Chapter Seven
ELODIE
Lilian’s office was on the third floor. A maid who passed me in the hall after Preston had left was kind enough to guide me up.
Dust drifted through the air like forgotten snowflakes, stirring faintly as we moved.
She stopped before a door so dark it looked as though it had been carved from night itself.
Vines twisted across its surface, etched into the wood like they’d grown there of their own will, curling toward a doorknob shaped like a blackthorn rose.
I stared at it for a long moment; it drew my eye like it wanted to speak but had long forgotten how. The woman left without saying a word, and I knocked.
The door creaked open with a long sigh, and I found Lilian sitting at a massive desk, her silhouette framed by the lonely window yawning behind her.
A cup of steaming Earl Grey waited for me by the time I sat down, the scent of bergamot and tea leaves softening the cloying sweetness of her perfume. Peony and something sharper beneath it.
“I’m glad you accepted my invitation,” she said, her smile spreading like honey over cold butter. “I always hoped we would have our chance to…reconnect.” Her long nails trailed the surface of the desk in a slow, thoughtful rhythm.
Her office was smaller than I expected, but still larger than any room I’d ever called mine. Bookshelves lined the walls, rising toward the ceiling like trees in a forgotten grove, their spines bowed with the weight of knowledge and dust.
“I–yes, I’m glad too,” I answered, though I wasn’t yet sure it was true.
I still hadn’t asked her about my mum. About the reason she left. But as I looked at her composed expression, I realised it wouldn’t be right to hear only one side of the story. However, there wasn’t much I could do to change that. My mum was gone.
I shifted on the chair, and the wood creaked faintly beneath me.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I added. “It was generous of you to offer the—” I bit my tongue. The money? I wiped my hands on my trousers.
Lilian inclined her head with graceful detachment and leaned forward “What will you do with the inheritance?” she asked, her tone eager. “What are your dreams, Elodie?”
The small hairs rose on my arms from the way my name resonated off her tongue. Like a low hum of another word.
Dreams. Not plans. Dreams.
I hesitated. When I let myself dream, truly dream, I saw dimly lit libraries and books with spines worn soft by centuries of hands.
I saw quiet rooms where I could think, learn, and vanish into pages.
But people like me didn’t chase dreams. We crafted plans.
Ones that involved saving, surviving, and someday—escaping.
“I’d like to go to university,” I said finally. The words came out steadier than I expected. “To continue my studies.”
Lilian nodded once in acknowledgement.
“And what would you study?” Her voice dipped, thoughtful. “What does your future look like?”
Everything, I wanted to say. Everything, and more.
But everything didn’t pay for my future. Everything didn’t buy safety.
“Law or accounting,” I said instead.
The answer tasted like paper on my tongue.
Dry and practical. She didn’t blink, just examined me like an old book.
My fingers fidgeted with the bracelet on my wrist, its crystals cold against my skin.
Lilian rose from her chair, the silk of her blouse catching the candlelight as her floral scent awakened once more—iron and flowers.
She began to gather the papers on her desk, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer than I expected.
“There’s no dream that’s impossible to reach with your name. You’re a Thornbury. Use that wisely.”
Her words weighed me down, leaving a mark on my chest. The name scratched across my mind, each letter sharp like a knife tearing into skin. It didn’t feel like mine. Not really. And yet…it was the only key to the door, to a better life.
Everything I had wanted, right in front of me, and all I had to do was wear the name my mum had shed.
Lilian led me down to the ground floor, where high, dark green walls with wooden frames and old paintings welcomed us into the dining room.
The air smelled of thyme and wood smoke, like something had been roasting for hours.
A long oval table stretched across a faded Persian carpet, shadowed by a wrought iron chandelier that dripped with glass like crystallised rain.
Lilian strode to the seat at the far end while I lingered behind.
The table could seat twelve, maybe more, and nearly every chair sat empty.
The twins were whispering on Lilian’s left, while their brother—leaving out a buffer of seats—occupied the end closest to the entrance. Closest to where I stood.
Preston leaned back in his chair, his head tilted slightly like he was listening for something no one else could hear. When his eyes met mine, his stare turned sharp and pointed, like he had tried very hard to make me disappear, but was failing.
I looked away, pretending he didn’t bother me, and moved up the table to take the empty chair across from the twins.
As soon as I sat, a narrow door opened within one of the wooden panels and three women appeared carrying dinner.
Their movements were smooth, choreographed, like a quiet ritual.
They placed the plates before us, and the scent of onion and something buttery made my stomach lurch.
It smelled richer than anything I’d eaten in months.
It wasn’t simple hunger that washed over me. It was the kind that had teeth.
I pressed a hand over my stomach and studied the silverware.
Too many forks. Too many options. Each one gleamed with quiet menace under the chandelier.
The handles weren’t plain, but shaped like beetles and serpents; wings tucked, fangs bared, as if cast from the bones of forgotten myths.
One fork looked like it might bite back if I chose wrong.
