The castle is warm and full of smells of cooking and wine and the sound of laughter finally breaks through the self-imposed frost.
Maybe everything will be alright.
* * *
My phone rings as soon as I get out of the shower. It’s the one Majken officially has the number to, although I’ve always figured she knows the rest too. My little sister-hacker.
I answer, still dripping with water and use one hand to wrap the towel around my waist.
“Happy Christmas, little brother!”
I don’t groan, just lean against the wall and hope this is going to be short. There was a time when phone calls from Majken filled me with relief; now it’s dread.
“Happy Christmas. Are you okay?”
“I’m good. Cold but good.”
“Where are you?”
“Scotland, but don’t worry, my Christmas agenda is full. I might squeeze in a visit around New Year. I want you to see my baby bump.”
I’m still unconvinced she’s actually pregnant. My sister would go to many lengths to persuade people to do things for her or to manipulate their emotions. One more lie is nothing to her.
“Lovely. Any reason you’re in Scotland?” I’d much prefer her to be back in the Bahamas.
“Closer to my roots. How are you? Doing anything nice tomorrow for Christmas dinner? Beats being in the desert.”
I wish I could lie and tell her I’m in a different country, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be doing what she can to locate me with the call.
“Christmas dinner. My first for years.”
“Good.”
There’s a stretch of silence.
“Majjie, what do you want?”
“Where will Blair be on Twelfth Night?”
“I haven’t memorised her itinerary.”
“You remember everything. I need to know, Ben.”
“But not from me. You have other sources. Stop asking for me to tell you things and let me have my fucking life without you holding power over me! Mum died. It was shit. Our aunt did things to me that no adult should do to a child and you fucking knew about it, you could’ve done something but you didn’t. I want my life, Majken. And I don’t want you in it.” If I wasn’t speaking to her, I’d be punching something, but the words are more cathartic.
“If you don’t help me, if I can’t say that you’ll pass on information, I might not be safe, Ben.” Her voice is a hiss.
“I don’t believe you. Even if it’s true, I can’t live my life for you.” I know I’m waving a red flag, because whatever safety I might have been providing her, it covered me also. I was worth more alive to them than dead. “It ends now.”
I hear her huff. The sharp exhale of breath that tells me she’s pissed. My chest thuds and resonates into my head.
“It hasn’t ended, Ben. It’s only just started. Happy Christmas.”
She hangs up and I listen to the phony dial tone.
Laughter echoes down the corridor; I hear Blair’s voice and the smile in her words. Isaac even sounds light and free because it’s Christmas and for a few days the world doesn’t have to exist.
I finish drying and hang up the towel to dry, pulling on sweats and an old sweater because no one’s dressing up tonight. Dinner isn’t formal, it’s where Blair’s father is, sitting in the large war lounge with the Christmas tree and fire roaring. It’s a spread of dishes and a lot of wine and ale and then whisky while we wait for the coals to burn to ash.
