Chapter 4 - The Eyes of the Mother
Arthur knelt in the damp grass, disregarding the dirt staining his tailored trousers. His massive hands, which had signed billion-dollar mergers and buried political rivals, hesitated as they touched the wire grate.
""Blair,"" he murmured.
The child shrank back against the plastic wall, trembling uncontrollably. She held a torn scrap of fabric against her chest. Her small voice was a cracked squeak. ""I didn't steal the bread... I was just hungry. Don't put me in the dark hole again.""
Arthur’s heart violently contracted. She had her mother's eyes—wide, hazel, flecked with bright amber gold, framed by identical delicate brows. The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow: Catherine’s blood ran pure in this broken little girl.
""Jax. Get this off,"" Arthur ordered. The sheer venom in his quiet tone caused even the hardened contractor to move with urgent precision.
Jax used heavy wire cutters to snip the zip-ties and pried open the spring mechanism. The plastic door swung wide.
Arthur reached inside with infinite care, lifting the fragile, featherweight body into his arms. Blair weighed almost nothing. Her collarbones protruded sharply beneath her tattered off-white dress, and her skin burned with a feverish heat. She buried her face against his neck, shivering violently as her small tears soaked into his cashmere lapel.
""You're safe now,"" Arthur whispered, his voice cracking for the first time in thirty years. ""Nobody will ever touch you again.""
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Clara pushed herself up from the grass, wiping crimson from her eyebrow. ""Mr. Sterling... Timothy and Martha fled toward the chapel rectory. They took the parish records.""
Arthur turned slowly, shielding Blair’s head with his broad palm. His eyes were cold, dead obsidian. ""Burn the rectory gates. Bring them to me.""
