The next few days drifted by, chock-full of wedding planning and menu sampling. At night, the Sutherlands settled into a steady routine. Mrs. Sutherland took to the sewing room, teaching Lydia to make quilts and bonnets. Bridget indulged in a late-night beauty regime that involved brushing her hair in one hundred strokes and lathering herself in cream that I could smell all the way from the parlor. Winfield always retired to his study with a tumbler of brandy, perusing the paper or going over his accounting books.
I'd taken to pacing the first floor, coming up with plans to ferry the Sutherlands to safety only to shoot down most of my ideas. I also now needed to plan my feedings. My steady diet of city animals was harder to keep up now that I was under the watchful eye of every Sutherland and servant. It was almost like they expected me to try and make a break for it, though it was impossible to know how much of that was genuine wariness versus Damon compelling them to follow me. Sometimes I managed to slip away, whether up to the roof or silently down to the backyard to try and find a rat or pigeon or even a mouse to satisfy my needs. Hazel, the house cat, was off limits of course, but fortunately her wild tomcat friends were not.
Damon had no such nutritional problems. Nor did he care much about secrecy. He came and went as he pleased, doing God knows what in the darkest corners of the city. I often saw a maid or manservant summoned to his suite in the coldest hours of the night as I skulked about tending to my own needs. For my brother, life with the Sutherlands was like living in a grand hotel - he attended dinners in his honor and was feted all around town at the top establishments. He was a prince and New York was his adoring kingdom.
When Damon arrived home on Thursday, Winfield poked his head out of the study.
"Oh, good. I'm glad you're here," Winfield said, holding out two glasses of whiskey. "Please come join me."
There was a stray drop of blood carelessly smeared on the corner of Damon's mouth. Anyone else would have assumed it was a shaving cut. Suddenly the cozy study seemed suffocating and the corners darker.
Damon casually wiped his lips, his eyes on me, then threw himself down on the couch next to his future father-in-law, less like an Italian count and more like... well, Damon. "Good evening, sir." The fact that he dropped his fake accent in their presence highlighted just how under his thrall this family was.
"I wanted to have a chat with the two of you about your futures," Winfield began, chomping on his cigar.
"Oh, I have big plans, I'm thinking long-term," Damon said. "Living here with the family, of course. I love close kin."
My throat went dry and I ran a hand through my hair, beginning to panic, reminded once again that I had no idea what Damon really wanted.
"I think I should like to go into business for myself," Damon began to say. But then the door of the study slammed open and Margaret came striding in.
"Papa!"
Without a word to either of us she threw a copy of the day's Post down into her father's hands and tapped at an article. "Read this."
Winfield fished around in his pockets for his glasses and slid them on, peering at the paper.