Chapter 13
Verity eventually moved to Maine.
Her choice.
Her sister had space.
A quieter town.
No one whispering when she entered a room.
I supported the move.
Not forever.
Enough.
She refused a house from me.
Accepted a year of rent.
Negotiated fiercely.
I respected that.
Before leaving, she came to the estate one last time.
No maid uniform.
August six months old.
Round cheeks.
Disrespectful amount of hair.
He stared at me suspiciously.
“Smart boy.”
Verity smiled.
She asked to see the conservatory.
I hesitated.
Then took her.
The antique carriage was gone.
Gift table gone.
No engagement decorations.
Only plants.
Sunlight.
Normal room.
She stood where Eudora had forced her hands onto the carriage.
No ceremony.
No tears.
Just stood.
Then:
“I thought I was going crazy.”
I said nothing.
“She kept telling me grief makes people imagine things.”
There it was.
Eudora’s line from the reception.
Not improvised.
Repeated.
A method.
Convince the person their perception is the problem.
Verity looked at August.
“I heard babies twice before that night.”
My jaw tightened.
“She told me it was the television upstairs.”
Silence.
“I believed her.”
“You were being lied to by people with access you didn’t have.”
She looked at me.
“That doesn’t make me stupid?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Then she laughed softly.
“I know that now.”
Progress.
Before leaving, she handed me something.
The folded infant blanket from the carriage.
I stared.
“How do you have this?”
She had taken it after August was found.
Not sentimental.
Evidence to herself.
A reminder she had not imagined anything.
“Do you want it?”
“No.”
“What should I do with it?”
She shrugged.
“Wash it.”
Simple.
I did.
It became one of August’s ordinary blankets.
Not cursed.
Not sacred.
May you like
Fabric.
Good.
