Page 47 of Nanny and the Beast

"The kids will be late for school," she says.

He walks toward Helena.

"Are they done with breakfast?" he asks.

"Yes, they're ready to go," Helena replies.

Mr. Sinclair turns his head toward me. The morning sun falls on the scar on his face, making it look like a river of molten gold.

"You don't have to come along," he says. "You haven't had a chance to eat anything."

My heartbeat is erratic once again.

"That's okay, I'll eat later," I say.

He looks displeased by my answer but nods. I get the children and walk toward the Rolls Royce that's waiting for us outside. Mr. Sinclair sits next to the driver, and I sit with the kids in the back.

As we pull out of the driveway, James sniffles.

Mr. Sinclair sighs. "Not this again."

"James, what's wrong?" I ask, gently holding his small shoulder. He's slumped in the seat, his chin tucked into his chest. Fat tears roll down his cheeks.

"He has a meltdown every Monday morning about not wanting to go to school," Mr. Sinclair says.

"Why don't you want to go to school?" I ask James.

"I hate it there," James says in a small voice. "I want to stay home. With you."

"I'm not going anywhere," I say. "I'll be right here when you get back."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

I glance at Rosalie. She's staring out at the moving road. James is the one who's crying, but Rosalie is the one I'm more concerned about.

There's something melancholic in the girl's eyes.

I sometimes see the same melancholy when I look at myself in the mirror. I see soft traces of it on Mr. Sinclair's face. But Rosalie is too young to be weighed down by the reality of life.

"James, pull yourself together," Mr. Sinclair chastises. His words come out rough, but there's a hint of panic in his voice.

"Can I stay at home with you, Miss Turner?" James whispers, placing his small hand over mine.

"James, this isn't something that's up for discussion," Mr. Sinclair says.

James tries to stifle his cries, but the tears spill faster.

"Hey," I say, enveloping his hand in mine. "What do you want to do when you get back?"

"I don't know," he sniffles. "I just don't want to go to school."

There's a desperation in his voice that breaks my heart.

"Halloween is coming up," I say. "Do you want to get decorations for the house? We can also get some pumpkins and carve them."

"All shopping is handled by the staff," Mr. Sinclair interjects.

I keep my eyes on James, who's watching me with big, glassy eyes.

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