After a pregnant pause, she reaches for her gift from Heli. It’s a rectangular box, and she takes her time with the exquisite wrapping. A small cry escapes her lips as she removes a sleeve of cookies from the box.
“They’re my favourite almond shortbread biscuits,” she says, wiping a tear. “Here, you must try one. They’re delicious.”
I take a cookie and bite a corner. “This is so much better than that sad excuse for a lunch downstairs.”
She laughs and bites into her cookie. “Itsois,” she says, crumbs on her chin and a real light in her eyes.
The effect is temporary, however, and just as quickly she looks so forlorn it makes my chest ache.
I rest my hand on top of hers. “From what I understand, the estate is struggling financially.”
“That is stating it mildly.”
“I don’t know you very well, but I overheard Tolly say that your parents should have listened to you. Can I assume had they implemented your ideas, not only would you not be in trouble with the tax collectors, but you’d also be flush with cash and the envy of the country?”
“Perhaps not that extreme, but we would certainly not be in any danger of losing the estate.”
“Is it too late to take your good advice?”
“No. But it soon will be.”
I thumb a gesture toward what I think is the direction of the dining hall. “Then let’s be a little disruptive.”
Her eyes widen. “I could never.”
“Yes, but I’m a bad influence, and I’m going to make you.”
She lets out another unguarded laugh. “Then I am influenced.” Her smile is a little sad. “Maybe with Tolly having my back…”
“He’ll definitely have your back. He might be just done enough to make them listen to you.”
“Let’s give it a go, then, shall we?”
She steps into her shoes, grabs my hand, and leads me out of her apartment.
I may have started something.
Oops.
11
TOLLY
The second the last bite of lunch passes Gael’s lips, Mother has him shuffled out of the room. Barely a second later, my father joins us through another door.
“How very Agatha Christie of you, Father,” I say, rising to greet him. He spares me a nod as people in white gloves and black livery remove the food from the table.
What a farce. Violins on the Titanic, only less heroic.
The difference between this morning’s meal and this supposed “Christmas lunch” cannot be overstated. I’m so grateful that me and my siblings have done what we can to wrestle back control of our lives.
“Merely efficient, my son,” he says, examining my casual clothing with a critical eye as he sits at the head of the table.
It should be noted that, while I wear casual clothing, none of it is cheap. I’m a brand-name bitch, but he’s in his three-piece suit looking at me as though I’ve shown up in beggars’ rags. Having spent time in places where poverty is a constant, I know that beggars on the whole are far more principled than my father and his cohorts.
“The estate is in dire straits,” he says, forgoing preamble.
Had he wished me a happy Christmas, I may have fallen over dead.
