Chapter 2
Beatrix would not let anyone touch the rabbit except me.
That mattered.
We left the conservatory together.
No questions in front of thirty adults.
No family interrogation while she was still wearing frosting on one sleeve.
I cleaned her hands myself.
She watched me repair the paper crown badly with tape.
It leaned sideways when I placed it back on her head.
She smiled anyway.
“Daddy fixed.”
“Poorly.”
She laughed.
Good.
Then I pointed toward the rabbit.
“Did Mommy put something inside Bunny?”
Her expression changed.
My wife Amelia had died eleven months earlier.
Cancer.
Slow enough to say goodbye.
Fast enough that none of us were ready.
Beatrix nodded.
“Mommy sewing.”
“You saw?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Beatrix hugged the rabbit.
“Bunny keeps Daddy’s wish.”
My throat tightened.
“Daddy’s wish?”
She nodded seriously.
“Not open till birthday.”
Of course.
Amelia.
Even dying, turning secrets into rituals because she knew I hated dramatic conversations.
“What were you wishing for?”
Beatrix looked suspicious.
“Can’t tell.”
Fair.
Birthday law.
Then:
“Cordelia asked Bunny lots.”
My attention sharpened.
“When?”
“At party before.”
“How many times?”
Beatrix held up four fingers.
Probably not reliable.
Enough.
“What did she say?”
“She said Bunny old.”
Then:
“She said she buy new one.”
There.
Cordelia had been trying to replace the rabbit before today.
Not tease Beatrix.
Remove an object.
I kissed my daughter’s forehead.
“You keep Bunny.”
“Forever?”
“As long as you want.”
That answer mattered.
Not forever because Daddy says.
Because she chooses.
When she finally fell asleep, I returned downstairs.
The guests I had ordered to stay were still there.
Eight of them.
Interesting number.
Cordelia sat beside Percival.
The crushed gift box had been placed on the table.
I lifted its broken false bottom.
Inside was a dark-blue ribbon identical to the one tied around the brass key.
So Cordelia had known there would be a key.
She simply searched the wrong object first.
I looked at her.
“My wife prepared that box.”
Her face tightened.
“How did you know what was supposed to be inside?”
No answer.
I leaned closer.
“Amelia told you.”
Cordelia finally whispered:
“She told me enough.”
Wrong answer.
May you like
But it confirmed something worse.
My dying wife had known Cordelia was dangerous.
