Chapter 2 - The Locked Room
“No,” Clara whispered back, her voice barely a breath against the cold wood of the door. “No one sent me. I heard you from downstairs.”
“You shouldn't be here,” Eva said. “If Barrow finds you, he’ll throw you out. If Father finds you... he doesn't like people looking at me. He says a Vale should not be seen in pieces.”
The words struck Clara with a cold, sharp truth. Adrian Vale, the formidable patriarch who commanded the city's underworld, could not tolerate weakness in his own household. But the pain in the girl’s voice wasn't the product of a physical injury alone; it was the pain of a child who had been hidden away like an embarrassing secret.
“I’m not looking at you,” Clara said gently, pressing her hand against the door. “I’m just sitting here. If you want, I can tell you a story.”
“A story?”
“Yes. About the harbor. About the great ships that come from across the sea, with sails like white clouds and hulls filled with spices and silk.”
For the next hour, Clara spoke in a low, soothing cadence, describing the bustling docks she had grown up near. She spoke of the seagulls that stole bread from the fishermen, and the old lighthouse keeper who claimed he could predict the weather by the ache in his left pinky toe. On the other side of the door, she heard the rustle of sheets, followed by the soft sound of a body dragging itself closer to the threshold.
By the time Clara crept back down to her room, the first grey light of dawn was breaking over the horizon.
Over the next two weeks, a quiet routine established itself. By day, Clara scrubbed the marble floors, polished the endless silver, and avoided the gaze of Adrian Vale whenever he strode through the halls. By night, when the rest of Blackwater House was asleep, she climbed the third-floor stairs.
She learned that Evangeline was ten years old. Six years ago, shortly after her mother’s death, she had lost the ability to walk. The finest doctors from London, Paris, and Boston had been brought to the mansion, but each had left with shaking heads and heavy purses. Hysterical paralysis, some had called it. A congenital nerve degeneration, others claimed.
But Clara began to notice things.
Because she was a maid, she was responsible for clearing the trays that went up to the third floor. Evangeline’s meals were prepared by a private cook and carried up by a stern, older nurse named Mrs. Gable.
One morning, Clara helped Mrs. Gable carry the breakfast tray up to the landing. As she took the empty plates back down, she noticed a faint, sweet, metallic smell clinging to the remains of the herbal tea the girl was prescribed.
It was a smell Clara recognized.
In the harbor slums, where poverty was a slow poison, people often used cheap, unregulated remedies to dull the pain of hard labor. One of them was a syrup made from wild nightshade and heavy metals, used to quiet screaming children or sedate the elderly. In small doses, it caused muscle weakness, lethargy, and a deep, heavy numbness in the limbs.
In large doses, it was fatal.
Clara’s hands began to shake as she carried the tray down to the kitchen.
Could Adrian Vale be poisoning his own daughter? It made no sense. He was a monster to his enemies, but why would he destroy his only child?
“You’re lingering, girl,” Barrow’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts as she reached the pantry.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrow,” Clara said, quickly dipping her head. “I was just wondering... Mrs. Gable seems very dedicated to Miss Evangeline’s care.”
Barrow’s expression hardened. “Mrs. Gable was hired by the late Mrs. Vale’s family. She has been with the young mistress since she was a baby. It is not your place to wonder about the staff, Rowan. Get back to work.”
Clara retreated, her mind racing. If Adrian wasn't the one administering the tea, then who was? And more importantly, why?
That night, when Clara reached the white door, she didn't sit down. She knocked, three light, rhythmic taps.
“Eva,” she whispered. “I need you to do something for me.”
“What is it?”
“The tea Mrs. Gable gives you every morning and night. Does it make your legs feel cold?”
There was a long pause. “Yes,” Eva said, her voice trembling. “It makes my whole body feel like it’s filled with lead. I sleep for hours after I drink it. But Mrs. Gable says it’s the only thing keeping the pain away.”
“The next time she brings it,” Clara said, her heart hammering against her ribs, “I want you to spill it. Pour it into the potted plant by your bed, or into the washbasin. Do not drink a single drop.”
“But the pain—”
“Trust me, Eva,” Clara pleaded. “Just try it for three days. Please.”
May you like
A long silence stretched between them. Then, a tiny whisper came through the keyhole.
“Okay, Clara. I trust you.”
