Chapter Two
ELODIE
Iwas ten minutes late when I slipped into the Drunken Lion’s Pub, a place squeezed into the damp bones of a two-storey brick house like it had been wedged there by time itself. The floor was slick with mud and beer and something more uncertain, and I nearly lost my footing as I ducked inside.
The air hit me like a backhand, thick with the stench of stale drink and something sour beneath.
I kept my head low and my coat tight as I threaded toward the back, hoping to change before anyone noticed my absence.
Luckily, the regulars were already too deep in their pints to bother lifting their heads.
I was halfway past the crowded round tables when a low, gravelly voice stopped me cold.
“Elodie.”
I turned as Dougie, the bear-like bouncer, cornered me.
“You’re late again.” He didn’t come too close, but still, I could smell the cheap lager evaporating off him. “Don’t ya tell me it’s female problems again. You had that last week. Tony said if you lie one more time, I’ve gotta boot you out.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. It seemed the men here were getting smarter. Unfortunate.
“This was the last time,” I said, my tone just soft enough to sound sincere. “Just let me start my shift.”
He scratched the side of his head with one of his massive palms, squinting at me with the sort of expression that suggested thought didn’t come easily to him. Then he slowly nodded.
I turned to go—
“For tonight’s tips.”
My spine stiffened. I glanced back to find his eyes glinting in the pub’s dim light, smugness curling in their corners.
“Or I can call Tony now,” he added, and my nostrils flared.
There it was. A choice that wasn’t a choice at all.
The kind the world seemed so fond of offering girls like me.
I could almost feel the cold breath of winter waiting outside, licking its lips.
I needed every pence I could scrape together to keep that ratbag landlord of mine from padlocking the door.
My jaw clenched. I gave the smallest nod.
“Don’t let Tony find out,” Dougie muttered, already losing interest. “I won’t stick my neck out for ya if he does.”
He lumbered off, and I fled toward the back room, cursing everything I knew under my breath.
The pub, the job, this miserable little pocket of a life I was clinging to.
Winter was the worst season to lose the roof over your head.
Cold crept into cracks you didn’t even know you had.
It buried people beneath morbid headlines after freezing the breath in their lungs.
I refused to be one of them.
I hooked my coat on the once silver coat hanger, now red with rust, in the corner and yanked the red-and-white striped apron over my head. The smell of beer and bleach had sunk into every thread, just as it had seeped into my skin too.
I twisted my hair into a bun, slick and severe, and returned to the front.
“You’re late,” Nat muttered with a gloating tone, sliding two pints across the counter.
“I’m aware,” I said, snatching a snifter and pouring it with golden rum.
“I’m surprised Tony hasn’t fired you yet,” she hissed, her lips barely moving.
I ground my teeth, choosing not to respond.
Nat had a way of poking just deep enough to bruise, never quite enough to bleed.
Maybe it made her feel better, clawing her way up the sinking ladder by stepping on whoever was there.
If it hadn’t been me, I wouldn’t care. Everyone who lived a life without a future needed something to keep them going.
For some people, it was walking over you.
For me, it was my three-year plan. That was how long I’d given myself to claw free of this place.
Three years of saving. Three years of dodging the worst of the worst, of pretending the shadows didn’t follow me home.
Then, freedom. University. A fresh start.
I didn’t even care what I studied. History.
Literature. Law. Anything that felt like it belonged in a place that smelled of old paper and quiet. Anything that wasn’t this.
“Maybe Tony doesn’t know yet,” Nat added, her tone biting. “Why don’t I just call him over—”
I cut her off with the clink of a glass. “If you’re after my tips too, you’ll have to fight Dougie for them.”
She smiled, all teeth, her gaze cold, greedy. “Well, that just won’t do.”
I turned away before I said something that would cost me more than I could afford, and started collecting empties instead, just as a briefcase landed on the counter. It was eye catching, a lot nicer than someone should bring here.
It belonged to an old man with a long wool coat and a bowler hat. He looked like a relic from another time, a misplaced soul among the sticky wood and warm beer stench.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, his accent clipped, precise, every syllable polished. Definitely not local.
I stepped forward, curious. A rich man in the Drunken Lion was as rare as a full set of teeth among its regulars. Maybe he wasn’t here because he got lost. If so, hopefully he tipped well.
“What can I get you, sir?” I asked, eyeing the monogrammed notebook he pulled from his coat.
C.S.
He glanced up, his silver-framed glasses catching the lamplight.
“Elodie Smith?”
My spine stiffened. My name sounded foreign coming from his mouth. Almost meaningful. Less Elodie, the girl with two jobs and no mum, and more ancient, well-kept. My gaze flicked around the room, still full of life, still buzzing. Yet, everything felt quieter. Like the air had changed.
“Depends on who’s asking,” I said, clearing my throat, which suddenly felt dry. I could only hope I didn’t catch a cold. I couldn’t afford to take a sick day. Tony would never pay for the leave.
“I’ve been sent to deliver a letter,” he replied like it was the most natural thing in the world. I shifted closer, still clinging to the idea of a beautifully sized tip I could try to hide from Dougie. “My name is Cornelius Sterling, and I’m here to represent Lilian Thornbury.”
The name didn’t ring a bell. Not even a dull chime. I just stared, waiting for the rest of the information.
“Your grandmother.”
I could have sworn the second hand of the clock stopped for a moment, and the room turned silent. Deafeningly. My who’s what?
“There must be a mistake then,” I said. “I don’t have a grandmother.”
Not one who’s alive anyway. My mum had no family left.
It was always just the two of us. My grandmother was buried when I was still a child, and even before that, I hadn’t known her.
