Chapter 9
Verity did not return to work.
Of course she didn’t.
For two weeks she remained in a guest apartment with August.
Paid.
Private.
No uniform.
No trays.
No expectations.
Then she asked to see me.
August slept against her chest.
Healthy.
Loud.
Apparently offended by sleep as a concept.
“What happens now?”
She meant work.
Housing.
Money.
Life.
I started answering like a boss.
Stopped.
“What do you want?”
She looked surprised.
“I don’t know.”
“Then we start there.”
Matthew had left little money.
Verity had no parents living.
One older sister in Maine.
She considered moving there.
Fine.
She considered staying.
Also fine.
I offered six months of full support regardless.
Not compensation for a stolen child.
That phrase mattered.
Back pay.
Medical costs.
Housing.
Time.
Things the estate owed because its hierarchy enabled what happened.
She accepted reluctantly.
Then asked:
“Do I have to forgive Miriam?”
“No.”
“Eudora?”
“No.”
“Mr. Ainsworth?”
I almost laughed.
“Definitely no.”
She smiled for the first time.
Then became serious.
“Everyone keeps calling August lucky.”
I understood.
Alive.
Recovered.
Safe.
Lucky.
She hated it.
Because luck made the six stolen days sound like adventure.
“He was not lucky.”
I said.
“You found him.”
“Yes.”
“That was good.”
“Yes.”
“But they still took him.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
Not for rescuing.
For not rewriting.
That mattered.
Then August woke and started crying.
Verity immediately rocked him.
I looked away.
Privacy.
She noticed.
“You can look.”
I did.
A mother holding her son.
Nothing symbolic.
Nothing political.
May you like
Just what should have been allowed from the beginning.
That image stayed with me more than the empty carriage ever did.
