Chapter9

Celia's POV

He said it the way you'd mention the weather, one hand still in his jacket pocket, and I couldn't tell whether the amusement in his face was for me or for the situation.

"Small world," I said.

Then the flower bed came back to me — Ivy crouched in the mulch with her hands over her ears while two kids stood above her and laughed like it was a show. I stopped the turn I'd already started.

“Take good care of her,” I said. “Whatever else you have going on, don’t let anyone hurt her.”

I didn’t soften my tone. I didn’t know who he was, how much he was worth, and I didn’t care. All I knew was that a child was being hurt, and her family ought to look out for her better.

He offered neither an apology nor an explanation. Instead, his gaze drifted past my shoulder toward the doorway, where the butler still held Ivy’s hand. He nodded and said he would keep an eye on things going forward, thanking me for the heads-up.

With his reply, I knew my part here was done. I stepped forward to leave.

“You’re good with children,” he said suddenly. “I saw it just now. She took to you easily. She doesn’t act like that around strangers.” There was certainty in his voice.

“I’d like to ask you to stay and look after her. I can pay you generously. Leave your number.” His tone was calm, as though he expected me to agree without question. After all, generous pay and what seemed like an easy job would tempt many people.

“Thank you, but I decline. I have my own work, and I don’t have time to look after a child,” I said bluntly. My goal right now was to launch my own studio, and I couldn’t afford to let anything distract me.

A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes, as if he had not anticipated my refusal at all. He glanced toward Ivy and spoke. “Take Ivy inside first.”

Ivy went, but at the door she stopped and looked back once — a quick half-second — and I caught it. After the gate closed, the yard went quiet and he spoke again, his voice looser than before, as though he'd stopped negotiating and started telling the truth.

"Victor Vance," he said. "Ivy's father was my brother. He and his wife are gone. She lives with me now."

He paused, choosing the next words with more care than he'd spent on anything else.

“She’s different from other kids. The doctor says she’s on the autism spectrum. School is really hard for her. I’m away from home so often that I barely get to see her. Today is the first time I’ve ever seen her warm up to a stranger like this.”

I stood there, listening as he told me about Ivy. His words worked, as it turned out; a pang of sympathy for her rose inside me.

He added, “It won’t take up much of your time. All you’d need to do is drive Ivy to and from school and spend a little time playing with her when you can.”

I hesitated. Ivy seemed gentle and wouldn’t demand too much energy. Maybe I could agree. But then I thought about how far the estate was from my home, and doubt crept in.

“It’s too far from where I live,” I said. “Driving back and forth would eat up so much of my time.”

He asked where I lived, and I told him. He nodded, barely moving his head, as if I had confirmed something he’d already suspected.

"I keep a place over there," he said. "It's empty. Ivy can move in tomorrow."

"All right," I said. "I'll do it." A sense of relief washed over me, tangled with a flicker of anticipation.

That night, up in the attic, I stepped out of the shower with my hair still damp and a towel slung over my shoulder. My phone vibrated. I picked it up and opened the message Victor had just sent.

Ivy has moved. The new address is in Chelsea. Please take her to school tomorrow morning.

Less than three hours had passed since I’d agreed to look after her, and the whole of the little girl’s life had already been packed up, relocated and finalized. It had all happened faster than it took to eat dinner. He moved incredibly quickly — even faster than Arthur.

Holding the phone, I typed back Okay, then set it face-down on the nightstand. After turning off the light, I lay there thinking about tomorrow.

I thought about the two things I'd have to bring in the morning, the pickup card and the parent registration.

I thought about the last time I'd filled out that paperwork, which was for another child.

In the morning, I found the address easily and rang the doorbell. Ivy stepped out wearing a brand-new backpack, creases still visible along the straps. She carried a faint scent of lavender. From the stiffness in her shoulders, I could tell she had been awake for a long time, probably waiting.

A warm feeling rose in my chest. I knelt down and asked her, “Have you been waiting long?”

She shook her head softly, then slipped her hand into mine. It was nothing like the tight grasp she’d had in the taxi before.

Once we got in the car, by the second intersection, the street began to feel familiar, though I didn’t want to dig into why. At the third crossing, I recognized the café with green vines climbing its awning, and the plane tree across the road, trimmed into that same neat, flat, straight shape.

Work had been done here two winters ago. I’d glanced at the building notice once and thrown it away.

I had walked this route before. Back then, I’d held a small hand in mine, with a backpack just like this one slung over that little shoulder — only in a different shade of green. My heart skipped a beat, then another.

A doubt crept over me. Could Ivy and Leonie possibly go to the same school? I asked Ivy where she studied, but she said nothing. Instead, she lifted her free hand and pointed ahead.

Wrought-iron gates came into view. The gilded lettering on the arch was something I had seen twice a week for three years.

Brighton Preparatory School.