if his ribs are any indication."
"Don't talk about him like he’s a horse you bought at an auction," she spat, struggling to stand. Her uniform was torn at the shoulder, the white collar grey with dust from the stockroom floor.
"Sit down, Laurel," Damian said without raising his voice. "The doctor said you have two cracked ribs. If you displace the bone, you’ll be in the hospital for three weeks and I’ll have to hire a nurse to carry him around."
She froze, her weight half-supported by the arm of the sofa. "You can’t keep us here."
"I can," Damian said, closing his folder with a dry snap. "And until the report comes back from Northbrook at noon, you’re not moving past the front hall."
"And after noon?"
Damian stood up. He was so tall the light from the tall window behind him was completely cut off, throwing his face into dark shadow.
"After noon," he said, "we talk about where he goes to school."
"He’s two years old!" she screamed, her voice cracking with the strain in her chest.
Leo dropped the silver spoon. The loud clatter on the hardwood floor made the little boy jump, his face crinkling as if he were about to cry.
Damian moved faster than a man his size should have been able to move. He was down on one knee next to the child before Laurel could even reach the edge of the rug. He didn't touch the boy; he simply picked up the spoon, wiped it on his sleeve, and handed it back to Leo, handle first.
"Don't drop the silver," Damian said softly to the child. "It pisses off the maid."
Leo looked at the spoon, then at Damian’s face. Slowly, his tiny, dirty fingers closed around the handle again. He didn't cry. He looked back down at his plate of toast.
Laurel watched them from three feet away, her breath coming in short, agonizing hitches.
"You’re terrible with him," she whispered.
"I’m terrible with everyone," Damian said, standing up and smoothing his trousers. "That’s why I have five hundred people working for me who don't ask questions."
A knock came at the door—three sharp, heavy taps.
Rafe pushed the door open. He didn't come in; he stood in the frame holding a yellow Manila envelope that was sealed with grey tape.
"It’s here," Rafe said.
May you like
Damian turned. He didn't look at Laurel. He walked across the wide room, his leather shoes making no sound on the thick Oriental rug, and took the envelope from Rafe’s hand.
The room went completely still, except for the tiny clack-clack of Leo’s silver spoon against the chair leg.
