Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Nursery
By four that afternoon, the rain had turned into a thick, clinging fog that smothered the Ellery estate in ghostly white. The town car dropped me at the service entrance, where a maid named Sarah escorted me up the back stairwell to the third floor.
The third floor was dedicated entirely to Lily and her staff. The guest suite prepared for me was grander than my family’s entire apartment, fitted with honey-colored oak floors, a marble fireplace, and tall French windows looking out over the barren rose gardens. But connecting my room to Lily’s was a heavy white double door, which stood slightly ajar.
I set down my single battered suitcase containing my three modest dresses, my father’s worn Bible, and a tin box of pastel drawing chalks.
Stepping through the connecting door, I entered the nursery.
It was vast, filled with every toy a child could dream of—handcrafted dollhouses, shelves of untouched storybooks, a miniature grand piano, and an entire wall of imported plush animals. Yet the room felt frozen, like a museum display where nothing was ever meant to be touched.
Lily was sitting on a circular braided rug in the center of the room. She was still wearing the pale yellow dress, and the ragged rabbit was propped between her crossed knees. In front of her were wooden alphabet blocks, but she wasn't building towers; she was arranging them in precise, rigid lines, spelling out nonsense sequences: *X-Q-Z-M-K.*
She heard my soft footstep and froze. Her shoulders hitched toward her ears, her posture curling defensive and guarded.
I didn't rush forward. Instead, I sat down cross-legged on the rug four feet away from her, keeping my hands visible on my knees. I took out my tin of drawing chalks and set it between us, opening the lid to reveal the vibrant sticks of violet, teal, crimson, and gold.
Lily didn't look at me, but her dark eyes darted sideways, catching the flash of bright color.
I took a large sheet of rough watercolor paper from my bag, laid it flat on the floor, and picked up a stick of warm yellow chalk. Without a sound, I began to draw. I drew a small bird perched on a branch, its wings tucked tight, waiting for the rain to stop.
Minutes ticked by in utter silence. The only sound was the rhythmic *scritch-scritch* of chalk against paper.
Gradually, Lily’s rigid shoulders began to drop. She shifted an inch closer. Then another. Her small hand reached out, hovering over the open tin, before her tiny fingers selected a stick of deep midnight blue.
She didn't draw on the paper. Instead, she picked up one of the smooth wooden blocks. On its blank side, she pressed the chalk hard and drew a single, heavy circle. Then, inside the circle, a dot.
An eye.
She held the block in her palm and looked directly at me. Her expression was intensely serious, carrying an awareness far beyond her six years.
Carefully, so as not to startle her, I raised my hands into the low space between us, shielding my fingers with my own torso so they couldn't be seen from the room’s perimeter.
*Who is watching?* I signed slowly.
Lily glanced up at the ceiling.
My eyes followed hers. There, nestled right above the nursery bookshelf in the decorative trim, was another tiny dome camera. The housing was so discreet that unless you were searching for it, it looked like an ordinary brass screw head. But right behind the glass, the faint red dot pulsed in the dim room.
Lily brought her hands to her chest. Her signs were small, tight, kept low against her lap:
*The cold lady.*
My heart tightened. *The cold lady?* Vivian? Was Vivian monitoring this child day and night like a warden?
I signed back: *Does she hurt you?*
Lily shook her head once, sharply. Then she signed: *She takes Barnaby if I make noise.* She touched the rabbit's torn ear. *She says bad men come if I talk. Like the night Mommy fell.*
A sudden chill gripped my chest. Clara Ellery’s death had been ruled a tragic accident—a fall from a balcony during a winter storm, or so the newspapers had reported at the time. But Lily’s signs hinted at something darker, something twisted into a weapon of control.
Before I could sign another question, the heavy nursery door clicked and swung inward.
Vivian stood in the doorway. She had changed into a dark emerald dress, her face masked in that same aristocratic detachment. Her sharp gaze flicked from me to Lily, then dropped to the chalk dust on the floor.
"You're encouraging a mess, Miss Bellamy," Vivian said coolly, stepping into the room.
Lily immediately dropped the blue block, snatched her rabbit to her chest, and stared at the floor, transforming instantly back into the hollow, lifeless shell she had worn earlier.
"Chalk washes out easily, Miss Ellery," I said, standing up smoothly and using my skirt to obscure the wooden block with the eye drawn on it. "Lily was just showing an interest in colors."
Vivian walked over, her eyes lingering on the drawing of the bird on the paper. For a second, a flicker of raw, aching sorrow broke through the woman's severe features. She reached down, her manicured fingers brushing the paper with surprising tenderness.
"Clara used to paint," Vivian whispered, almost to herself. "Birds, mostly. Swallows and robins. She set up an easel in the sunroom every spring." She caught herself, her spine snapping back into rigid posture, and glared at me. "Do not confuse her with sentimental games. Lily has a strict schedule. Bedtime is at eight sharp. The pediatrician insists on complete quiet after dinner."
"Of course," I said mildly. "May I ask about the security cameras, Miss Ellery? I noticed them on the stairs and in here. Are they part of the estate's internal monitoring?"
Vivian's eyes narrowed, a flash of defensive hostility flaring in her tone. "Marcus is an extremely high-profile target for corporate espionage and extortion. We have contracted a premier private security firm since Clara’s death. Every square foot of public space in this house is logged. Is that an issue for you?"
"Not at all," I replied calmly. "I simply wanted to ensure I wasn't interfering with security protocols."
"See that you don't," Vivian said curtly. She turned to leave, but stopped at the door, glancing back at the silent little girl on the rug. "Dinner will be brought to the nursery at six-thirty. Marcus will be dining downstairs alone."
When she was gone, I knelt back down beside Lily. The little girl was trembling violently.
May you like
I reached out, opening my hand flat on the carpet between us, offering it without demanding anything in return. After several long seconds, Lily placed her tiny, ice-cold hand into mine.
I squeezed gently. *I am here,* I signed with my free hand. *I am not going anywhere.*