I stared at the steaming roast potatoes and carrots nestled in dark gravy.
Who uses three forks for one dinner? My throat filled with annoyance.
How was I supposed to know which one to use?
Something bumped against my leg beneath the table, and I looked up just as Myra gestured toward the longest fork.
I let out a breath. “Thanks.” My voice was barely above a whisper.
“No elbows on the table, Myra,” Lilian’s voice rang through the room, and Myra dropped her hands into her lap with the ghost of a smile.
“Yes, Myra, be a good girl.” Cecily giggled, nudging her sister.
I picked up the fork shaped like stems curling into petal tips.
It looked more sculpted than forged, like something plucked from a twisted fairytale.
I pierced a piece of potato, the prongs sinking into the soft flesh with a sound too sharp, too wet.
It echoed too easily in my mind, taking me straight back to two nights before.
My blade, sinking easily into skin with warm blood patching my fingers like ink.
I swallowed hard, nausea tightening my throat. Not the best dinner thought.
“How was it living in London?” Cecily asked, slicing the mind-painted picture in two. She leaned forward, her silver braces catching the light. “Was it like in the movies?”
I twisted the bracelet on my wrist, my fingers nervously playing with one of the crystals.
“It depends on the person,” I said. “My mum loved the city.” I felt Lilian’s gaze settle on me and the air inside my lungs thinned. I raised my chin higher. “Me, not so much.”
The words came out flatly, but I meant them. For me, London had become more grind than glamour. I hadn’t seen the city’s festive lights or museums in years. My world had narrowed to dim pubs, night buses, and lonely walks.
The side of my face prickled, and I turned my head to find Preston’s gaze piercing me. He wasn’t just watching, he was assessing. I looked away, resisting the urge to grind my teeth. If he’s waiting for an apology, then he’s going to be disappointed.
“Is it beautiful though?” Myra asked. “I’ve always wanted to visit London.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Myra’s voice was gentle, curious.
I searched my memories: the green parks, playgrounds, my mum laughing as she tossed crusts to ducks.
The small fish and chips booths where we always stopped before heading home.
Home. I missed that version of London. The one I’d known as a child.
For a spare second, the ache in my chest burned.
“It must have been beautiful,” she added, like she needed it to be true.
I took a sip from the lukewarm tea, letting it fill the hollow spaces opening inside me.
Myra smiled, and something in me eased. I returned the smile, awkward and unsure.
It tugged unfamiliar muscles, but the girls didn’t seem to notice.
They just smiled back, like this was all perfectly normal. Maybe it was. It should have been.
“Did you have a lover there?” Cecily blurted, and I nearly choked on my tea.
“Cecily,” Lilian warned, and Myra shook her head, though she looked just as curious as her sister.
“A lover?” I echoed, my voice dry.
“Did you leave your boyfriend behind?” Cecily rephrased, her pale head resting in her palm. “That would be so romantic. So tragic.”
Tragic would fit into my life.
Preston snorted, sharp and amused. My head snapped in his direction, heat flickering along my neck as he offered me a venomous grin. He was clearly enjoying this. I looked away before I did something stupid, like throw my fork across the table, aimed at his head.
I had never loved anyone. Not like that at least. My life had been too full of survival, too quiet and strange for anything resembling romance.
And my mum, she’d taught me love could wound in silence.
That people you love the most tend to slip through your fingers.
Anhe Fei used to say grief makes the heart brittle, and love is a heavy thing to balance on such fragile bones.
Besides, boys were too immature anyway; you couldn’t really trust them.
No, I had all the romance I needed in my novels.
I shook my head. “I didn’t,” I answered, without elaborating.
Cecily let out a long, dramatic sigh, and her sister studied me before returning to her plate.
Lilian clapped her hands, breaking the rhythm of the room. “Before this conversation descends entirely into farce,” she looked pointedly at the twins, “I’d like to propose a toast. To finally have my granddaughter by my side. The very last of the Thornbury name.”
Her words coiled around my ribs like thorny vines. I had never been anyone’s granddaughter before.
I reached for the champagne, more to do something with my hands than to join in the toast. The sweet, golden liquid bloomed over my tongue, unfamiliar and soft. I’d never had champagne before. My mum preferred red wine over anything, and even that was rare in our household.
When I looked up from the glass, my gaze landed on the butler.
He stood in the shadows like a sculpture, balancing a silver tray in his hands.
His presence was quiet, unassuming, but there was something about him I couldn’t quite place.
He smiled. Not broadly, but kindly, just like when I arrived, and my shoulders began to loosen.
I raised my glass slightly, and took another sip.
Still, the pressure hadn’t vanished. Not entirely. My movements were followed by Preston’s torturing eyes, his gaze clinging to me like fog. His food lay untouched on his plate as he watched, like he was waiting for something to break.
I blanked my face. If he wanted a reaction, he could choke on the silence instead. And if he wanted war, I would make sure he knew I didn’t bruise easily.
Nor did I bleed quietly either.