The infant, Corrine, became the sun around which the dark planet of Foxworth Hall rotated. Malcolm did not return to the world of business or the society of men; he became a ghost haunting his own hallways, his ears perpetually tuned to the ceiling. The sounds of the house changed—the heavy silence was now punctuated by the rhythmic creak of a rocking chair and the soft, haunting lullabies Olivia sang with a voice that sounded like grinding stones.
In the village of Gladstone, people began to notice the change. The grand mansion on the hill had always been a place of mystery, but now it felt like a tomb that refused to be buried. The gates remained locked, and the few servants who stayed were sworn to a silence that bordered on the religious. The "joke" had spread—the locals whispered that Malcolm Foxworth had gone mad with grief after his father’s death, but the truth was far more clinical. He hadn't lost his mind; he had simply moved it to the attic.
As Corrine grew, so did the complexity of her cage. By her third year, the schoolroom was filled with the finest toys from Europe—clockwork birds that sang in gilded cages, velvet-clad soldiers, and books illustrated with vibrant colors that she would never see in the natural world. Malcolm would visit her every evening after the sun set. He would sit in a high-backed chair, watching her play with an intensity that made the air feel thick.
"She has the Foxworth eyes," Malcolm noted one evening, his voice a low purr. He was watching the toddler stack wooden blocks near the circular window.
Olivia stood in the shadows of the doorway, her arms crossed. "She has her mother’s eyes, Malcolm....