Seven days blur together in ways you can't quite piece back together anymore. There are fragments—Alfred helping you with the computer, though the letters kept swimming on the screen. Someone came to visit, you think. Constantine maybe? Or was that a dream? The cave felt too cold, and you spent more time upstairs where the sunlight came through the windows.
Now you're in the garden behind Wayne Manor, pumping your legs on the old swing set that Alfred must have installed sometime during the week. You can't remember when. The chains creak with each arc forward, and the rush of air feels good against your face.
"Higher, Daddy!" you call out, and Alfred obliges with another gentle push.
"Miss Rebecca," Alfred says, and his voice sounds strained in a way that tickles at something in the back of your mind. "I'm afraid I must attend to some business matters this evening. Board meeting that cannot be postponed."
You drag your feet, slowing the swing. "Can't I come?"
"I'm afraid not. But I've arranged for a babysitter—Mrs. Dodson, comes very highly recommended by the agency. Impeccable references."
Something about that bothers you, but the thought slips away like water. "Okay," you hear yourself say.
The hours pass—lunch, a nap you don't remember agreeing to, cartoons on the television that you watch with genuine interest. When the doorbell rings at six o'clock, Alfred answers it while you're building a tower of blocks in the drawing room.
"Miss Rebecca, come meet Mrs. Dodson."
You pad into the foyer in your bare feet, and freeze.
She's wearing different clothes—a sensible cardigan and slacks instead of the Victorian uniform—and her hair is in a softer style. But the face is the same. The smile is the same. That cold, calculated smile.
"Hello, Rebecca," the Nanny says, her voice warm honey over broken glass. "What a delightful child you are. We're going to have such fun together this evening."
Alfred is already putting on his coat, checking his watch. He doesn't see it. Doesn't recognize her.
"Alfred," you try to say, but it comes out small and uncertain. "Daddy, I don't—"
"Now, now," the Nanny interrupts, crouching down to your level. Her eyes lock onto yours, and in them you see recognition. She knows exactly who you are. "No need to be shy. We're going to be the best of friends, aren't we?"
Alfred kisses the top of your head. "Be good for Mrs. Dodson. I'll be back before bedtime."
The door closes behind him with a sound like a coffin lid.
The Nanny's smile widens.