Iam still kissing Annabelle when the butler comes into the room.
“I am sorry, ma’am,” he says, as we break apart. “You have another visitor.”
“Who is it, Montgomery?”
Montgomery gives a little cough.
“It is Mr. Saintsbury, ma’am. Mr. Alfred Saintsbury, Senior, that is. And…”
“What is it, Montgomery?”
“The man does seem to be…” the butler says. “Well, rather in a lather.”
I flush cold.
My father is here.
And, of course, he is furious.
“Do you want to see him alone?” Annabelle asks.
“Yes,” I say. “It will be easier.”
In truth, I am worried at what vitriol he might spit at Annabelle.
She nods, her facemasked.
“Montgomery, tell Mr. Saintsbury that his son will receive him in here.”
She turns to me.
“I will be just outside. If you need anything.”
I nod, my stomach churning. I watch the proud, straight line of her back as she exits the room.
The idea that I am about to meet my father after he has heard of my infamous conduct, in a room in which I was just passionately kissing a woman, andthiswomen in particular, feels completely absurd.
But after a moment, I do not have to think of what will be any longer.
Because my father has entered.
He looks the same as always. Handsome, dour, with graying dark hair.
His eyes, however, burn.
“Alfred,” he barks. “I am glad you have extended me the courtesy of a private audience. Although perhaps I should thank your newkeeper.”
I flinch at his tone.
“I have not done anything,” I manage, “with the intention of disappointing you.”
Patches of crimson flame on my sire’s cheeks.
“You have ruined yourself, Alfred. All that I have put into you—wasted.”
I swallow.
Those words which used to occur to me all the time but have been irrelevant recently come back to me.
