“You first,” I say, reaching for the mug of nectar. I'll feel better when I’ve had a caffeine hit, and at least it isn’t whatever they thought passed as coffee at the hall yesterday.
“Nope, I want to hear all about your day yesterday first,” Tate insists. I watch as he reaches for the bag of bread and pulls out a couple of slices, eyeing them suspiciously for mould before popping them in the toaster. We share most groceries. We’re rarely working—acting jobs, that is—at the same time, so we find it easier if we split the groceries, and if one has a bit more money they contribute more. Jobs have been scarce for both of us for a while and we’ve become good at surviving on beans on toast. I contemplate for a few seconds, and decide to go for the shock tactic as it would make the juxtaposition of stale bread and my news even more bizarre.
“You are looking at the eighth Earl of Cavendish,” I say slowly. He spins round, the knife he plans to scrape out the last ofthe margarine for his toast with poised midair. His eyes narrow slightly, expecting me to say more.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He cocks a hip and raises an eyebrow, his natural sass taking over as he clearly thinks I’ve lost my mind.
“Nah,” I huff. “Apparently Uncle Edwin was an earl and he had a big house, Cavendish Hall, which is now mine.”
He draws his head back and stares at me for a full three seconds before he launches himself at me, the knife clattering to the floor.
“Oh my fucking god!” he squeals as he nearly squashes all the breath out of me, his long arms squeezing me tight. He even manages to pick me up and spin me round. He might be all twink but he’s three inches taller and is definitely stronger. “Is it real? Are you rich now? Are you going to forsake all your old friends?” With the last question he releases me and holds me at arms length, his head tilted to the side.
“Yes, kinda, and no of course not.” I answer his questions in turn. The toast pops up and he turns away, retrieving the knife from the floor and throwing it into the sink.
“Would the earl like to partake in some toast?” he asks, putting on a fancy voice, and I chuckle. I love Tate like a brother and I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of his ways of making me laugh.
“I think you’re supposed to call me sir now,” I reply, and he throws me a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised so high that theI can clearly fuck off with that shitmessage can’t be misread. I laugh, relief flooding through me. I sigh deeply. Tate’s normality is starting to make me feel more like myself despite the circumstances. I sit on a high stool at the breakfast bar, onthe opposite side to where Tate is preparing the toast. As he places a plate in front of me he pulls a face.
“Sorry, I finished the jam last week.”
“S’okay,” I mumble, picking up the toast, suddenly very hungry. All I ate yesterday were some sandwiches that the butler guy, I think his name was Jones, gave us yesterday. The memory of the time I spent with Mr Nagle reminds me that this isn’t an easy situation.
“So tell me more,” Tate demands, taking a seat and attacking his own breakfast.
“What about your news?” I ask but he waves my question away.
“I’ll tell you later. Right now I want to hear all about this mansion you’ve inherited and when we are going to live in it.”
“It’s not that simple,” I reply, taking another bite before answering more. “It’s big, like seriously big, but can you imagine how much a house like that costs to run? To heat? Never mind the staff.”
“There’s staff?” Tate cuts in, and I glare at him. I’m never going to finish telling him if he’s going to keep interrupting. “Sorry,” he sighs and waves his hand again, this time to allow me to continue.
“So yeah, there’s all that to think about. And then there’s the inheritance tax. Do you know what that is?” This time Tate just shakes his head.
“Neither did I, but apparently it’s a tax on things you inherit. There is a threshold, but it doesn’t make much of a difference in this case.”
“How come?”
“Because as of now, I owe the treasury nearly six million pounds.”
“Fuuucccck!” Tate bangs his coffee mug down on the breakfast bar and sits up straighter. “How big is this house?”
“It’s huge. I have no idea why anyone would want something that big. It’s square and like four storeys high or something. I don’t even know how many bedrooms it has—ten, maybe more. Who needs ten bedrooms? It has gardens, a lake, and acres of parkland.” I sigh, remembering the view from the rise when I first caught sight of the house. Even in the dank January drizzle it looked majestic.
“Sounds great for parties,” Tate butts in. Of course that’s what he would think of first.
“Parties, where I can charge a million pounds a ticket?” I quip, and he wrinkles his nose. Clearly that isn’t going to work.
“So what will you do?” he asks.
“Sell it of course,” I say flatly.
“But,” he prompts.
“There is no but. It’s the only possible course of action, and then I’ll still have a lot of money. I could buy a house right here in London with what’s left.”
“Yes, that’s the sensible option, but I know you Kai, you’re a romantic at heart. There’s a but.”
