CHAPTER SEVEN

"You know she's a vampire, right?"

Annie looks at me, and her expression is so serious that I almost think she believes what she said. It's a moment before the absurdity of that thought hits me. When it does, I laugh and play along with the joke.

"That would explain why she's so pale and thin. Aren't vampires supposed to be tall, though?"

Annie's expression doesn't change. "I'm serious. I've thought about it a long time, and I really believe she has to leach energy from other people to survive."

Once more, I hesitate a moment. Annie's just turned ten years old, and at only twelve years old myself, we both engage in our fair share of play-pretend still. But we're too old to actually believe anything we make up, aren't we?

Of course we are. Annie's just being ridiculous. I decide this is an excellent opportunity for me to demonstrate my maturity as the oldest sister and tell Annie something that will help her understand the difference between children and adults.

"Oh, Annie," I say, sitting next to her on the park bench and putting a comforting hand on her arm. "I know that Mother is hard to deal with at times." I've recently started calling Mum Mother and Dad Father. I feel very grown up calling them that. "But you must remember that she is only like this because she loves us very much, and she wants us to have happy, successful lives."

"Is she happy?"

I start to say, of course she is, but the words don't leave my mouth. It hits me that I've never once seen Mother smile.

No, that's not true. I recall one time when Annie was three years old, she was curious about the food Mother was making on the stove. I was only five at the time, and I can't remember exactly what she was making, only that she had a pot of water boiling. Mother noticed Annie looking at that water and set her on the counter near the stove.

I recall wondering why on Earth she would put a toddler on the counter. What if Annie burned herself? I looked at her and prepared to ask her that exact question, but the expression on her face chilled me. It was not an angry face. It was not vindictive or vicious. It was… absent somewhat. Her eyes were still in her head, and she was aware of her surroundings. She set Annie on the counter, with no thought to ensure that she couldn't accidentally touch the boiling water.

There was nothing there, no emotion at all. Not the anger I am used to, or the occasional cruelty. Not the typical long-suffering exhaustion that is her usual expression. Just… nothing.

She set Annie on the counter and walked away. I wanted to warn my sister not to touch the stove. I wanted to lift her off of the counter and lead her from the room to play in our bedroom. I wanted to save her, but I noticed my mother watching us, and I knew in my heart of hearts that if I made any move to rescue her, my mother would punish me tenfold for interfering.

Annie looked at the water for a second, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Then she placed her hand on the edge of the pot.

She pulled it back quickly and looked at it, her brow furrowed in confusion. What on Earth was that strange sensation she was feeling on her palm?

Then the pain hit. Her eyes widened in shock, and then they looked at me. Even at three years old, the understanding was there, the knowledge of my betrayal.

Then they turned to my mother, and just before the shrieking started, I saw heartbreaking grief.

And my mother watched her screaming child, a look of approval in her eyes, the corners of her mouth tilted upward, and said these words.

"Now you'll know better."

***

I gasp and then release a sob of anguish. My eyes are shut tightly, and I hear my voice moan, "No, Annie!"

The voice is not that of a child but that of a fifty-year-old woman. It snaps me the rest of the way out of my dream, and I open my eyes to see the sun shining through the window. I sit up and look at my cell phone. I rarely use the implement as anything more than a flashlight or clock, and as a timepiece, it proves quite useful and unfailingly accurate.

It's seven-fifty-six. I've slept in nearly two hours.

I sigh and roll out of bed, dressing quickly and heading upstairs. I don't have time to dwell on the nightmare or on the fact that for the first time in twenty-six years I've slept through an alarm. Today is the first day of Lucas's instruction, and I have made myself late.

The family is nearly finished with breakfast. No one pays me any mind as I head to the kitchen and prepare myself a scrambled egg and some toast with jam. The novelty of my existence is wearing off, and I'm slowly becoming just another servant. I think I prefer that.

When I return to the table, only Lucas remains. He looks at me, and for the first time, I see the resemblance between his wide, not-quite-innocent stare and my sister's direct, piercing gaze.

I force a smile and say, "Good morning. How did you sleep?"

"Well, thank you. And you?"

"Well enough," I lie. "I'm sorry I was late to breakfast."

He shrugs. "You didn't miss anything. Oliver and Eliza reminded Mother that they hate her, she reminded them that she doesn't care, and Father pretended not to notice anything, as he usually does."

I want to comfort him, but I want more to finally wrest myself free of the poison rotting this family from the inside. So I say, "Yes, well, let's be grateful it's over then. Today, we shall review your English, maths, and sciences and determine how much you must learn to pass the sixth form with the appropriate marks. Over the following three days, we will review all your other subjects as well as your elective and create a plan that will allow you to achieve top marks in the form. Do you have access to your current academic record?"

"I do, but… don't you want to see the collage?"

I stare at him blankly for a moment, then remember. I assigned him to create a collage that will capture the spirit of the Carlton estate. I'd completely forgotten.

