Page 85 of Hush, Little Baby

That settles in my brain, fuzzy and warm. “He doesn’t have to,” I say, even though part of me likes it.

Elise sets a batch of muffins on the cooling rack, dodging Marta’s elbow. “But he wants to,” she says, twirling her spoon like a wand. “He’s taking his new role very seriously.”

Marta chuckles, shaking her head. “I’d say that man was born to be a dad.”

I choke on my water.

“It’s not ‘dad,’” Elise tells her, smacking her arm lightly. “It’s ‘Daddy,’ right, Charlie?”

I duck my head, face probably as red as a fire hydrant. “I haven’t… I mean… T-that’s right.”

Marta wipes her hands on a dishtowel, considering me. “You enjoy that whole thing, too, don’t you? He’s not forcing you into it?”

I shake my head quickly. “No!” I gasp, feeling my ears burn as they both raise their brows at my insistence. “I mean, he did force me here… But the um, the other stuff, I’ve been into for a while on my own.”

Marta gives a short nod. “Good. I hope you know that if you ever find yourself in danger, we will help you. No questions asked.”

“Oh… thank you.” I bite my lip, peeking up through my eyelashes at the two women. “You guys don’t think it’s weird? That I like that stuff?”

Elise leans in a little. “Of course not, Charlie.”

Marta huffs. “I’ll be honest with you, we were concerned when we opened that room for the first time. I get it now, and it’s clear to see that a lot of the furniture is made for adult bodies, but I swear to god my first thought was that he’d kidnapped an actual child.”

I snort involuntarily and immediately cover my nose. “Sorry. Sorry! I mean, not a child. I’m twenty-five.”

Marta grins. “We know that now. I’m just saying I had my concerns until we were briefed on what was actually going on.”

“So did you guys not go in the nursery before that?”

“No, it was the only off-limits room. We always liked to joke about what he could be hiding in there. For a man who relies on housekeeping staff, we thought it had to be something crazy for him not to allow us to tidy up in there,” Elise explains.

Marta nods, folding her arms. “Never in a million years would I have guessed that man was up there collecting toys and adult-sized onesies.”

I grin and turn that over while the tray full of hot, doughy muffins gives the air an almost syrup-thick sweetness. If anything, being here—being like this—feels less weird than pretty much anywhere else I’ve ever been.

A few minutes later, I ask, “Were you here when Nikolaus was… I mean, did he ever have anyone before me?”

They look at each other. Marta shrugs. “No. Not here anyway. He’d go out to the clubs and hotels and all that, but he never once brought someone home.”

The idea that I’m the first makes my chest buzz with a significance I can’t name. It’s scary that maybe I’m the only one, but I can’t help but feel a little proud too. Like I’m a secret part of Nikolaus, something new and precious and breakable.

Marta catches my face shifting and just says, “He’s much happier since you came around.”

I try to answer, but the only thing that comes out is a small “Oh.”

Elise grins at me. “You can have a muffin, if you want,” she says, breaking one open and holding out the steaming half. “Here, it’s too hot for the plate.”

I take it and fumble a thanks, the sugar melting against my fingers. I pull a piece off and taste it, and it’s all at once too sweet, too warm, and perfect. For a second, my throat goes tight, like if I said anything right now, I might cry.

Maybe they sense it, because the next few minutes are easy, full of gentle teasing and comfortable chewing. Marta sits across from me and sips a cup of coffee, and Elise leans on the counter, telling stories about her daughter’s obsessions with dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. It’s the kind of kitchen I used to watch on TV.

An hour later, after three muffins, tea, and several failed attempts by Elise to convince me to take more food, I find myself wandering again.

The penthouse is a maze when I’m not being led by the hand. I drift through rooms that must have names—parlors, dens, libraries—though all I see are strange displays of wealth.

Sometimes, there are little reminders that I’m not in a hotel or museum, like a bowl of keys slung carelessly on a priceless table, or a phone charger snaking across a nineteenth-century secretary desk.

I find a room with a baby grand under a window and plink a few notes, just to hear if the sound echoes like in the movies. It doesn’t. The walls are too thick, the carpet too lush. I let my hand slide over the slick, cool lid and imagine being the kind of person whose body is made for these rooms, whose presence wouldn’t be swallowed by the architecture.