***
I woke to the sound of birdsong and Marta moaning and groaning about drunks. The first thing I noticed was that sitting up took considerably more effort than I was used to; the second revelation came in the form of grass wet with morning dew plastered to my backside. We were outside. Mark lay next to me, quiet and still and staring down at me with the hint of a smile forming on his mouth.
“Hey you.”
“Good morning. I think,” I told him, wincing and trying to sit up for several long, embarrassing moments. Finally, I was forced to admit defeat and execute a most unladylike turn and roll, climb to my knees, then lean back into a crouch before finally standing up. Mark, damn him, didn’t suffer any such issues with his own mobility. All he had to do was bend at the waist and push off the ground and he was on his feet. Then again, he was probably in better physical shape than I was, though I was in better than average shape myself. Yesterday’s excursion must have taken more out of me than I’d realized.
“Sore?” he asked, doing a slow perusal of my hunched over form. Then to Marta, “We aren’t drunk, or suffering the after-effects. Claire and I fell asleep out here, looking at the stars and talking.”
“Who falls asleep in the backyard?” Marta shook her head, bending to retrieve a forest-green cloth napkin that had blown off the table sometime during the night before.
“People who gaze at the stars under a full moon, people in love,” Mark told her, grinning like a fool.
“Uh-huh. I’m sure all that went on out here last night was star gazing. No, no don’t tell me. Mark, don’t you dare tell me,” the old woman warned as Mark opened his mouth to reply.
“I could really use a cup of coffee,” I broke in before the intimate details of my love life could be spilled all over the backyard in front of the woman who was, for all intents and purposes, Mark’s mother.
“Where’s Ashley?” I asked, feeling a little guilty for falling asleep under the stars and, if the sun being high in the clear blue sky was any indication, sleeping in while other people took care of my little girl.
“She’s in the kitchen with Sienna. They’re drawing pictures together.”
“Thanks,” I said a bit sheepishly.
“What are you thanking me for? I told you Bob and I would take care of her.”
“The other child’s name is Sienna?” Mark asked as we followed Marta through the back door and into the brightly lit kitchen.
“So she tells us. What are we going to do with her?” She lowered her voice, glancing pointedly at the pair of dark-haired children seated at the butcher-block table, a small array of colored charcoal pencils and two big sheets of paper between them.
“Hi Mama, hi Mark!” Ashley chirped without taking her eyes off the picture she was so diligently working on.
“Claire and I need to talk to the child,” Mark murmured, taking my hand and approaching the small table. Marta seemed to fade into the background, and from the corner of my eye I noticed her take out several mixing bowls and a large tin of flour.
“Sienna?” Mark knelt down to address our newest charge, sighing when she all but jumped from her seat in response. “My name is Mark and this is Claire.”
“I’m Ashley’s mom.”
“We need to talk to you, Sienna. Will you come into the study with us?”
Several tense, drawn out moments passed, and just when I was sure the child would refuse to go down the hall with us, let alone into the study, Ashley leaned close to her newfound friend and threw one tiny arm around the girl.
“It’s okay, Seena. My mom’s really nice, and Mark is going to be my daddy someday. They won’t hurt you.”
The heartfelt honesty in the reassurance, especially coming from another child, seemed to break through the last vestiges of resistance that Sienna was so obviously struggling with. She scooted her chair back and stood awkwardly in front of us. Mark and I shared a glance—she still refused to look directly at either one of us. What had been done to this child before we had found her? The possibilities were wrenching to consider.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone touch your paper,” Ash promised, though who was even around to touch the half-finished picture of a sharp-fanged stick figure was beyond me. With a final glance at the crudely drawn but grisly portrait, I turned to follow Sienna and Mark into the study.
Sienna broke into a full run the minute she entered the room and the door closed behind the three of us, not stopping until she reached the sofa that bordered one wall. It was there that she plunked herself down, drew her knees up to her chest, and finally dared to look at us. The wary expression in her dark gray eyes nearly broke my heart, and a quick backward glance at Mark told me that he was affected in much the same way. That we would have to proceed cautiously with this one went without saying.
“Mark?”
“Maybe it would be better if you start,” he said with a nod.
“Sienna, dear, you’re safe here. I promise that no one will hurt you. We only want to talk with you, so that we can figure out where you came from and where you belong. Will you talk with us?” I asked the girl, keeping my voice light and easy and pulling one of the high-backed chairs over to the couch. Behind me, Mark did the same, but positioned his a good couple of feet further from the sofa than mine.
“Do you have any parents?” I questioned, forging ahead when Sienna remained woefully silent.
“Yes.”
“Oh.” I sat back, surprised for some reason. I guess I had expected the girl to have spoken up by now, to Ashley if not to us, if she had a mother and a father waiting for her…somewhere. If she had been stolen, as we had initially suspected.
“Well…they must be missing you like crazy right about now,” I said.
Mark frowned when Sienna merely shrugged and continued to look miserable.
“Maybe they miss me.”
“Oh…” What was going on here?
“How did you end up at the auction?” I asked, trying another approach, though I wasn’t sure if she was old enough to know that she’d been bound for the auction last night or be able to connect the dots and fully comprehend what that meant.
“My mom put me in it.”
Okay, so apparently she did know what I was talking about. And what kind of mother volunteered her own child for something like that? Somehow, I managed to suppress the rage that swept through my entire being like a hot flash from hell. One look at Mark’s stony expression told me we might not be so lucky to get the same silent acceptance from him. I shot him a warning glance, one which I could only hope said “don’t start ranting and scare the kid—at least not while she’s still in the room” before promptly turning my attention back to the little girl.
