“And now,” Alisa continues, unfazed, “after all these years, he dies and leaves us with this mess.Typical.Absolutely typical.”
Isla closes her eyes.
She knows the story.She has always known the story.Her mother has told it with variations, depending on the mood and the audience.
Keir MacLaren: the brilliant musician.The addict.The cheater.The man who chose drugs and groupies and chaos over responsibility.The man who abandoned his wife and infant daughter and disappeared into fame.
Isla had grown up with that version of him, polished sharp and repeated until it felt like fact carved in stone.
And yet?—
Even bad people can do some good.
The thought irritates her, but it won’t leave.
Keir never sent birthday cards.Never showed up.Never called.Never asked to hear her play.Isla has never seen his face in real life, never heard his voice without a screen between them.
But the money came.Every month.Without fail.
The best teachers.The best instruments.The best schools.The travel.The competitions.
Luxury.
Comfort.
Opportunity.
Her childhood was not one of struggle.It was one of pressure, expectation, and polish.
That money made her life possible.
And now Alisa is already counting it again.
“I just want to know what he left,” Alisa says.“After everything, he owes us that much.”
Isla opens her eyes, anger flaring sharp and sudden.“He’s dead.”
Alisa waves a hand.“And?”
The word lands wrong.
Isla turns, finally meeting her mother’s gaze in the reflection of the window.Alisa’s face is tight with exhaustion and resentment, and something else Isla doesn’t want to name: anticipation.
“He’s been dead less than forty-eight hours,” Isla says.“Could you not?—”
“Not what?”Alisa snaps.“Be practical?We need to know where we stand.”
Where we stand.
As if grief is a financial position.
Isla looks away again, heat crawling up her neck.“You’re not even curious about him.”
Alisa scoffs.“I know everything I need to know.”
That, Isla realizes, is the problem.
The castle emerges out of the mist like something half-forgotten, half-dared into existence.Gray stone rises from the land, ancient and imposing, ivy crawling along its walls as if trying to reclaim it inch by inch.
