“Just freshening up, Mother,” Cillian responds, his voice carrying the same careful neutrality I’ve heard since we arrived. “The drive was longer than expected.”
Arthur Brown sits in a leather wingback chair that seems molded to him through years of identical posture. He looks up from his book—something leather-bound and likely a first edition—and offers a nod that might be interpreted as welcoming if you squinted. His resemblance to Cillian is striking. They have the same jawline, same height, same careful reserve. But while Cillian’s eyes hold warmth, Arthur’s reveal only measured observation, like he’s watching a mildly interesting documentary on family dynamics.
“Star,” he acknowledges, closing his book with a soft thump. “Welcome to our home.”
The words are correct but empty of genuine welcome. Not hostile, but detached.
“Thank you, Mr. Brown,” I reply. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Arthur, please,” he says automatically, the same correction Mary offered earlier. The Browns are so “informal” yet wrapped in layers of formality so dense you could suffocate in them.
“Drinks before dinner,” Mary announces, lifting a crystal decanter. “Arthur, your scotch. Cillian, the usual?”
“Just water for now, thank you,” Cillian replies, another small rebellion that doesn’t go unnoticed. Mary’s smile tightens at the corners as she sets down the decanter with a sharp clink against the glass-topped side table.
“And for Star?” she asks, directing the question at Cillian rather than me.
“I’d love some wine, if you have it,” I answer before Cillian can, reclaiming my voice. “Red, if possible.”
Mary’s gaze finally lands on me, assessing. “We have a lovely Bordeaux breathing for dinner. Perhaps you’d prefer a white for now? Less likely to stain.”
“Red is fine,” I insist softly. “I never spill.”
A lie. I’m clumsy at the best of times, downright catastrophic when nervous. But something in me refuses to yield even this small point.
Bea emerges from a side door I hadn’t noticed, already holding a glass of white wine. Her blonde hair falls in one swoop, framing a face that’s pretty in an unthreatening way. She’s changed since our arrival, now wearing tailored black pants with her emerald sweater. The outfit is festive yet elegant. Exactly what I should have worn to blend in rather than stand out.
“I set the table as you asked, Mary,” Bea says, her voice soft but clear. “The gold chargers with the winter berry centerpiece.”
“You always had such an eye for these things.”
The exchange is for my benefit. A demonstration of what integration into the Brown legacy looks like: anticipating needs, speaking the right language, wearing the right colors. I’m getting it now.
Cillian guides me to the sofa, his body angled toward mine—another small act of allegiance that Mary catalogs with narrowed eyes. Bea sits across from us, her posture straight but her fingers restless, tracing the rim of her wine glass in continuous, nervous circles.
“Before dinner,” Mary announces, moving toward the Christmas tree, “I thought we might continue our little tradition.”
From beneath the tree, she retrieves four identically wrapped gift boxes. Each one is precisely the same size, wrapped in cream-colored paper with gold ribbons tied in symmetrical bows. It is obsessive. Not a corner out of place, not a ribbon askew.
“Arthur,” she says, handing him the first box ceremonially. “As head of the clan.”
My eyes shift to Cillian, whose jaw tightens imperceptibly. This ritual clearly disturbs him, though he keeps his composure.
Arthur accepts the box with a resigned nod, methodically untying the ribbon instead of tearing the paper. His care seems less about preserving the wrapping and more about delaying the inevitable. He lifts the lid, revealing a thick,huntergreen cable-knit sweater.
“Lovely as always, Mary,” he murmurs, setting aside the box and pulling the sweater over his button-down shirt, neither enthusiastic nor complaining. The action feels rehearsed. A husband adhering to traditions established decades ago.
“The cashmere is from that wonderful little shop in Edinburgh,” Mary explains, though no one asked. “I had them add a touch more wool this year. The nights have been so chilly.”
She turns, box in hand, and approaches Bea next. “Yours is a slightly different pattern this year, though I remember how you admired the cable design last time.”
Last time. When Cillian and Bea were married. When Bea was still part of family gatherings. The realization settles cold in my stomach. They’re divorced but now she’s here.
His ex accepts the box, her fingers trembling slightly. She glances at me—briefly, apologetically—before unwrapping her gift with the same care Arthur demonstrated. Inside lies a sweater identical in color but with a more delicate knit pattern.
She hesitates, the sweater half-lifted from its nest of tissue paper.
“Go on, dear,” Mary urges, her voice honey-coated yet sharp. “Try it on. I want to make sure the fit is right.”