“Why would your mother put you in the auction?”
“She said it was time to earn a living, like her.”
Like her, I thought, stunned. So Sienna’s mom had been one of Lydia’s girls, then. I took a moment to digest that one.
“Do you know what your mother does for a living?” Mark asked in a voice that was at direct odds with the murderous rage in his eyes.
“Mark,” I muttered under my breath. “Too far.” But Sienna answered anyway, eyes downcast.
“Yes.”
“I see,” Mark nodded, looking thoroughly disgusted now.
“What about your father?” I had to ask, even though I felt that we could safely assume the answer to that particular question. It would be a miracle if the child knew who her father was. Then again, maybe the true miracle would be if she didn’t know her father. After hearing about the mother, it was almost scary to contemplate who Sienna’s dad might have been, assuming he was still alive, and that was if we could find him, or the mother for that matter. What a mess.
“I don’t know.” She answered much as we anticipated, and I nearly breathed a sigh of relief. One less problem to worry about.
“Okay,” Mark sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.
“That’s all we needed to know. You can go back to the kitchen now, if you’d like.”
“Yeah,” I chimed in, trying for a positive tone. “I think I smell cookies baking.”
“Okay…what’s going to happen to me?”
“We’re going to talk about that, I promise,” Mark told her, kneeling once more so that he was at eye level with the girl. “Claire and I need to discuss a few things first. But I don’t want you to worry about anything. No matter what happens, we will make sure that you’re very well taken care of. And safe.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her, and she walked from the room, shoulders slumped but looking less terrified than when she’d come in, and that was something, I figured. Right then, we would take any improvement that we could get, no matter how small.
The minute that we heard Sienna’s footsteps moving down the hall, and the subsequent return of normal conversation in the kitchen, both Mark and I allowed the our polite masks to fall away and proceeded to curse like sailors.
“Do you believe this?”
“That a prostitute would allow her child to be sold to the sex trade?” Mark slammed his palm against the wall. “Yeah, a real surprise.”
“I don’t know what’s more disturbing, that she sold the girl or that she was willing to work beside her, so to speak. What the hell?”
“I wish I knew, Claire. The whole thing is disgusting.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t have agreed more. “But what are we going to do now?”
“Find her mother. If we can.”
“You mean if she wants to be found,” I muttered.
“Yes.” The word was clipped.
“Okay, so what are we going to do if we find this woman?” Not that I particularly wanted to hear the answer to that question. But since Sienna was our responsibility, even temporarily, then it stood to reason we should have a plan.
“We try and get her to tell us who the girl’s father is, assuming she knows.”
“And what if this…this woman wants Sienna? What if she wants to take her away?”
“I highly doubt that’s likely to happen.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Think back to last night, Claire. When we entered the kitchen.”
“No one tried to go to Sienna.” The light dawned and my heart bled a little more for the girl.
“That’s right,” Mark said bitterly. “And from the time I picked her up to the time we arrived back here, she didn’t act as though she recognized anyone in particular.”
“And she would surely know most of the women who worked for Lydia, but if she had seen her mother, she would have tried to run to her, or call out…something.”
“Right. So it’s probably a pretty safe bet that Sienna’s mother wasn’t in the building; it’s possible she didn’t work for Lydia, then.”
“True.” I bit my lip.
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for that woman, Claire. She made her choices, just like everybody else.”
“I know, but—” But it was hard not to feel sad.
“She sold her own child,” Mark reminded me, taking hold of my arm.
“I know.” I nodded, the remorse fading a little.
“No regrets?”
“No.” I managed a smile. “I guess not.”
“You guess not?”
“None about you, anyway.” I swiftly changed the subject. “How’s that?”
“I’ll take it. For now.”
“What happens next?”
“We could get married,” he suggested casually, though his gaze was fastened on mine.
“Just like that, huh? You aren’t going to get down on one knee? Recite a poem? Something?” I teased at his blank look.
“Is that how it’s done in your world?”
“No, only in books,” I laughed, throwing both arms around his neck.
“Is that a yes?” He buried his face in my hair, inhaling long and slow and deep.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“I can recite a poem, if you still want me to,” he offered.
“Hmmm…tempting, but maybe later. What do you say we just go tell the rest of the family instead?”
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we elope today?”
“Elope?” I croaked, pulling away from him. “That’s a joke, right?”
“I’m dead serious, Claire,” he murmured, tracing my bottom lip with one finger. “Let’s do it. Today. Right now.”
“But…I don’t have a dress.” The words were absurd, I knew, especially when weighed against everything else. Little insignificant things like getting married without my daughter—or my brother and sister and parents…I realized, shocked and a little shamed that it must have sounded to Mark that my loved ones had just been ousted in my personal ranking by a dress.
But Mark just slung an arm around my shoulder and laughed because, well…he knew me, I realized. Well enough to know that my family meant everything in the world—in two worlds—to me. And well enough to know when to take me seriously and when to laugh and shrug it off.
“Isn’t it…wrong…to get married without anyone there?”
“Maybe. But think what a surprise it will be for everyone when we get back.”
“Well,” I considered, longing to throw caution to the wind and just say yes, “you’ll follow me, and Ashley, everywhere?”
“We’ll never be apart, I promise you. Come on, Claire,” he whispered, low and husky. “Have an adventure with me.”
“Let’s do it,” I whispered back, and squeezed his hand. For better or for worse…