Paula spent the next three days trying to prove herself wrong. She watched Camille without appearing to watch her, and each time she caught herself assigning meaning to an ordinary movement, she forced herself to consider a harmless explanation. A closed bathroom door meant privacy. Felix’s reluctance meant fatigue. Camille’s impatience could be the exhaustion of a woman caring for a sick child. Paula had seen suspicion damage families before. Once fear found a pattern, almost anything could be made to fit it. She would not allow concern to become recklessness.
Yet the pattern refused to disappear.
Felix suffered two severe episodes on Thursday. The first came during breakfast, less than an hour after Camille had washed his hair because she claimed he had perspired during the night. The second struck shortly after dinner, following another bath. Neither connection proved anything. Felix had attacks on days when his hair was not washed as well. But Paula began recording times privately in a small notebook she kept inside the pocket of her uniform.
She did not write accusations.
Only facts.
7:20 a.m. Camille with Felix in bathroom.
8:04 a.m. pain, approximately six minutes.
7:15 p.m. bath.
8:02 p.m. severe episode, approximately nineteen minutes.
She felt foolish writing the entries.
Then Felix asked her a question that made the notebook feel less foolish.
“Can hair hurt?”
They were sitting near the tall windows in the library. A private tutor had just left, and rain streaked the glass in silver lines. Felix had attempted mathematics for forty minutes before dropping his pencil and asking to rest.
Paula looked up from the tea she was pouring.
“What do you mean?”
“Like the roots.”
“Your scalp can hurt.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He rubbed his thumb against the side of his index finger.
“Sometimes it feels like there’s something under it.”
Paula set down the teapot.
“Under your skin?”
“I don’t know.”
“Show me where.”
He hesitated.
Then his hand moved toward the back of his head.
Before his fingers reached the spot, the library door opened.
Camille entered.
“You’re supposed to be studying.”
Felix’s hand fell instantly into his lap.
“Mr. Bell left.”
“Why?”
“My head started hurting.”
Camille’s expression hardened for an instant, then softened as she approached.
“You see what happens when you push yourself?”
Felix stared at the floor.
Paula watched Camille place her palm against his forehead.
No fever check required that particular gesture, yet Camille held his head strangely still while her other hand smoothed the hair near his crown.
Felix shifted away.
“Stop.”
Camille froze.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at Paula.
The room seemed to become smaller.
“I’ll take him upstairs.”
“I can do it,” Paula said.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“He asked me about pain under his scalp.”
Felix looked terrified.
Camille’s fingers stopped moving.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Children describe pain strangely.”
“Perhaps.”
“Especially frightened children.”
Paula kept her voice neutral. “That’s why it might be useful to tell the neurologist.”
“The neurologist has already examined his scalp.”
“Not since he started describing this sensation.”
Camille smiled, though no warmth reached her eyes.
“You’ve become very interested in diagnosis.”
“I’m interested in Felix.”
“So am I.”
The sentence carried more force than its volume suggested.
Felix stood abruptly.
“I want to lie down.”
Paula rose with him.
Camille did not.
“Paula can take me.”
Silence.
It was the first time Felix had openly chosen one woman over the other.
Camille looked at him for several seconds.
“Fine.”
On the staircase, Felix stayed close enough that his sleeve brushed Paula’s arm.
Neither spoke until they reached his room.
Once the door closed, Paula turned.
“What were you going to tell me?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t have to protect anyone from a question.”
“I said nothing.”
“Felix.”
His eyes filled with anger rather than tears.
“You always say I can tell you things, and then you tell Dad or doctors or her.”
“If you’re in danger, I have to tell someone.”
“That’s what I mean.”
He climbed onto the bed and pulled the blanket over himself.
Paula sat at the foot rather than beside him.
“I won’t trick you.”
He remained facing the wall.
“If you ask me not to repeat something, I’ll listen. If I believe keeping it secret could hurt you, I’ll tell you before I speak to anyone else.”
No answer.
“I won’t promise what I can’t keep.”
Several seconds passed.
Then Felix lowered the blanket.
“Sometimes she gets angry when I move.”
“Camille?”
He nodded.
“When she washes your hair?”
Another nod.
“What is she doing when you move?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see.”
“Does she use anything besides shampoo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she ever cut you?”
“No.”
“Use a needle?”
His forehead wrinkled.
“I don’t think so.”
Paula’s pulse quickened.
“Do you feel anything sharp?”
“Sometimes.”
The room went still around them.
“Where?”
He touched the back of his head.
“Here.”
Paula wanted to examine the spot immediately.
Instead she asked, “May I look?”
Felix considered it carefully before lowering his chin.
“Yes.”
His hair was thick and fair, long enough at the crown to conceal the scalp unless separated deliberately. Paula moved slowly, using only her fingertips. She created one narrow part, then another.
Nothing.
She checked the skin near the area he indicated.
No obvious cut. No swelling. No redness beyond a faint patch that might have come from scratching.
