15. Ophelia
We drive to Sinistral that afternoon. Silas holds my hand as we walk into the lobby of the hotel.
“I hate this fucking place,” he mutters.
“Me too.” The memory of what happened after the Foxes barged into that small room and found Silas and I together overshadows what was a beautiful moment. What happened after they hauled Silas away in handcuffs darkens all the good moments. I wonder if that will always be the case.
Silas walks up to the concierge desk and greets the woman standing behind it. “Call up to the penthouse and let Carlisle-Bent know Ophelia Cruz, formerly Hart, is here to see him.”
She looks from him to me and back. I wonder if she was here the night he was arrested.
I set my hand over top of Silas’s forearm. “Please,” I add, smiling.
“Of course,” she says. Her smile is tight, but she picks up the phone to call my grandfather. A moment later, she puts the phone down and signals the porter over. She hands him a key. “Take Ms. Hart and?—”
“It’s Mrs. Cruz,” Silas corrects.
“Of course,” she stammers. “Please take Mrs. Cruz and her companion?—”
“Husband,” Silas interrupts again.
I clear my throat and give him a look. He shrugs his shoulders.
“Her husband up to the penthouse.” She turns to us. “Mr. Carlisle-Bent was expecting you.”
“I’m sure he was,” Silas mutters, letting me know how little he likes this as we follow the porter to the elevator and take the familiar ride up.
Silas gives my hand a squeeze as the doors slide open onto the penthouse, and before we even step off the elevator, I see him. My grandfather. He’s there waiting for us—for me, I guess—his gaze fixed and anxious.
Silas keeps hold of my hand, and we step into the suite. The doors close behind us.
There is a smell in the room, something sickly that wasn’t here before when Silas occupied the suite. It’s barely masked by the odor of cigarette smoke. I take it in, processing the whole strange scene.
Two men in white nurses’ uniforms are working at the kitchen counter. A woman in a similar uniform is seated at the table typing something into an iPad.
Chandler Carlisle-Bent is leaning against the far wall. I see the remnants of a bruise on his forehead. He is holding a cigarette in his hand. It’s not lit, and I realize it’s not real when he brings it to his mouth to draw on it and the tip lights up. He watches me, his eyes boring into me with that same look inside them as I saw in the limo. Something unkind.
No. More than that.
Something malevolent.
I shudder, and he grins.
Silas’s hand tightens on mine, and I feel aggression build inside him, tension coiling his muscles. I look up at him, shake my head subtly. He draws me closer and glares at Chandler.
I turn my attention to the man I came to see.
Gordon Carlisle-Bent, my grandfather, is seated in a wheelchair in the center of the room. An oxygen tank hangs off the back of the chair, and a mask is hooked over one armrest.
He’s tall. I can see that even while he’s seated. He’s dressed in a three-piece tweed suit that’s a little too big on his frame. I wonder if he used to fill it out. His hands rest on the arms of the chair, and he’s wearing a gold wedding band. He has wisps of dark gray hair sticking straight up all over his head, and his skin is marked by age. His face is clean shaven and he’s not quite smiling. He looks inquisitive. His eyes are a pale shade of blue, bright, and alert on me. He raises his hand and one of the male nurses rushes over.
“Help me stand,” my grandfather says.
I press myself against Silas, who squeezes my hand.
The nurse fumbles, not working quickly enough apparently because my grandfather mutters a curse. “Just get my feet off these stupid things! Is it too much to ask for that little bit of competence?”
“Almost there, sir,” the man says and bends to set my grandfather’s feet on the floor before helping him to stand. I notice his expensive shoes are polished to a high shine.
“Well,” he says finally, and I’m right. He’s tall, taller than Chandler, and almost comes up to Silas’s height. “Ophelia,” he says like he’s just said the name for the first time ever in his life. “Claire’s girl.” He walks toward us, never taking his eyes from me, searching my face. I wonder if he’s looking for signs of his daughter in me.
“You’ll scare the girl, old man,” Chandler says from his place at the wall.
“Shut up, boy.” My grandfather turns to look at Chandler. “In fact, get out. Our business is finished.”
