Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 109674 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109674 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I perked up. “Maybe I can find the book for you. Is it in the library?” I hoped it was. Father had removed everything from Nestore’s room and burned it.
Nestore shrugged. “I don’t know. The day my mother died, the maid took it out of my room, and I never asked for it again.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you want me to look for it?”
Nestore gave me a small smile. “Yeah.”
I gave a resolute nod. “I’ll do it tonight and bring it to you tomorrow.”
“What about you? Do you have a favorite memory of your mother?”
My face became taut. “No, at least I don’t think it’s a memory. I was only two, too young to remember anything, but sometimes I dream of a woman singing a lullaby, and I see my mother’s face.”
“The subconscious is powerful. It might be a deeply buried memory that your mind can only access during sleep.”
“I like to think it is,” I said with a soft smile, then pushed to my feet. “I’ll be back with The Tale of Peter Rabbit, okay?”
“Okay.”
I left the basement and made a beeline for the library door, which was in the corridor behind the ballroom. The oak door creaked when I pushed it open and snuck in. I spent plenty of time in this room, so nobody would be surprised to find me here, even at night.
My eyes caught on a stack of photos on the desk in front of the window. Those hadn’t been there this morning. I moved over to the desk and froze. These were photos from Nestore’s birthday party. The top photo showed Flavia in her bloodred dress standing behind Father as he chatted with Benedetto. I quickly rummaged through the photos until I found a photo of Nestore and me on the balcony. Nestore was more than a head taller, and we were smiling at each other. I folded the photo and slipped it into my neckline, then checked the other photos, but stopped when the first images of executions appeared. Had Father really made the photographer capture the brutal murders?
I grimaced and backed away from the desk, then focused on the task that had brought me here in the first place.
I scanned the shelves for one with children’s books, but only found one with fables and fairy tales. Old leatherbound books lined the shelves, nothing that usually spoke to a child. I ran my finger over the spines in search of the right one. I had almost given up hope when I found the small, thin book at the end of the shelf. I took it out with a grin. Something fluttered to the ground. A photograph of a young Nestore, maybe six or seven years old, standing beside a beautiful, tall woman with dark hair and huge green eyes. She wore a long blush-colored dress and had an arm wrapped around her son.
I picked up the photography and hid it in the book. My father destroyed every photograph and all the Romanos’ personal belongings, so this could very well be the last photo of Nestore’s mother.
The house was quiet when I stepped out of the library. The staff was probably done cleaning the ballroom or took extra care to be quiet so they wouldn’t wake my father and encounter his wrath.
With the book clutched against my chest, I hurried downstairs. Nestore shoved to his feet when I entered the basement.
“I didn’t expect you to be back tonight,” he said as he curled his hands around the bars.
I lifted the book with a smile, then held it out to him. He froze before he took it as if it were breakable.
“I found a photo inside.”
He opened the book, and his face softened with wistfulness as he looked down at the image of his mother and himself. He swallowed audibly before he took it out. Then he held the book out to me.
I shook my head with a frown. “It’s for you.”
“I know. Can you read a couple of pages to me?”
My chest tightened. “Of course.”
I took the book and sank to my knees. Nestore sat against the wall, the photo propped up against his raised legs.
I began to read. “Once upon a time, there were four rabbits, and their names were—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.”
Nestore closed his eyes, and I kept reading.
Ten minutes later, Nestore opened his eyes. “Thanks. That’s enough for tonight. Can you read me more tomorrow?”
I gave a slight nod, my throat too tight for words. I slid the book through the bars and Nestore took it. Then he hid both the book and the photograph under his bed.
He sank down on the bed. “It’s late. You should go to bed before someone catches you.”
“Sleep tight,” I said, moving toward the stairwell.
“I don’t know if I would want to survive without you. Thank you for helping me.”