Her remark is the end of the discussion; a few moments later, the dean excuses himself. Mother walks him to the manor’s foyer, silently bidding him adieu, and when she reenters the room, she reaches for Beckett’s face, giving him two kisses on each cheek. She repeats the gesture with me, pinching my skin as she half drags me off the couch.
If she notices the way I flinch at her touch, she doesn’t let on.
She never has.
“I expect to hear nothing butgoodanecdotes about your semester,” Mother says, eyeing both of us. “Beckett, darling, please understand the gift you’ve been given here. This kind of proximity to a prodigy like your brother is an opportunity some would kill for.”
That makes my face screw up. It isn’t true—I’m noprodigy. My love for the theater was just one of the few things my parents accepted growing up, so I poured all my time and energy into studying it. The only reason I’m teaching now is because Avernia offered a dual degree program in which a bachelor’s and master’s could be earned simultaneously, giving me the option to graduate with both in less time than my peers.
After that, I spent some time in London and LA working for different theater companies and studying, before a position opened up here. Since Jean-Louis is on the board of trustees, they hired me without an interview, and I’ve been killing myself to begoodever since.
Which translates into tough courses, harsh grading scales, and constant work. I want my students to understand the textsthey’re acting out. To know why they’re important so they can bring that to the stage.
Anything less is irrelevant. Not enough.
Mother, of course, believes the rigidity of my teaching style means I’m especially talented. Or maybe she just wants to believe one of her kids is destined for greatness rather than the suffering everyone in Fury Hill seems to eventually succumb to.
“Gift.” Beckett scoffs. “He teaches acting classes, Mother. A monkey could likely do it just as well as Sutton.”
“Shall I put you in charge on the first day then?” I ask.
He makes a sound with his teeth, then scrambles up from the sofa, heading for the arched doorway that leads to the foyer and main staircase. “Whatever. I have shit to do.”
“Beckett,” Mother whispers fiercely as he stalks away. The embroidered poppy and theta design on his blazer—the Curators’emblem—is the last thing I see before he disappears around the corner. His footsteps echo through the house as he shuffles down the upstairs hall, and then a door slams shut, and silence befalls us once more.
I swallow over the lump in my throat. A decade ago, laughter and music disturbed the gold-framed art and photographs decorating the walls. Now, only the dust of sound remains.
“I’m concerned about him,” Mother says. “I don’t think Beckett’s been right since the night in those caves.”
“He took quite the beating, Mother. We should probably just be glad he’s able to speak or see at all.”
We should be grateful he’s alive.
“Still.” She casts a nervous glance past me, biting the inside of her cheek. “The reason I paid Dean Bauer to have him reenrolled was to get him out of this house. I don’t think he should be around Jean-Louis.”
“You bribed the dean?”
She scoffs. “Well, I’m hardly the first Dupont to do so, but that isn’t the point.” Something flickers in her gaze as she settles back on the sofa beside me. “Jean-Louis’s mind isn’t what it used to be. He’s…very angry and confused these days. His illness is only exacerbating those qualities, I’m afraid.”
Not that he was ever a pleasant man to begin with.
“He suffers these delusions of power imbalances and losing control over the city. Considering what that led to a few weeks ago, I just don’t think it’s wise to allow Beckett to live in such close quarters. Your brother is very impressionable, and while I’ve always admired that…”
“It also gets him into trouble,” I finish, nodding. “I know.”
“I swear, he reminds me so much of Bellamy. They both took Jean-Louis’s word as gospel, even if she was a tad more rebellious in nature than Beckett is. Maybe I should’ve encouraged them to interact more—perhaps she could’ve rubbed off on him.” She casts me a sideways look. “Though that didn’t happen with you, and the two of you were practically joined at the hip.”
“We were twins,” I reply, voice tight. “It was only natural we be close.”
She slides one hand over mine, hers warm against my chilled fingers. “Your sister would be so proud of you, Sutton.”
“Can we not do this?” My heart twists, and I pull my hand away. Talking about Bellamy here feels wrong. Too soon somehow. “Staff apartments are cramped, you know. Beckett takes up a lot of room.”
“These are extenuating circumstances,” she says. “I’m sure you can make it work.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
She narrows her eyes.
