maller one for individual therapy.
A decent gym with a locker room and showers. Showers, she noted, with actual partitions between.
“It seems bigger,” she commented.
“The configuration. It was considerably chopped up before. With this more open plan, it doesn’t feel confining. The main kitchen,” he said.
She could only stare. It was sleek and shining, as she would have expected. Yet it felt … homey. The colors? she wondered. The configuration again? Or did he just have some magic?
Maybe all of that.
“We have a nutritionist on staff, but she’s not so strict they won’t be allowed, well, happy food. And they can learn how to prepare their own in the classroom kitchen.”
Smaller, but no less shiny, with a couple of island-type work spaces, a generous storage space—pantry, she remembered.
“I’ve asked Summerset if he’d come in and instruct now and again.”
Her jaw actually dropped. “You— Summerset?”
“The man can cook, you’ll agree. And he enjoys children.”
“Summerset,” she murmured as he led her back through, then up the new stairs.
Wide ones with sturdy rails.
He showed her bedrooms, each one with windows, with closets, with built-in study areas. She toured a game room, a space for music lessons, and one for dance.
She stopped, more than a little overwhelmed by what he’d done.
“When I was in school, state school, I marked the days. I swear to Christ, I marked the days from the time I went in until I could get out. I can look back and see it wasn’t all bad. I learned things. It wasn’t all terrible. But I marked the days,” Eve recalled.
She paused to run her fingers over a wide windowsill.
“No privacy, no sense of self. You either ate what they put in front of you, when they put it in front of you, or you went hungry. The walls were the color of … They didn’t have a color. One shower area for girls, one for boys. And both open, you know? No privacy. When I could, I’d sneak out in the middle of the night to shower.
“I marked the days,” she said again. “The kids who come here won’t. Unless they’re serious hard cases, they won’t mark the days until they can escape. It’ll matter what you’ve done here, and what they’re given the chance to do.”
He took her hand, kissed it, then held it to take her to the roof.
They’d already started seedlings in raised beds, domed now against the threat of frost. Benches scattered to provide a place to sit and look or grouped together for a place to talk. And beyond the high safety walls, the city glimmered.
“We’ll do more plantings—flowers, not just veg,” Roarke explained. “And they’ll finish the little fountain soon. Some ornamental trees, and some that will fruit. Herbs, of course. The students can work the gardens, help harvest, and the kitchens will use what they grow.”
She wandered, imagined what it would be like. Those voices, the sunlight, the music of the fountain, the smell of fresh things.
No, they wouldn’t mark the days as she had.
She came back, looked at the memorial stones, already in place. All the young girls, she thought, all the doomed young girls she’d found, named here, remembered here. Even the one she hadn’t been able to identify and had named Angel.
“You’re right, about the peace.” Now she took his hand, drew him down on a bench with her. “It’s a good place, Roarke. It’s a good chance. Whatever they’ve come from, they’ll have a good chance here.”
She tipped her head to his shoulder. “It’s a good place. Let’s just sit here awhile.”
He slipped his arm around her, drew her closer so they sat with the city lights glimmering, and the future potential all around.
The sadness lifted.