Chapter 5 - The Silent Language
The next morning, I traded my maid’s uniform for comfortable jeans and a soft sweater. My new quarters were moved to the upper west wing, directly across from Leo’s room.
My first task was establishing trust without pressure. I didn't ask Leo to speak. I didn't even ask him to look at me.
I set up a small play area in the sunroom—the room where his mother had died. It was a risk, but avoiding the trauma site was giving it power. I sat on the floor with a set of wooden building blocks and simply started building a tower.
Leo stood in the doorway, clutching Mr. Barnaby. He watched me for twenty minutes before taking a hesitant step inside.
I didn't look up. I simply slid a red block across the floor toward him.
He looked at the block. Then, very slowly, he sat down, picked it up, and slid it back.
It was our first conversation.
Over the next week, we developed a silent language. I taught him a few basic American Sign Language (ASL) signs—hungry, tired, yes, no. To my amazement, Leo picked them up instantly. He was brilliant, his mind trapped behind a wall of trauma.
Julian watched us through the security cameras. I knew he was watching because every evening, a fresh pot of my favorite chamomile tea would mysteriously appear outside my door, courtesy of a man who was allegedly made of ice.
One afternoon, Leo and I were in the garden. He was examining a caterpillar on a leaf. I signed, Beautiful.
Leo looked at me, then clumsily signed back, Beautiful.
I smiled warmly, my heart swelling. Suddenly, a shadow fell over us. Julian was standing there, his hands in his pockets, watching his son communicate for the first time in nearly a year.
Leo froze, dropping his hands, looking nervously at his father.
Julian knelt down in the dirt, ruining his bespoke suit trousers. He looked at Leo, then clumsily mirrored the sign I had just used. Beautiful.
May you like
Leo’s eyes widened. He looked at Julian, then slowly, hesitantly, signed Yes.
Julian’s breath hitched. He looked up at me, his eyes shining with unshed tears and a terrifying, intense gratitude. In that moment, he wasn't Boston’s most lethal king. He was just a father, fighting for his boy.
