Page 96 of Depraved Boys

Aunt Hortense swept her narrowed-eyed gaze over my body as though she could diagnose neurological conditions with the naked eye. “She doesn’t look cross-eyed to me.”

“Come on.” He placed her on the armchair and flicked his head toward the now empty three-seater sofa. “Try to get some rest, alright?”

Between my head throbbing, the children speaking in loud whispers, and Aunt Hortense’s crashing about in the kitchen, it was nearly impossible to get any rest, let alone sleep. I was better off lying on the sofa at Mom and Dad’s house, but the doctor had warned me about the possibility of blackouts over the next few weeks.

I lay on the sofa, reached for my phone, and sighed. Someone had either taken it, or it had fallen down the side of the mountain. With no way of contacting Sebastian, Leopold, or Miss Claymore, I would have to wait until I was well enough to leave the apartment on my own.

The autumn term would finish on Friday, giving us two weeks to celebrate Christmas and the new year before the start of winter term. I blew out a breath. Would I remember who had attacked me before then, or would I return to Brittas Academy not knowing whether Geraldine or Bianca or both had staged this accident?

Aunt Hortense’s contractions had turned out to be a false alarm, but each passing day reminded me that the baby would arrive at any time and worsen the already cramped conditions. If it wasn’t for the bouts of dizziness and light-headedness, I wouldn’t have continued burdening the young family.

One evening, as I dozed to the theme tune of Sesame Street, Uncle Trevor tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hortense’s water has broken, and I have to take her to the hospital.”

“Oh.” I rubbed my sore eyes.

“I’m so sorry to burden you like this, but Mrs. Stokes isn’t around to babysit. Can you keep an eye on the kids?”

I nodded. “No problem.”

About an hour after Uncle Trevor disappeared through the door, Peter picked up the remote and turned off the TV. Annie and Stevie screeched their objections, but the four-year-old picked up a pile of picture books and placed them on my lap.

“Willow, read me a story.”

My head throbbed. “Don’t you want to—”

“You always read us stories!” He turned to Stevie, who gave me a sharp nod.

“Alright, then.” I picked up the first book, cracked it open, and waited for the children to climb up on the sofa. “Once upon a time, there was a little boy—”

“That’s not what the book says,” Peter snapped.

I huffed out a breath. “What does it say?”

“It’s about a monster who wants a friend…” Peter continued his version of the story, and I stared at the boy through half-lidded eyes. My attention drifted in and out of focus until the landline rang.

Leaning over to where the phone sat on a side table, i picked it up and said, “Hello?”

“Hortense is having complications, and she’ll have to stay overnight. Sorry to burden you, but can you put the kids to bed at eight?”

A tight fist of panic squeezed at my gut. “Is she okay?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.”

“Don’t worry about the children. I’ll take care of them.”

“Thanks.” He hung up.

“Was that Daddy?” asked Peter.

“It was.”

“Is he coming back?”

“The baby’s taking a long time to come out,” I said. “They’re waiting in the hospital.”

“Why?” asked his three-year-old brother.