Page 117 of Queen of Nothing

Mother used to wait me out. No leaving the table until the vegetables were eaten. No dessert. No juice.

She won. Every time.

I drop my chin down and look at the faded, scratched denim of my lap.

So out of place. A smear of dirt on marble.

Then the footman drapes a napkin over my lap.

Grandmother must be pleased, because the soup is served hot.

Steam wafts up from the dishes being carried in on silver platters—and something in me melts at just being waited on again.

I should be stiff and uncomfortable and horrified at being back here.

I had reason to run.

But I forget all about that as a bowl of Windsor soup is set down in front of me, the silverware placed on either side already, and bowls of warm, fresh bread rolls are set down along the stretch of the table.

This table is larger than the last.

And seating etiquette continues, lady and gentleman, so I feel further away from Father—which is a relief.

He sits at the head of the table. Mother on the other end. The heads of the household.

My brother is in the centre, dropping into the seat beside me, grandmother on his other side, and so his wife, Asta—which will take some getting used to and a lot of questions—is in the seat across from him.

Dray sits beside her, and on the other side of him is Amelia.

I make quick work of committing the new seating plan to memory, but it’s suddenly obvious that someone is missing.

Harold Sinclair.

I itch to ask—but I shouldn’t.

Instead, I start on my soup.

The whole table does, and it’s… uncomfortable.

The emotional waves of my return have been corked into a bottle, and we sit in the tense silence now.

The atmosphere is thick.

Father is mute at the head of the table. He hasn’t spoken a word since we sat down. And he only took two sips of his soup.

Mother is warmer. She weeps silently, but she is warmer.

We eat through the soup, then it’s taken away and replaced by the next course, and every other moment, Mother’s hand reaches out for mine—and when I meet her gaze, she gives a watery smile.

Amelia catches my gaze. Her smile is the sort of glitter on an ice sculpture. It’s beautiful. She is beautiful.

Her lips part, as if to speak, to ask something, but her words fail, and she returns to smiling.

Glad Grandmother Ethel didn’t see that. She might have caned her, too.

Father’s presence is what mutes the room.

Then the footmen bustle in through the doors, take away dishes, sweeping around the table, then another horde come in to serve the main course and fill glasses with wine and water before they are gone again.