Chapter 2 - Beneath the Surface
I didn't ask her another question right away. The raw vulnerability in her dirt-smudged face made every protective instinct I possessed roar to life. I shrugged off my black suit jacket, folding the warm fabric around her thin, trembling shoulders. She clutched the lapels with tiny, mud-stained fingers, her knuckles white. When I reached out and scooped her up into my arms, she felt impossibly light, like a bird made of hollow bones and terrified breath.
"Hold on to me," I murmured, my voice losing its usual sharp edge.
She rested her small head against my chest, right over where my heart hammered against my ribs. Her breath came in short, uneven puffs against my shirt. I carried her through the sprawling rows of the cemetery, past the weeping willows and the stone angels, straight to the idling sedan parked by the wrought-iron gates. My driver, Viktor, turned around from the front seat, his eyes widening in silent astonishment as I pulled open the rear door and slid inside with the child.
"Drive," I commanded, the single word carrying enough iron to snap him back to attention. The tires crunched on the gravel drive as we pulled out onto the asphalt.
Twenty minutes later, we were inside the quiet, secure sanctuary of my downtown brownstone. The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing out the damp city evening. I carried her straight up the wide staircase to the master bathroom, where I turned on the brass faucets, letting steaming water fill the clawfoot tub. I added a generous pour of lavender soap, watching white bubbles billow across the surface.
Gently, I helped her step out of the ruined, filthy dress. As the fabric dropped away, my breath caught in my throat. Across her pale shoulders and thin ribs were faint, yellowish bruises—marks of rough fingers, old and healing, but unmistakably deliberate. Rage flared hot and sudden in my chest, dark and suffocating, but I forced it down, burying it deep where she couldn't see.
May you like
I lifted her into the warm water. She let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief as the heat enveloped her cold skin. I took a soft washcloth, dipping it into the soapy water, and began the slow, tender work of washing the mud from her face and tangled hair. The brown water swirled down the drain, taking the grime of the world away piece by piece.
When she was clean, I wrapped her in a thick, fluffy white towel, carrying her out to the bedroom where I had laid out one of my softest black cotton button-down shirts. It swallowed her whole, the hem falling past her knees like a little dress. I sat her on the edge of the mattress and brought a steaming bowl of vegetable soup from the kitchen. She ate in silence, holding the ceramic bowl with both hands, her dark eyes never leaving my face.
