Chapter 3 — The Sister Who Was Supposed to Have Died
Roderick picked up the second photograph.
His hands started shaking.
Mirelle looked older.
Several months old.
Alive.
Smiling in someone’s arms.
“No.”
He looked toward Celestine.
“No.”
“They told me she died.”
Celestine nodded slowly.
“I know.”
“You know?”
His voice rose.
“What exactly do you know?”
Celestine walked toward one of the boxes.
“I found the photographs first.”
“Then documents.”
Roderick stared.
“What documents?”
She opened the box.
Inside were hospital records.
Letters.
A child’s identification bracelet.
And a court envelope.
Roderick picked up the hospital bracelet.
MIRELLE AINSWORTH.
His surname.
His family.
His sister.
“What happened to her?”
Celestine answered carefully.
“She didn’t die.”
“I can see that.”
“What happened?”
Celestine handed him the court envelope.
Inside was an adoption order.
Roderick read the first page.
His face lost all color.
Child: Mirelle Ainsworth.
Placement: Eleanor and Vincent Harcourt.
“Adopted?”
Celestine nodded.
Roderick looked furious.
“My parents gave my sister away?”
“It appears so.”
“Why?”
Celestine pointed toward another file.
Roderick opened it.
Medical correspondence.
Mirelle had been born with a congenital hearing impairment.
Not life-threatening.
Not something that made her incapable of living a normal life.
But the family was under severe financial pressure at the time.
Roderick’s father, Alaric, had lost a large portion of the family business.
His mother, Isabeau, had suffered a serious postpartum breakdown.
A distant cousin knew a couple unable to have children.
Eleanor and Vincent Harcourt.
Financially stable.
Prepared to raise a child who might need additional support.
The arrangement began as temporary care.
Then became adoption.
Roderick stared at the pages.
“Why tell me she died?”
Celestine shook her head.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“There are letters from your mother arguing against that lie.”
Roderick looked up.
“My mother?”
Celestine handed him one.
Isabeau’s handwriting.
Alaric, Roderick keeps asking when his sister is coming home.
I cannot continue telling him she is sick.
If Mirelle is to remain with the Harcourts, he deserves an explanation that does not require us to pretend she died.
Roderick’s eyes filled.
The next letter was from Alaric.
Short.
Cold.
He is five.
He will recover from grief more easily than from spending his childhood asking why we gave away his sister.
Roderick sat down.
“He decided I’d rather believe she was dead.”
Celestine said nothing.
Roderick looked around the hidden room.
“How long did my mother keep this?”
“For decades.”
“Why here?”
“I think she planned for someone to find it.”
Roderick frowned.
Celestine pointed toward the last shelf.
There was a newer envelope there.
Not yellowed.
Not decades old.
Postmarked only three months earlier.
Across the front:
FOR RODERICK AINSWORTH.
And the return name made Roderick stop breathing.
MARA HARCOURT.