Chapter 2 - Sanctuary at Midnight
The wrought-iron gates of the Vance Manor parted like the jaws of a titan, admitting the black sedan into a long, winding driveway flanked by ancient weeping willows.
Julian didn't wait for his driver to open the passenger door. He stepped out into the sheltered portico, carrying the frail seven-year-old bundled entirely within his wool coat. The warmth of the manor hit them immediately—polished mahogany, beeswax, and the crackle of a floor-to-ceiling hearth burning in the main hall.
"Julian!" A silver-haired man in a crisp white shirt rushed forward, a medical kit in hand. "Edward called ahead. Bring her to the guest suite on the ground floor."
Dr. Robert Evans had been the Vance family physician for four decades. He had delivered Julian; he had set Clara's broken arm when she was nine; and he had watched the family fracture when Clara fled with her newborn child seven years ago.
Julian laid Hannah gently onto the wide, linen-covered bed. Her skin was a translucent, sickly gray, her lips tinged with violet. As Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, carefully stripped away the tattered, soaked rags, Dr. Evans began taking vitals with practiced urgency.
"Severe hypothermia," Dr. Evans muttered, wrapping an automated blood pressure cuff around her paper-thin arm. "Body temperature is eighty-nine degrees. Blood pressure is dangerously low, and she's severely dehydrated. Julian, look at these marks."
Julian stepped closer, his jaw tightening so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched. Across Hannah’s pale ribs and thin collarbone were faint, yellowish contusions—remnants of older bruises—and circular scars that looked horrifyingly like cigarette burns on her left forearm.
"Malnutrition has stunted her bone density," Evans said gravely, inserting an IV line into a vein on the back of her hand with delicate precision. "Whoever had custody of this child was starving her and keeping her in confinement. If you hadn't pulled her off the street tonight, organ failure would have set in by three in the morning."
Julian closed his eyes, his fists clenching until his knuckles turned bone-white. The silver compass pendant rested on the nightstand beside the bed, catching the amber light of the lamp.
"Robert," Julian said, his voice flat, low, and terrifying in its quietness. "Take a swab. Run an expedited DNA match against my sample on file. I already know what it will say, but I want the legal certification stamped before sunrise."
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Evans looked from the pendant to the unconscious girl, recognizing the sapphire immediately. The doctor’s hands trembled slightly as he swabbed the inside of Hannah's cheek. "If she is Clara’s daughter... that means Richard Thornton lied about her death."
"Richard Thornton is going to wish he had never been born," Julian replied.
