Chapter 6

Ivy's POV

Four twenty in the afternoon.

I appeared outside the Stone family estate and pressed the doorbell.

The gates of Stone Estate were as imposing as I had imagined—wrought iron, no decoration, not a trace of warmth.

Wesley the butler opened the door for me, his expression solemn yet composed. But soon he froze.

His gaze fell on Luna. She stood beside me, hands cradling a neatly folded piece of paper, her expression grave, as if she were carrying a diplomatic credential.

"Miss Vane." He paused. "I didn't know you would be bringing a child to work."

Evie Vane—this was the name I'd given myself after leaving the Grant family and during my time living in France. I'd used my mother's maiden name to remind myself that Grant was no longer relevant to me, that I had only a mother, no father anymore.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I should have mentioned it beforehand. I just returned from France and haven't found anyone reliable to help me look after my daughter yet... I promise it's just this once."

I knew that bringing a child to my first job could easily displease the employer—it looked too "unprofessional."

But right now Robert was quite displeased with me because of the Voss family matter. Grandmother had been looking after Luna all last night and now had to go to the company. Today I really couldn't risk leaving her alone at Grant Manor again.

I clearly remembered how my stepmother had once arranged for a group of people to corner me when I was alone at school.

I couldn't let Luna experience that again.

"I'll keep her with me the whole time," I said. "She won't touch anything here."

Luna straightened her back right on cue. "I'm Mommy's little helper," she announced solemnly. "I'm not here to cause trouble. And—" She presented the folded paper to Wesley with the utmost ceremony. "This is my business card. I drew it myself. I'm submitting an application to you—I'd like to be friends with the little boy. This is the gift I brought for him."

She displayed her sketchbook.

"I won't cause you any trouble."

Wesley looked down at the drawing. Something in his face loosened—not quite a smile, but the lines around his eyes softened, like someone trying hard to maintain composure.

"Very well, I approve your application," he said, bowing slightly and formally accepting the paper.

Then he stepped back and let us in.

Stone's estate was large, and the house felt empty.

Eighteen-foot-high ceilings. Light limestone floors. The kind of woodwork that required months of labor and cost more than an ordinary family's entire house. Every surface was impeccable.

But there wasn't a trace of warmth.

Since I'd started making children's clothing, I'd been to many homes to take measurements for their children.

Based on my experience in France, it was rare for a household with children to maintain such order and quiet—usually there were toys everywhere, filled with children's laughter.

But I'd never dealt with families as wealthy as Stone's. Perhaps they had dozens of maids constantly cleaning up, I thought.

Wesley led us toward the children's room. Along the way, he lowered his voice, as if making a casual remark: "Miss Vane, if Master Cal shows resistance, I'd ask that you not approach him again. He's somewhat... particular about contact with strangers. We don't want anyone getting hurt."

I glanced at him sideways.

"He's four," I said.

"Yes."

"I would have thought you'd be more concerned about me, an adult, hurting a four-year-old child?"

"No, he's not like ordinary children." Wesley showed a troubled expression. "He's gone through quite a few staff members these past few months. Martha says he's scratched and bitten many people. This child is a bit..."

He closed his mouth at the appropriate moment. I understood what he meant—he didn't want to speak too poorly of the master's young son.

But he really had no choice.

"Martha is?"

"The maid responsible for caring for him. She's been with the Stone family for twenty years, has looked after many young masters, very experienced. Old Mrs. Stone specifically sent her over to help the master."

Luna looked up at me.

"The child is called Cal?" I asked.

"Cal. Cal Stone."

We stopped in front of a door. Wesley knocked once and pushed it open.

The boy sat at a low table by the window.

He was smaller than I'd imagined—more delicate. Pale complexion, a pair of dark eyes staring fixedly at the tabletop in front of him, wearing an oversized pajama shirt that looked like adult clothing, his expression something a four-year-old child shouldn't have: stillness.

He was silent as a stagnant pool of water.

I didn't know what he was thinking, but I understood immediately.

He wasn't happy.

Something in my chest stirred.

A woman in her forties or fifties stood beside him—square posture, hair pulled back severely, hairline so tight it looked like it could cut glass. When we entered, she turned and nodded to me.

"Martha," Wesley said, "this is Miss Vane, here to design Master Cal's wardrobe."

"Miss Vane." Martha gave me a critical once-over, then examined Luna with the same scrutinizing gaze.

"This child is?"

"My daughter. I assure you she won't cause any trouble. She'll wait quietly on the side while I work."

Martha frowned. "She shouldn't—"

But the little boy by the window suddenly turned his head.

He was looking at Luna, and Luna, holding my hand, looked back at him.

The two children's gazes met, neither looking away.

"It seems they're getting along well," Wesley interjected at the right moment. "Let the child stay. If she causes any trouble, I'll take her away."

I looked at him gratefully. Martha's brow remained furrowed, but she nodded with great reluctance.

"I hope she stays quiet. The young master is about to have his afternoon tea, after which you can take measurements."

"Of course." I took a few steps inside, surveying the room.

Custom bookshelves. A drawing desk scaled to child proportions. Hundreds of books. An area larger than my first apartment in Paris. "Thank you for receiving us. This is—"

I turned toward the low table, toward those quiet dark eyes. "How old are you?"

Cal didn't answer.

Martha answered for him. "Four years and nine months."

I was somewhat surprised.

"Oh, the same age as my daughter."

But this child looked...

"Their similarity is limited to age alone." Martha's tone was flat with a hint of displeasure.

"He's developmentally delayed in social interaction, refuses to eat or dress properly, won't speak—six months now, not a single word. If you ask me, he's a—"

"He's right here," I interrupted before I could think.

I didn't know why I had that impulse.

Perhaps because I guessed that whatever noun she hadn't yet spoken would surely be unkind.

Freak? Idiot? Or something else?

I didn't want to hear it.

Martha stopped and glared at me.

"I think those assessments are somewhat harsh for him," I tried to maintain a calm, polite tone. "He's four years old, already a child, not a piece of furniture."

She straightened her spine. "Miss Vane, I've been in childhood education for twenty-two years—"

"Then you must know that children internalize what adults say in front of them." I smiled. "I'm merely suggesting a bit more patience, that's all."

The silence held for a beat.

A door on the other side of the room opened, and a cart loaded with exquisite trays was wheeled in.

Cal looked over.

His expression didn't change, but I noticed his small shoulders quietly sink down an inch.

Luna craned her neck curiously to look.

The Stone family's old matriarch was said to be British and now lived primarily in England, so the Stone household maintained the habit of afternoon tea.

But Luna didn't have this habit. She was used to eating three meals with me, and eating whenever she was hungry at other times.

Her casualness was clearly at odds with the strict rules of this household.

I noticed Martha's eyebrows issuing another warning and quickly called to her.

"Luna, come to Mommy's side."

But Cal had already turned his head.

He looked directly at Luna—that serious, focused gaze that children only have when they've decided someone is worth the effort. Then he spoke, his voice so soft I almost didn't hear it:

"Do you want to eat?"