Chapter 2: Whispered Warnings
The pantry smelled of dry flour, aged cedar, and the faint, sweet scent of imported vanilla beans that Eleanor only used for the charity dinners she hosted to impress the city's elite. Hours had passed since my father came home, listened to Eleanor's quiet, disappointed sighs, and told me to go straight to my room without dinner. But my room wasn't where I ended up once the house grew truly quiet at midnight.
I slipped down the carpeted hallway, my bare feet making no sound against the thick wool runner, and pushed open the door to the adjoining nursery. Seven-year-old Clara was curled into a tight ball beneath her quilt, her breathing soft and even. I crept to the side of her small white bed and knelt down, resting my arms on the mattress.
"Lily?" Clara whispered, her eyes blinking open in the dim amber glow of the hallway nightlight. "Are you in trouble again?"
"Shh," I murmured, pressing a finger to my lips. I reached out and gently stroked her messy curls. "Listen to me, Clara. You have to be so careful around Eleanor. Never touch the crystal glassware in the dining room. Don't even go near the hutch."
"Why?" Clara asked, her lower lip trembling. "She yelled at you today. I heard her through the vent."
"She doesn't like things out of place," I said, my voice barely audible even to myself. "And she likes making us feel small so we won't look too closely at what she's doing."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean Dad thinks she's an angel, but she keeps a ledger in his study drawer," I whispered, glancing nervously back toward the dark hallway. "A leather-bound book with green ink. I saw it when I was dusting last week. It has names of orphanages and foster funds, but the numbers don't match the checks Dad signs."
Clara stared at me, too young to fully understand embezzlement or tax evasion, but old enough to recognize the fear in my tone. "Is that why she hates us?"
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"She doesn't hate us. She just wants us to be invisible," I replied, pulling the quilt up higher around my sister's shoulders. "Go back to sleep, Bug. I'm going to figure out what she's hiding. One day, we won't have to walk on eggshells in this house."
I kissed Clara's forehead and crept back out into the hallway, pausing outside my father's study. The door was cracked open by an inch. A thin sliver of light spilled across the hardwood floor. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Against every instinct telling me to run back to my bedroom and pull the blankets over my head, I stepped forward and pushed the heavy mahogany door open just a little wider.
