Chapter 5 - The Nursery at Midnight
The west wing of the townhouse was silent.
Alexander walked down the carpeted corridor, his steps making no sound. He reached the nursery door and pushed it open gently.
The room was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a nightlight shaped like a sleeping bear. Two identical white cribs stood against the far wall. In one, Clara lay on her stomach, her thumb tucked into her mouth, her breathing deep and even.
In the other, Iris lay curled beneath a pink blanket, her tiny hand gripping a stuffed rabbit.
Beside Iris's crib, sitting on a low wooden stool, was Grace. She had changed out of her uniform into a simple gray sweater and jeans. She was holding a small, leather-bound notebook, writing by the light of a tiny reading lamp.
She looked up as Alexander entered, her eyes reflecting the amber light. She began to rise, but Alexander gestured for her to remain seated.
He walked over, standing beside her, looking down at his sleeping daughter.
"She has a slight fever tonight," Grace whispered, her voice a soft, soothing melody in the quiet room. "It’s common when they're hitting major developmental milestones. Her nervous system is processing a lot of new information."
"The steps," Alexander said.
Grace looked down at her notebook, her fingers tracing the edge of the page. "You saw the footage."
"I did."
"I’m sorry, Mr. Whitmore," she said, looking up at him, her gray eyes sincere and entirely devoid of fear now. "I know I went against Dr. Harrington’s explicit orders. I know he is the leading pediatric neurologist in the country. But he was wrong. He was looking at her scans, not at her. Iris doesn't have a structural neurological deficit. She has a sensory integration issue. She was afraid of the floor. She thought the ground wasn't solid."
"How did you get her to walk?" Alexander asked, his voice barely a breath.
"I took off her shoes," Grace said, a tiny, beautiful smile touching her lips. "And I took off mine. I let her feel the cold wood. I let her feel the carpet. I made it a game. I told her the floor was a big, friendly giant who wanted to hold her up."
Alexander looked from his daughter to Grace. He felt a strange, tightening sensation in his chest—a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. Since Clara and Iris were born, his life had been a battlefield of corporate wars and a decaying marriage. He had surrounded himself with glass, steel, and expensive experts, believing that money could buy safety.
But safety, it seemed, had come in the form of a barefoot woman kneeling on his floor.
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"My mother tried to frame you because she realized you were becoming irreplaceable," Alexander said.
"I don't want to be irreplaceable, Mr. Whitmore," Grace said softly. "I just want to see her run."
