Chapter 3 - The Grass Bracelet
The east gable room was small, tucked under the steep slate roof of the mansion, but it was clean, warm, and had a window that looked out over the blue waters of the Sound.
For two weeks, Sophia worked fourteen hours a day.
She scrubbed the heavy mahogany paneling in the main library, polished the brass fixtures in the long corridors, and hand-washed the crystal drops on the three grand chandeliers in the ballrooms. Emma spent her days sitting quietly on a small wool blanket in the corner of whatever room Sophia was cleaning, drawing picture after picture of yellow ducks, green trees, and big red houses on scraps of paper Mrs. Harris gave her.
She was an extraordinarily quiet child. She never raised her voice. When she felt tired, she simply lay down on her blanket, pulled her worn cloth rabbit to her chest, and closed her eyes until Sophia finished her shift.
The staff gradually grew accustomed to the quiet child with the faded pink backpack. Even Mrs. Harris, whose discipline was legendary among the housemaids, occasionally slipped a small cup of warm apple juice or a sugar cookie onto Emma’s blanket when Lorenzo was in the city.
In the west wing, however, Isabella’s condition was declining.
The damp spring weather had brought a lingering cough that kept the five-year-old confined to her bed for days at a time. Lorenzo had brought two specialists from Manhattan on Tuesday, but after three hours of examinations and low-toned consultations in the hallway, they had simply increased the dosage of the Swiss drops and advised that she be kept as calm as possible.
Isabella was miserable.
She refused her soft-boiled eggs. She threw her picture books at the wall. She spent hours staring silently out her window at the sea, her small face pale, her dark eyes hollowed by exhaustion.
On a rainy Thursday morning, Mrs. Harris rushed into the kitchen where Sophia was preparing a bucket of citrus oil for the library floors.
“Sophia,” Mrs. Harris said, her face flustered, a silver tray balancing precariously in her hands. “Take this tray to the west wing. Second floor. The second door on the left.”
Sophia stopped her work, looking at the tray. It held a small bowl of clear broth, a glass of water, and three small pills in a white paper cup.
“Mrs. Harris, Mr. Moretti said I was never to go into the west wing,” Sophia reminded her gently.
“The primary nurse had to step out to meet the pharmacy courier at the gate, and Isabella is screaming that she won't take her breakfast,” Mrs. Harris snapped, visibly stressed. “Just set the tray on the nightstand and come straight back. Do not speak to her.”
Sophia hesitated. She looked down at Emma, who was sitting on a low stool by the linen closet, weaving three long blades of sweetgrass she had picked near the garden wall into a clumsy braid.
“Come with Mama, sweetie,” Sophia whispered, taking Emma’s small hand. “We’ll be very fast.”
They walked up the grand staircase, their footsteps silent on the thick Persian carpet. The west wing felt completely different from the rest of the house—it was colder, quieter, and smelled strongly of antiseptics, fresh lilies, and the sweet, heavy scent of old perfume.
Sophia stopped outside the heavy oak door. She knocked once, very gently.
There was no answer, only a low, wet cough from inside.
Sophia pushed the door open three inches.
The room was vast, draped in heavy blue silk curtains that blocked out most of the grey morning light. In the center of a massive carved canopy bed sat Isabella Moretti. She was wearing a white nightgown, her knees pulled up to her chest, her dark hair tangled around her small face.
Beside the bed stood a nightstand littered with brown medicine bottles, a small pulse oximeter, and a glass of untouched orange juice.
Isabella turned her head sharply as the door opened, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, angry light. “I told Nurse Brenda I don't want the soup! It tastes like salt!”
Sophia stepped into the room, holding the tray carefully in both hands. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I just brought the broth for you. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to.”
Isabella glared at her. She was about to yell again—to use the sharp, demanding tone she had learned from watching the adults around her—when her eyes fell on the small figure standing in the shadows behind Sophia’s skirt.
Emma had stepped into the room.
She was holding her pink canvas backpack in one hand and her braided grass bracelet in the other. Her wide brown eyes took in the high canopy bed, the long blue drapes, and the pale, angry girl sitting in the center of it all.
Emma walked right past her mother, her small black shoes clicking on the hardwood floor.
“Emma, no!” Sophia gasped in a terrified whisper, setting the tray down quickly on a side table.
But Emma didn't stop. She walked right up to the edge of the high bed, tilted her head back, and looked directly into Isabella’s pale face.
“You have a tired heart?” Emma asked softly.
Isabella frowned, her anger momentarily derailed by sheer confusion. “What?”
“A tired heart,” Emma repeated, touching her own small chest over her wool sweater with two fingers. “Mine gets tired too.”
Isabella stared down at the three-year-old. She looked at the messy dark curls, at the small, pale face, at the faded pink backpack slung over her tiny shoulder.
“My heart isn't tired,” Isabella said defensively, though her voice lacked its previous sharp edge. “It’s broken. Papa said the doctors are fixing it.”
“Medicine makes it slow,” Emma said gravely, sitting down on the rug right beside the high bed, pulling her knees up to her chin. “It tastes like angry pennies.”
Isabella’s mouth opened slightly. A tiny, unexpected noise came out of her throat—a short, high-pitched giggle that sounded like a small bird taking flight in a cavern.
“It does taste like angry pennies!” Isabella said, leaning over the edge of the mattress to look down at Emma. “The red one is the worst!”
“The red one makes my tongue cold,” Emma agreed, nodding her dark head with solemn authority.
Sophia stood frozen near the door, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She looked toward the hallway, terrified that Mrs. Harris or one of the armed guards would walk in and find them.
“Emma, sweetie, we have to go,” Sophia whispered urgently.
Emma didn't get up. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the clumsy braid of sweetgrass she had been weaving, and held it up to the older girl.
“I made this,” Emma said proudly.
Isabella reached down, taking the grass braid with thin, pale fingers. She examined the rough knots, smelling the fresh, sweet scent of the garden grass.
“What is it for?” Isabella asked.
“It keeps the stone off your chest,” Emma told her with absolute certainty. “When my heart gets loud, Mama gives me grass to hold, and the stone goes away.”
Isabella looked from the rough grass bracelet to Emma’s wide, serious brown eyes. For the first time in two weeks, the tight, angry lines around Isabella’s small mouth loosened completely.
She slipped the grass braid over her wrist, turning her small arm to watch it catch the light from the bear lamp.
“What’s your name?” Isabella asked softly.
“Emma.”
“I’m Isabella.”
“Sister?” Emma asked innocently, using the word she had heard in the children’s books Sophia read to her at night.
Isabella blinked, looking at the tiny girl sitting on her rug. A slow, genuine smile—the first one Lorenzo had not seen in three months—spread across her pale face.
“Okay,” Isabella whispered, holding out her small hand. “Sister.”
At that moment, the heavy oak door swung open fully.
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Lorenzo Moretti stood in the threshold, his dark coat damp with rain, his gray eyes fixing instantly on the scene before him: his daughter leaning over the edge of the bed, wearing a ring of lawn grass around her wrist, laughing with the maid’s daughter sitting on the rug.
The quiet in the room became absolute.
