Mr Younge waiting for us by the wall in the foyer is no strange sight.
Mrs Younge isn’t often in the main areas, since her duties are to overlook all the other house servants—but it’s not her presence that troubles me.
It’s Abigail’s.
It’s strange to see her standing there.
Oliver’s gravelly voice is a murmur, “You’ll be disappointed with me today. I have a great gift for you… but it’s not quite ready yet.”
My frown is lured to him.
I turn my cheek to the servants against the wall, my parents standing with them as low murmurs come from them—a private conversation I’m not invited to join.
Not that it is even playing on my mind with the vulgarity Oliver just spoke to me.
My face is carved from stone. “You don’t have my gift?”
His shoulder lifts as if tugged by a thread. “I have something for you to open—but the actual gift is delayed. It can’t be helped.” Still, his smile is a bit on the sheepish side. The shame of it. “You’ll have many gifts to spoil you today. Fret not.”
My mouth curls—
But before I can retort, the rustling of robes draws in my glance.
I double-take.
Father and Mother have turned their backs to the servants—and are moving for me.
Faces of steel closing in.
My heart skips in my chest.
Their stares dagger into me.
My throat thickens with a swallow.
Oh shit.
What now?
I’m rooted to the spot. My cold, dirty feet are unmoving over the floor, but Oliver has no such problem moving.
He side-steps away from me, then angles to face me, just as Father lifts his arm, as if reaching for me.
But he is holding something out.
His knuckles gleam white with the tension of his stiff grip. But in his hand is a small, leather-bound book.
Slow, my heart starts to sink down my insides to my gut. The book I borrowed from Dray.
The book I once had but Mother destroyed.
The book I had packed in my luggage.
‘THE IMPACT OF DEADBLOODS’.
Father’s voice is a deep, restrained storm, “Where did you get this?”
The colour drains from my face.
