Page 3 of Hush Darling
Peter looked up at him with worry in his emerald eyes. “James, must we live here?”
James frantically tried to think of a way out of their situation. His gut twisted when no alternative solution came.
This was not a happy place. Saint Mercy’s Home for Orphaned Boys carried an air of cruelty that bit into the bones like a freezing wind, invisible but life-threatening. Their souls would see no nourishment here.
Sister Nagina looked the type to devour small creatures slowly over time. She’d silently stalk their every move like a crocodile wading at the water’s edge, creating a false sense of safety that brought their guard down. Then, at the first sign of weakness, she’d snap.
James had seen her type before, calculating and patient, hungry and vicious. Torment was a game to them.
Sergeant Barrie approached the wall where they were seated and crouched low. “You boys are going to be okay.”
James wondered if the lie sounded as unconvincing to the officer as it did to him.
“What about Mommy?” Peter asked, wiping away another tear.
“I’m sure she’ll call when she can,” Sergeant Barrie promised. Another lie. “I’ll make sure she knows how to contact you.”
Peter sniffled and leaned into James’ shoulder, hugging his arm.
“You’re doing God’s work, Sergeant Barrie,” Sister Nagina said as she glided in like an ominous fog. “Now, you must let us do the same.”
The sergeant reluctantly stood and nodded goodbye. “You have my number if anything changes.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
They watched silently as the sound of his booted footsteps faded down the dim corridor. Hinges creaked as a cold draft swept through the hall when the officer pulled open the heavy door. The wood moaned, and James flinched when it slammed shut as if the snapping jaws of this place were already dragging them under, far into the depths of the unknown.
“Stand up.” Sister Nagina shattered the silence with a hissed command. “Stop that crying,” she snapped at Peter.
James scowled and rose to his full height beside his brother, placing a protective hand on his shoulder. Peter wiped his eyes and clung to James, using his body as a shield from the scary nun.
“I want my mommy,” Peter whimpered.
Like a shadow stretching over the dark waters of a swamp, still and quiet, she crossed the distance and—SNAP—her hand lashed out with the brutal swiftness slapping Peter’s face.
“Are you crazy?—”
Her hand whipped across James’ cheek with equally brutal force, leaving his gaze on the floor and his question clipped. He tasted blood.
“You will not question me. Ever. Is that clear?”
He glared at her through a slow, boiling rage. It was a wonder how anything so ancient could move so quickly. Everything in him wanted to sever that hand from the bone so she could never strike another person again.
“Things will be different here. Eyes on the floor. Now.”
They stared at the gloomy linoleum tile, the ripples of her gown fanning his periphery like the black banks of a swamp.
“Follow me.” She glided down the hall, flowing black fabric waving in her wake as she educated them about the rules of their new home, which felt more like a prison with every passing minute. “You will not speak unless spoken to. Silence is enforced at all times, except for the whispering hour each day at two when you walk the yard—rain or shine. Dawdling will be punished, as will disrespect or possession of contraband. You are expected to be washed up with your beds made each morning before dawn. Breakfast is served at seven, lunch at noon, and supper at six. Food is never to leave the servery.”
The scent of stew tinged the air, and James’ hollow stomach growled, but the old crocodile kept slithering along, snarling orders.
“You will bathe in the evenings, promptly after supper. Once in your nightshirts, you will wash your day clothes and hang them to dry. Wring them out well. During the winter months, the fabric takes longer to dry, and lazy little boys with wet clothes often catch colds. Illness is not pampered here, as we believe brisk, laborious exercise is the best opponent to sickness. One boy’s poor judgment mustn’t infect the whole.”
She led them up a silent stairwell where the air chilled several degrees cooler. Peter climbed the stairs two steps at a time, earning a cold stare from Sister Nagina as she waited. Peter whimpered at her glare and doubled his speed, accidentally tripping on the last step and falling at her feet.
Her shadow stretched like a looming storm. Violence lurked in the stillness, so James rushed forward to help his brother. Stretching out his hand, he met her beady stare with challenge. She grinned, feeding on their fear the way the predator feeds on prey.
She waved a hand toward a dark room. “Inside.”
