I consider it for a moment. I haven’t seen my aunt in person in ages. We visited once, my dad and I, after Mom left. But Stella had nothing but nasty things to say about Mom, and I didn’t want to hear it. Neither did Dad, so we didn’t visit her again.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing ever,” I hedge. “She is the only family I have around. Who still talks to me, anyway.”
Rupert pauses what he’s doing, then sets down the bowl of salad and puts an arm around me.
“Have you thought about contacting your dad?” he asks in a careful voice. He knows this is a tender subject for me, as is everything that happened during my years with Andy.
I shake my head firmly. “He doesn’t want to hear from me, not after the last conversation we had.” I wince just thinking about it, how he and Andy got in a screaming match over the phone. But I was the one to take it away and hang up.
Rupert nods in understanding, then releases me and returns to his task. Kellen arrives at exactly six on the dot, when we always have dinner.
“What treat have you two cooked up tonight?” he asks, surprisingly cheery. I think getting laid regularly has been good for everyone in this house.
“Homemade fettuccini!” Rupert beams at the butler. “One of the things that was ground into my brain in culinary school—homemade pasta.”
Kellenoohs in pleasure as Rupert and I carry the plates to the dining room, and he seats himself with his napkin across his lap. “Never thought there would be a restaurant in my own house.”
“Where’s my tip, Kellen?” I joke.
“Please add the gratuity to my bill,” he answers gracefully.
“You can have anyone over, anytime you like, Peony,” Rupert tells me as we all dig in. “You live here. This is your home. If you want to entertain Stella, then please feel free.”
I look down at my plate. I know that he means without him, but I want him to say it to my face.
“You wouldn’t come down though, would you?” I ask.
Rupert shakes his head.
With a sigh, I twirl some pasta on my fork, though suddenly I don’t feel so hungry. Kellen glances uncertainly between us, an eyebrow raised, but neither of us speaks.
Eventually he gives up trying to make conversation, and we all eat dinner in silence.
twenty-five
. . .
rupert
Iknow my answer hurt her. Peony wanted a different one, but I couldn’t give it to her. Especially not with someone like Stella. That stuffy old lady would run away screaming the moment she saw me, then tell all of her rich friends at the club about the monster who lives at Edgewood Manor. And what would happen after that? Would the government show up at my doorstep to take me into custody and study me?
Peony is still quiet after dinner. She says she doesn’t feel well and goes to sleep in her own room for the first time since we became intimate. Of course I tell her I understand, and I return to the east wing alone.
My bed is cold and empty. I wish I could have said something else, something that would make her happy, but this is the way things are. This is the way things will always be. I need Peony, but I need to remain hidden, too. I can’t face theoutside world, what they would think of me, what they would do should they see me.
And faced with this pickle, I don’t know how to reconcile what Peony wants with what I fear.
The following day, Peony cleans without her usual vigor, quiet as a mouse when I’ve become so used to her humming made-up tunes as she works. She greets me, but once I’ve greeted her in return, she continues hoovering into the next room without a second look back.
I didn’t realize how much it meant to her to have her great-aunt over. Stella is such an unlikable woman, I don’t understand the significance. It must be about something more than just Stella.
I wonder how long Peony will freeze me out. I don’t like this, not at all.
At lunch, which she prepares before I can even make it into the kitchen, Peony informs me that Stella is coming over tomorrow night for dinner. Then she cleans up, dumps her plates into the dishwasher, and departs saying she needs to check on the laundry, when we usually go on a walk together in the afternoons.
I sit at the counter with Kellen, staring at the space where she used to be.
“Ms. Austin seems unhappy with you,” he remarks, as if it’s not the most obvious thing in the world.
