Chapter 2 - The Song in the Dark
The grand foyer of the Blackwood mansion fell into a stillness so absolute that the only sound was the wet, ragged sobbing of the four-year-old boy clung to my shoulder.
Mrs. Evelyn stepped forward, her hand reaching out to grab Mason’s arm. “Emily, move away from him. Guards, take the boy to his room immediately before he causes further injury.”
At the touch of Mrs. Evelyn’s fingers, Mason’s entire body went rigid. His small fingers dug into the fabric of my grey uniform with a terrifying, desperate strength, his fingernails clawing through the cotton until they pressed into my skin. He let out a low, defensive growl, like a feral animal protecting its only shelter.
“Nobody touches them.”
The command came from the top of the stairs. Alexander Blackwood descended the steps slowly, his boots clicking with a cold, deliberate rhythm against the marble. The guards instantly stepped back, their hands dropping to their sides, their heads lowered in submission.
Alexander stopped at the foot of the staircase, his gaze fixed on his son’s hands, which were still tightly tangled in my collar. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing as if he were trying to solve a complex, frustrating riddle.
“You’re not bleeding,” Alexander noted, his voice flat.
“No, sir,” I said, keeping my arm wrapped gently around Mason’s back, supporting his small frame. “My ribs are bruised, but the skin isn't broken.”
“He has broken the bones of two nannies, Clara’s sister, and three private tutors,” Alexander said, his tone devoid of emotion, as if he were listing the casualties of a minor border dispute. “Why did you not push him away?”
“Because he wasn't trying to hurt me, Mr. Blackwood,” I said, looking him directly in the eyes, violating Mrs. Evelyn’s first rule. “He was trying to see if I would disappear if he did. When you’re four years old and the world has already taken the most important thing from you, you start to believe that everything you touch will break.”
A tense, dangerous silence stretched between us. Mrs. Evelyn looked as if she were about to faint from my insolence, but Alexander didn't flinch. He simply stared at me, his expression unreadable, before turning his gaze back to his son.
“His room is on the second floor, down the east corridor,” Alexander said. “Take him there. You are relieved of your cleaning duties for the rest of the day, Emily. From this moment on, your only responsibility is Mason.”
The East Wing NurseryThe nursery was less of a child’s bedroom and more of a secure, carpeted vault. The furniture was made of heavy oak, rounded at the corners, and the windows were reinforced with thick, shatterproof glass. There were no small toys, no sharp objects, and no decorations on the walls—everything that could be thrown or used as a weapon had been removed, leaving the room looking cold, sterile, and lonely.
I sat on the edge of the low bed, Mason still refusing to let go of my sleeve. He had stopped crying, but his small body remained tense, his eyes fixed on the door as if he expected someone to come in and tear him away.
I didn't try to force him to lie down. I simply sat there, letting him hold onto my cuff, and began to sing.
It was an old, traditional Irish lullaby my mother had sung to me and Leo when we were children, back when we lived in a drafty, two-bedroom apartment in East Dallas and our father was still alive. The melody was simple, slow, and repetitive, a gentle rising and falling of notes that seemed to mimic the steady rhythm of a calm heartbeat.
As the notes drifted through the quiet room, I felt the tension in Mason’s fingers slowly begin to ease. His breathing became deeper, his eyelids drooping as the sheer exhaustion of his rage finally caught up with him.
“Camila used to sing something like that.”
I started, my voice faltering as I looked up.
Alexander Blackwood was standing in the shadow of the doorway, his tall frame leaning against the wooden frame. He had removed his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the dark, intricate ink of a tattoo that extended down his forearm—a crest of a black wolf wrapped in thorns.
“My wife,” Alexander said, his voice unusually quiet, almost lost in the dim light of the nursery. “She was from Spain. She had a voice like silver. She would sit in that chair for hours, singing until he fell asleep. Since the night she died... this room has been completely silent.”
He stepped into the room, his eyes fixed on his son’s sleeping face.
“He hasn't spoken a single syllable in two years, Emily. The doctors said his vocal cords are intact, that the trauma simply severed the connection between his mind and his voice. They told me he might never speak again.”
“The mind heals at its own pace, Mr. Blackwood,” I said softly, careful not to wake the boy.
Mason stirred slightly in his sleep, his hand tightening on my sleeve. His lips parted, a small, dry wheeze escaping his throat.
Alexander and I both froze.
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It was a sound, faint and gravelly, like a key turning in a long-rusted lock. Mason’s eyes didn't open, but his small face twisted into a look of intense concentration, his chest rising as if he were dragging a heavy weight up from the depths of his chest.
“...Door...” Mason whispered.