"Of course!" I say. "Yes! That will be the first thing we do. Why don't you bring it downstairs, and I'll finish my breakfast in a hurry. Then we can review it."

He brightens, and the relief I feel when I see that smile nearly reduces me to tears. My emotional instability concerns me greatly. I shouldn't be so fragile.

But I won't focus on it. The more I focus on it, the worse it will get. An image flashes across my mind of a bespectacled woman with a severe expression and even more severe features telling me the same exact thing, but I don't focus on that either.

I finish my breakfast, willfully taking each bite into my mouth and swallowing, not caring if I taste it or not. Damn it, this will not be a repeat of the Ashford job!

Lucas runs downstairs, and when he opens the folder and shows me the photos, I feel a touch of relief. Something positive I can use to calm the turmoil in my head.

I smile and look down at the photographs. My smile fades.

Each photograph bears an image of death. A bird, stiff and cold in the middle of a perfectly ordered flower bed. A cockroach, desiccated and curled, on the first step of the gleaming marble porch. A rat, decomposed to the point that only teeth, fur, and bone remain, rotting in front of a poplar carefully trimmed and pruned to immaculate symmetry.

"Do you like it?" he asks hopefully.

I lift my eyes to his and force another smile. "It's wonderful," I lie.

He practically glows at the praise. "I wanted to show the juxtaposition of beauty and death," he says. "The family is focused on appearances, like most families, but underneath, there is decay and rot just like anywhere. I worried I wouldn't find enough dead creatures—Niall is usually very good at removing them—but I'd forgotten he was taking his day off yesterday, so I was able to get what I needed."

My head reels again. He talks of decay and rot with the same airy tone one might use to describe a trip to the market. Niall was off yesterday and chose to use his time to prowl the grounds and frighten me. And Lucas's conclusions about the family are no different from my own, but seeing them represented here in visual form is almost nauseating.

No, it's literally nauseating. I feel bile rise in my throat and have to lift my gaze to his once more to stifle the vomit. "This is truly exceptional. You have a wonderful talent. I definitely wish to explore this gift further. However, I think we will save that for next week. We must ensure that you are well-set to complete your education."

He nods. "Very well. I'm so glad you like it. Perhaps I'll laminate it for you!"

God, please, no. "I'd like that. But study must come first."

"Of course. My records are on my laptop in my bedroom. Shall I take it to the study?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

Lucas has excellent marks in school. I'm not surprised by this. He truly is a gifted child, and his inquisitive nature lends itself well to academic work. Unlike many artistically gifted people, he is not afflicted with the usual boredom that prevents excellence in maths and sciences. I believe I will have a quite easy time instructing him. With very little in the way of catch-up to do, we are able to review all of his subjects as well. His elective, of course, is photography, and it goes without saying he excels in it.

By the end of the day, it is clear he will need only the usual instruction of a gifted sixth-former. It is equally clear that he will be able to self-manage.

Veronica, of course, is quite pleased to hear this. She crows with delight over dinner, and the other two children shoot me sour looks, unhappy that I've given their mother another reason to sing Lucas's praises.

The breaking point comes when, after a lengthy soliloquy on Lucas's acute intelligence, Veronica fixes another sharklike grin on him and says, "He takes after his mother."

Eliza, who ordinarily remains passive during these exchanges, meets her mother's eye and says, "Well, he certainly doesn't take after Father, does he?"

As with Oliver's joke about Sebastian's first wife from before, everyone's smile vanishes aside from those of Oliver and Eliza, who look at Veronica with triumphant grins on their faces.

"He reminds me more of Minnie than us, doesn't he, Eliza?" Oliver asks casually.

"That's enough!" Sebastian thunders.

We all jump at the sound of that voice. Sebastian's eyes fix on his older son, and Oliver shrinks under his gaze. "I will not hear that name mentioned again! Is that clear?"

"Clear, Father," Oliver whispers.

Sebastian turns to Eliza, who swallows and then says, "Clear," in a hoarse voice.

Sebastian stares at her a moment longer. Then he returns to his meal, his expression calm once more. "We really should pay Henri more. This beef Wellington would earn a Michelin Star at any restaurant in London."

The rest of us don't respond, fearful of provoking another episode of wrath. Veronica is the first to recover, slamming her fork down and pushing her chair back so forcefully it falls to the floor. She leaves the table and stalks upstairs, her footfalls echoing hollowly through the house.

My head reels from what I've just witnessed. The insinuation that Lucas is Veronica's son by affair is shocking enough, but the insinuation that Minerva might be his sister is beyond the pale.

And Sebastian's reaction chills me. I will not hear that name mentioned again.

Why not? What is he hiding?

Prudence tells me that I should follow Niall's advice and keep my nose out of their business.

But Minerva's voice cries to me as surely as Abel's cried to God when Cain slew him.

For better or for worse, I must know the truth of what happened to her.