All I remembered was the air, thick with incense and candle smoke, the pews groaning under the weight of mourners.
And my mum and I, sitting in the back in our borrowed black dresses and winter boots, because we didn’t have anything else fit for a funeral…
“Yes.” He nodded. “Miss Thornbury did inform me that your reaction…might be something like this.” Cornelius Sterling wiped off the sticky counter with a monogrammed handkerchief, then opened his leather briefcase.
“However, I can assure you, there’s no mistake.
You do have a grandmother. And she is very much alive. ”
I glared at Nat, who was at the far end of the bar, with the sudden idea that she had arranged this prank, but she was too busy flirting with a customer to even bat an eye my way.
My brows twitched as I tried to interpret the situation.
Cornelius Sterling withdrew a single, folded paper from his briefcase.
I didn’t believe him. I wasn’t delusional. The dead cannot be born again, not as the same person, living the same life. But I stayed silent, curious to see how this would end.
“Your mother was born Esmée Thornbury,” he said. “She changed her surname to Smith nineteen years ago.”
Hearing the name cracked something inside me.
“Must be a mistake,” I muttered. “Can I see that?”
Sterling slid the page toward me across the sticky counter. My fingers curled around the sharp edges like it might vanish if I didn’t hold on tight enough.
“I assure you, there’s no mistake, Miss,” he said calmly. “Very thorough work went into this.”
I didn’t answer. The name at the top blinked back at me, unwavering.
ESMéE THORNBURY
(SMITH)
It felt like the air folded in on itself. Like the church ceiling from that memory might collapse right onto my chest.
I remembered the organ, the cracked hymnbook, the way the stained-glass light fell across the coffin. I was told we were there to mourn a mother, a grandmother. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
I scanned the paper. Birth date. School records. Our address. Her workplace. All of it lined up with my life. My mum’s life. Except it all belonged to Esmée Thornbury, daughter of Lilian Thornbury.
I had never heard either of those names before.
“I was sent to offer you an opportunity,” Sterling said, his voice smooth like polished wood. “Your grandmother wishes you to move into her estate.”
The paper nearly slipped from my hands.
Estate. The word sounded foreign. Like it had too many syllables and too much history. It didn’t belong here. Not to the Drunken Lion’s Pub, not to me.
“She would, in exchange, provide you the inheritance your mother forfeited.”
My pulse skittered, rabbit-fast. I could only stare, let alone comprehend that what he said meant my mum had left her family behind. I was too hung up on that one word. It turned the night even more surreal.
Inheritance.
Did my mum really live a life with lawyers, estates, and inheritance? And did she really leave it for a flat that never had enough heat? Would I really believe that for years she scraped pennies and skipped meals, while knowing she had all that? Swallowing felt like I had razors in my mouth.
I felt foolish even thinking about believing it, but the question beat against my ribs like it was trying to break free. “What kind of an inheritance?”
Cornelius Sterling handed me another white sheet, with the casualness of someone offering a napkin.
“A generous one. Contingent, of course, on your agreement.”
I read it. Once. Then once more.
The clause was clear, almost absurd in its simplicity.
…which she shall receive if she agrees to spend one year at Thornhill, the estate of Lilian Thornbury…
My eyes dropped and my breath caught when I saw the sum.
I’d never seen that much money. Not on bills.
Not even on overdue notices. I counted the numbers.
This was more than rich. It was the kind of money that made you untouchable.
The kind that cracked the sky open, giving you possibilities you never even knew existed.
It didn’t belong to people like me. It belonged to old names and sealed gates.
To those born behind doors I was too poor to even knock on.
“And if I say no?” I was nauseous even asking. Did I really believe this to be true? And could I even afford not to?
Sterling adjusted his glasses and flicked through his papers. “The money will be given to charity,” he read.
My palms dampened. Charity was noble. Charity saved lives. But I was drowning myself. I could barely afford rent. and was three months behind already. One more half-paid month could mean one less key in my pocket.
I needed it. I hated needing it.
I placed the paper down, slowly, like it might catch fire if I moved too fast. My hand hovered above it for a beat too long. Sterling began packing his case, unaware of the storm swirling inside me.
“I believe we’re on the same page now,” he said. “Your grandmother expects your immediate arrival. I’ve taken the liberty of making travel arrangements on your behalf.”
My head jerked up.
“I didn’t agree to anything,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. He looked at me kindly. Almost pitifully.
“You need the money, don’t you?”
His gaze flicked down to the red-and-white striped apron hanging from my frame. He didn’t need my answer. The apron said enough. So did the smell of this place, soaked into my sleeves, into my skin.
“The car will arrive for you two days from now,” he said, adjusting the grey scarf around his neck. “Don’t worry about the chauffeur finding your address. Everything is taken care of.”
And there it was.
The chill. Not from the slow death of November clawing at the door, but from him. From the ease with which he said it. The certainty. They knew where I lived. They knew my name. My schedule. My worth, measured in inherited numbers.
A thin layer of sweat broke out across the back of my neck.
Sterling turned for the exit, his hat in his hand, casting long shadows beneath the low ceiling light. The pub had thinned while we spoke. Drunken men spilled into the cold while others curled into booths. I had no idea how much time had passed. I was just glad Tony didn’t notice.
“Wait,” I said, the word catching like broken glass in my throat. He paused. “Why now?”
My mum died over three months ago. The funeral was small, with no family beyond me. A cheap headstone. Wilted lilies. Silence so dense I thought it might bury me too. If this is real, if she has family, why hadn’t they come?
“That’s not my place nor story to tell.”
I swallowed hard, one last question pushing through my lips. “What’s the catch?”
He smiled faintly. “There’s no catch, Miss. Merely harmless family affairs.”