Chapter 173

Iris

“That’s two daughters now,” my father fumes as he paces the length of the sitting room. “First Selina, now Iris. He has scorned both of my daughters, and—”

“Francis,” my mother chides gently from her seat beside me on the sofa, “you’re not helping, darling. And Selina is no saint.”

“Perhaps,” my father huffs, stopping his pacing to look at us. “But she is still my little girl, despite… everything. So is Iris. And this… boy has hurt both of them.”

I understand my father’s anger. I really do. Selina might have caused a lot of trouble, but she’s still the daughter they raised, and in her own twisted sort of way, she did love Arthur, only to have him publicly denounce her. Given everything that’s happened, to anyone on the outside, Arthur might look like a heartless bastard.

But…

“He really did try to reject her,” I murmur, wringing my hands in my lap.

“Tried?” my father snorts. “The rejection either works or it doesn’t. And if it didn’t…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to. We all know what it means: Arthur’s heart wasn’t in it. He has feelings for Veronica and can’t break his bond with her. My parents have already discussed speaking with Veronica’s parents, but we all know it would be no use. What could they possibly do?

“I think we should give Arthur the benefit of the doubt,” my mother says, placing her hand over mine to stop my fidgeting. “He loves you, Iris. Anyone can see that. And he adores Miles. He wouldn’t intentionally hurt either of you.”

“Wouldn’t he?” My father shakes his head. “He did before. He hurt Selina, too.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t made a plethora of mistakes before, Francis,” my mother says, eliciting a begrudging huff from my father as he flops onto his armchair by the fireplace.”

I sigh, sinking further into the couch cushions. Miles is upstairs, happily playing with his kitten, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around him. I want to keep it that way. No matter what happens between Arthur and me, Miles shouldn’t have to suffer. I already made the mistake of involving him in our fights once, and I won’t do it again.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit quietly. “Part of me wants to trust him. Believe that this isn’t what he wants. But another part…”

“I know, darling,” my mother says gently. “But you can’t let fear make this decision for you. You need to listen to your heart.”

My father opens his mouth as if to argue again, but my mother silences him with a look. After a moment, he admits reluctantly, “Your mother is right. As usual. Do what your heart wants. And try to listen to him and hear him out.”

I look between them, these two people who found me so late in life yet love me so fiercely. Despite their different approaches, I know they both want what’s best for me, and I appreciate it. But I need time to think.

Later that evening, after Miles is tucked into bed, I make my way to the studio my parents prepared for me. It’s a beautiful space, with large windows that catch the last of the evening light, and every art supply I could possibly need arranged neatly on shelves and in drawers.

Hours pass as I paint, the studio growing dimmer around me as night falls completely. I flip on the lamps but barely register the transition from natural to artificial light, so absorbed am I in the world taking shape on my canvas.

When I finally step back to look at what I’ve created, I’m almost startled by the image. A she-wolf, the very same she-wolf I saw standing on that cliff, bears a large, very dead crimson snake in her jaws. Blood drips down from the limp serpent onto the rocky ground, cascading over the cliff in a river of blood.

I blink, surprised, and glance at the clock. Well past midnight, so late my record has long since stopped playing. I hardly even recall painting this; it was as if I were in a trance.

For a long moment, I just stare at the she-wolf, into those fierce eyes. I swear she’s looking back at me, regarding me with that cool composure of hers, even with a monster clamped between her jaws. It’s as if she’s telling me that she’s here, that she’s watching, protecting. That no one could possibly—

A soft cough behind me makes me whirl around, paintbrush still in hand.

I’m surprised to find Nora, the nanny, standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray with a teapot and plate of cookies. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in my painting, and for reasons I can’t quite explain, I instinctively shuffle over a little to hide it behind my back. I don’t think it’s because I’m ashamed of the image—I think I don’t want anyone else to look upon the she-wolf.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says, her eyes snapping back to me. “Mrs. Willford mentioned you skipped dinner…” She lifts the tray a little higher.

“Oh,” I say, caught off guard but grateful for something to eat and drink, because I am actually starving. “Thank you. You can just set it down anywhere.”

She moves into the room and places the tray on a small table near the window. As she turns to leave, her gaze falls on my painting again, and something flickers across her face, although it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“Do you like it?” I ask, gesturing toward the canvas.

Nora hesitates, then nods slightly. “It’s very… powerful.”

“Would you like to sit and have tea with me?” The invitation surprises even me. I’ve never sought out Nora’s company before, partly because she always seemed to avoid mine.

She pauses, clearly uncertain, then nods again. “If you’re sure I’m not disturbing your work.”

“Not at all,” I assure her, setting down my brush and wiping my hands on a cloth. “I could use a break.”

I pull up two chairs to the small table while Nora pours the tea. The scent of chamomile rises with the steam, and I inhale deeply.

“Thank you for this,” I say, accepting the cup she offers. “It’s very kind of you.”

“It’s nothing,” she murmurs, taking her own cup with hands that tremble slightly. Is she nervous? Around me?

We sip in silence for a moment. I’m not sure what to say, and frankly, I’m a little afraid that if I said the wrong thing, she might rush out of the room just as she has before. I still don’t think she likes me very much.

“You’re very talented,” Nora suddenly says after a while, nodding toward the painting. “Your mother said you’d studied art professionally, but I had no idea you were this good.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Once again, I’m surprised by her words. “Oh. Um… Thank you,” I manage. I follow her gaze to the painting, and in a strange way, I’m relieved to see that the she-wolf is still there. I half expected her to have trotted right off the canvas with her prey and disappeared.

“This piece seems very symbolic,” Nora points out.

I laugh softly. “It wasn’t intentional. At least, not consciously.”

“Art often reveals what the heart can’t express in words.”

We talk for a while longer, about art and literature, about the changing seasons and the gardens my mother tends so carefully. Nora is knowledgeable and articulate, and dare I say, even kind. Not Augustine-level kind, but she makes good company.

I wonder if she was just too shy to talk to me like this before. Or perhaps she’s been beating herself up about the baby switch all these years.

The thought makes me sad. She shouldn’t have to carry that burden, not when it wasn’t even her fault.

“Nora,” I say gently, setting down my cup. “I hope you know that I don’t blame you for what happened when I was born. The switch… it wasn’t your fault.”

The change is immediate and dramatic. Nora’s face suddenly closes off completely.

“I should go,” she says, standing abruptly and gathering the teacups. “It’s getting late, and you need your rest.”

“Nora, wait,” I start, confused. But she’s already gone.

I stare at the spot where she sat just now, frowning. Did I say something wrong?