Felix tensed.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.”
She shifted half an inch.
He jerked.
“There?”
“A little.”
Paula separated the hair more carefully.
For one moment she thought she saw a tiny dark point at the skin.
Then Felix pulled away.
“Enough.”
She stopped immediately.
“Of course.”
“What did you see?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That means yes.”
“It means I’m not going to tell you something is there when I don’t know.”
He studied her face.
“Camille says thinking about it makes it worse.”
“Thinking can make fear worse.”
“That’s not what she says.”
“What does she say?”
“That I make myself sick.”
Paula felt a slow heat rise through her chest.
“Your pain is real.”
Felix looked away.
“Dad believes that.”
“I know.”
“But he believes her too.”
There it was.
Not an accusation. Not even a complaint.
A child’s understanding of the balance of power in his own home.
That evening Jonas returned from Chicago two days earlier than expected. His arrival changed the mansion’s rhythm instantly. Assistants entered with folders. Security staff appeared near the front entrance. A driver brought luggage to the private elevator. Jonas went directly upstairs without removing his coat.
Paula was relieved.
She was also uncertain.
She could tell him what Felix had said, but what exactly would she accuse Camille of doing? Hurting him during hair washing? She had no proof. Jonas loved his son fiercely, yet Paula knew what unsupported suspicion against his wife might sound like.
Before she decided, Camille found her.
She appeared in the linen room shortly after nine.
Paula was checking fresh pillowcases when Camille closed the door behind her.
“You examined Felix’s head.”
It was not a question.
“With his permission.”
“You are not a doctor.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“He complained of pain.”
“He complains of pain everywhere.”
Paula folded a pillowcase slowly.
“Not always in the same place.”
Camille’s face remained controlled.
“Felix is vulnerable. Encouraging him to obsess over sensations is irresponsible.”
“I asked where it hurt.”
“You frightened him.”
“He was frightened before I asked.”
A faint flush appeared along Camille’s neck.
“I need you to remember your position.”
Paula looked at her.
“My position is to care for Felix.”
“Your position is employee.”
“Yes.”
“Then act like one.”
Camille opened the door and left.
Paula stood alone among the shelves.
The conversation should have intimidated her.
Instead it clarified something.
Camille had not asked what Felix said.
She had not asked whether Paula found swelling, infection, or an injury.
She had asked why Paula looked.
Later, Felix joined his father in the study. Paula passed the doorway once and saw Jonas sitting on the sofa rather than behind his desk. His tie had been loosened. Felix leaned against him while they spoke quietly.
Camille entered several minutes later.
The door closed.
Paula could not hear the conversation.
She returned to the kitchen and told herself that Jonas was home now. Felix was safer with his father present. If there were a medical concern, another specialist was scheduled for Saturday.
Still, she kept the notebook.
Friday passed without a severe episode until evening.
At eight thirty, Camille announced that Felix needed a bath.
“I had one this morning,” he said.
“You were outside.”
“For ten minutes.”
“You were sweating.”
“I’m not dirty.”
Jonas looked up from his phone but said nothing.
Camille smiled.
“Come on. You’ll sleep better.”
Felix remained seated.
Paula was across the room arranging medication.
“No.”
Everyone stopped.
Camille stared at him.
“What did you say?”
“I don’t want you washing my hair.”
Jonas put down his phone.
“Felix?”
The boy’s face went red.
“I can do it myself.”
Camille laughed softly.
“This is what happens when people put strange ideas in his head.”
Her eyes moved to Paula.
Jonas followed them.
Paula felt the moment narrow around her.
“What ideas?” Jonas asked.
Camille answered first.
“Paula has been examining his scalp and suggesting his pain comes from something there.”
“I did not suggest a cause,” Paula said.
Jonas looked between them.
“What exactly happened?”
Felix stood.
“Forget it.”
He walked quickly from the room.
Paula started after him, but Camille moved first.
“I’ll handle this.”
Jonas caught his wife’s wrist.
“No. Let him go.”
Camille looked down at his hand.
Jonas released her.
He turned toward Paula.
“Tell me what he said.”
Before Paula could answer, a crash came from the upper hallway.
They ran.
Felix was on his knees near the top of the staircase, one hand gripping the railing and the other pressed against his skull.
His face had lost all color.
Jonas reached him first.
“Felix!”
The boy’s back arched.
A strangled sound escaped him.
Then his eyes found Paula.
He tried to speak.
She crouched beside him.
“What?”
His fingers dug into his hair.
“She touched it.”
Paula’s gaze moved instinctively toward Camille.
Camille had stopped several steps away.
And for the first time, Paula did not see annoyance or concern on the woman’s face.
She saw fear.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: After the Doctors Left Empty-Handed Again, Felix’s Silent Agony Forced Paula to Choose Between Obedience and the Instinct She Trusted Most
The Boy in the East Wing Could Not Explain His Pain, but Paula Began Noticing What Everyone Else Had Learned to Ignore
Part 2 of 10
