It was almost dawn before the town car Florence had waiting for them at the airport pulled out of the city and into the greeny of Elmsworth town. Maxwell and Richard, along with the driver, were still awake, but Monet had slipped into slumber the moment the car left the airport curb.Her lungs were weak from the smoke inhalation, the doctor had said. Plenty of rest and fluids, and she’d recover. It had taken coaxing, threats, and finally the calm, serene persuasion of Mother Margaret before the doctor had signed the release form.Richard’s gaze drifted to Monet’s sleeping form, curled on the seat. Her face was calm, peaceful even—but he remembered the heat in her eyes earlier, desire as clear as a spring morning. The memory stirred blood in places he’d rather ignore, and he forced himself to look away, meeting Maxwell’s neutral stare.“She’s more beautiful than I remember,” Maxwell said, voice steady, eyes sharp.Richard’s gaze hardened. “Don’t start anything.”Maxwell shrugged innoce
“How are the other people injured in the fire?” Monet asked Mother Margaret in a small voice. “The children are all okay, right?”The TV in the room played quietly in the background. Mother Margaret wore a bland expression—her usually calm exterior completely gone. She sat stiff-backed in the chair, her hands buried deep in the folds of her black habit, a hard look etched on her face.“The injured people have all been discharged. You’re the only one still in the hospital,” she said, the low quiver in her voice jolting Monet’s conscience. “Every child got out safely and there wasn’t any loss of life.”“You’re the only one here because you insisted on pulling out as many of the children as you could, and then still went back in for the donations and gifts.”Monet looked away from her accusing face. Her eyes still burned, but not from the smoke. “I was just trying to—”“Just trying to kill yourself, that’s what you were doing, Monet!” Mother Margaret, who had never raised her voice befor
“How is she doing?” Maxwell asked from his seat, his hand dragging through his dark hair. Concern softened the edges of his usually careless face.Richard sat beside him in the private wing’s waiting room, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the sterile tiles. His mind kept flashing back to Monet’s tear-stained face and that raspy voice from the fire each memory twisting something deep in his chest. An almost animalistic growl escaped before he could swallow it.“You’re the reason the nurses and doctor rushed in there, right?” Maxwell’s tone wasn’t accusing—more curious, probing.Richard didn’t answer. Maybe because he wasn’t sure if it had been a question in the first place.The kids and their grandmother were in New York, waiting for updates almost every few minutes. Meredith and Carter had begged to follow him. Even Florence had offered to book tickets for all three of them so they could see Monet. But Richard had said no.Meredith’s lips had wobbled in that way that always undid hi
Monet’s eyelids fluttered, the dull haze of the hospital room shifting in and out of focus. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, the breath still fragile but steady. The steady beep of the monitor was a reminder, she was still here, still fighting.The dark shifted. There was the faintest weight against her arm, the feeling of warmth—human warmth—seeping into her skin. Someone’s hand. Someone’s patience. Sasha. She could tell without opening her eyes. Sasha’s presence was a constant thread, as though she had tied herself to Monet’s bedside and refused to leave. Monet heard her once, speaking low, maybe to the nurses, to herself, “You’re not allowed to pull something like this again, you hear me?”Her mind wandered through the thick fog of sedation, dragging memories and regrets to the surface. She saw Meredith’s face, so serious, so brave. Carter’s pout, the way he always tried to be strong. She’d left without a proper goodbye, without the chance to hold them close just one more
The convent’s grand hall had been transformed into a warm haven against the sharp Boston winter. Wreaths of evergreen and holly framed the tall windows, and the scent of cinnamon-baked apples mingled with beeswax candles. Orphans in pressed jackets darted between tables, their laughter ringing under the vaulted ceiling.Monet stood near the stage, smoothing down Sasha’s white dress for the fifth time that evening.“You look like an angel,” she murmured, tucking a curl behind the girl’s ear.Sasha’s dark eyes lit up, but there was always that flicker—one Monet knew all too well—the guardedness of a child who had learned not to expect too much.“Do you think… people will want to adopt me this year?” Sasha’s voice was quiet, but in the busy hall, it felt like a private plea.Monet’s throat tightened. She crouched so they were face-to-face. “They’d be lucky to have you, Sasha. But if not this year, there’s still next, and the year after that. You’ve got time.”“You didn’t,” Sasha said
Morning sunlight spilled in thin ribbons through the tall windows of the convent dining hall. The air smelled faintly of porridge and wood polish, the low hum of quiet conversation broken now and then by the clink of a spoon. Monet sat at the far end of the table, her bowl untouched, her hands curled around the warmth as though it might anchor her. She’d been like this all morning moving when others moved, speaking when spoken to, but her mind was elsewhere. In the photograph. On Meredith’s almost-hollow eyes. On Carter’s pout. Her fingers itched for a pen. After clearing her dishes, she slipped away to the small writing desk tucked in the library’s corner. A jar of black ink sat beside a stack of plain stationery, the same kind used for donor thank-you notes. She dipped the pen, her hand hovering above the page. “My dear Meredith and Carter……” Her chest squeezed. She could almost hear Meredith reading it aloud in that breathless way she had, interrupting herself to add her own