I’m surprised when Chandler tucks that stupid fake cigarette into his pocket and does as he’s told. He gives me a hateful glance before moving past Silas and I and calling the elevator. No one speaks until he’s gone.
“I’d prefer he used the balcony and made a final exit, but no such luck,” my grandfather says, making Silas and I glance at each other, surprised. That sickly smell, it’s medicine, covering or covered by a layer of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. “You look like her.” He finally says, then snaps his fingers. The nurse who helped him out of the chair helps him back in and puts an oxygen mask to his mouth and nose. My grandfather holds it with shaking fingers and draws deeply.
I exhale, not realizing I’d been holding my own breath.
“Bring my granddaughter and her…” he pauses, raising his eyebrows at Silas.
“Husband,” he fills in.
“Husband then. Fox’s boy?”
I look at Silas to see his jaw tighten. I wonder if my grandfather sees the resemblance or if Sly had told him Ethan and I were going to be married and he thinks Silas is Ethan.
Silas nods tightly.
“Not the right one, though,” the old man says with a wide smile. He then begins to cough and has to breathe from the oxygen mask again. “Get us a drink,” he tells the nurse once he’s recovered. “She looks like she needs one. You two. Sit.” He points to the couch as the nurse rolls him into the living room.
Silas and I exchange a look, and when one of the nurses asks what we’d like, Silas requests whiskey for both of us. It’s early but if I’ve ever needed a whiskey, it’s now, so I take it.
I notice they bring a very small one to my grandfather who looks inside the glass and gives the nurse a hateful glance. It’s kind of funny because it’s a look a two-year-old might give his mom when he’s expecting candy and gets handed broccoli.
“I hardly think an absence of whiskey will lengthen what is left of my life. Hell, maybe the opposite. If you pour heavy, maybe you’ll hasten my demise and get rid of me once and for all. I’d think you’d want that. Now get me a proper glass.”
“Sir—”
“Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, bring me a goddamned cigarette!”
“Mr. Carlisle-Bent, you know I can’t?—”
“I’m kidding. Christ. Can’t kid anymore. No one can take a goddamned joke these days.”
The man hurries off to do as he’s told, and Silas snorts.
My grandfather turns to him. “A sense of humor. Good. Now.” He looks at me again. “Ophelia. I am very happy to finally meet you. For a very long time I wasn’t sure if you were even alive. If Claire… Well.” He shifts his gaze over my shoulder, and I see sadness in his watery eyes. I’m not sure why it surprises me. He loved her. I see that much. “Did you know your mother?” he asks.
I shake my head. “She died when I was just a year old. I don’t remember her.”
“That is a shame. She was a lovely girl.” He looks off in the distance and a sad shine comes over his eyes. “A girl with a glass heart.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“She never had a chance. Not when the rest of the world is made of stone.” He shifts his gaze from me to Silas. “Girls with glass hearts don’t belong in this world. If she’s anything like my Claire, and I venture to say from the look in her eyes that she is, she’ll shatter if you’re not careful with her.”
Silas’s eyes narrow, not quite in confusion but possibly understanding.
The old man returns his attention to me and stares openly. “My goodness. It is difficult to look at you. I didn’t know it would be. I’ve seen photographs, of course, but only recently. How is Horatio?” he asks, and I don’t sense animosity.
In fact, I’d say the way he spoke with Chandler was more hateful than the way he asks this question about my father, the man who took his daughter away—who kept his granddaughter from him.
“He’s in prison.”
“I know that. I heard what happened there, too. He’ll need to be careful. Sitting duck in there.”
“Sitting duck?” I ask.
“A bird in a cage is easy prey.” They bring my grandfather his whiskey. He looks inside the glass, nods and takes it. They also give him an unlit cigarette.
“You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?” Silas asks.
“Silas.” I shake my head at him.
“It’s a fair question,” my grandfather says. “And I’ve always appreciated directness. But no, it wasn’t me. He has enemies enough. And what he did for my daughter, well, I learned that too late of course, but I remember.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Silas clears his throat, and my grandfather glances at him. I do too, but Silas keeps his eyes on the old man.
“Nothing, nothing that matters,” my grandfather says.
“How long do you plan on staying in Sinistral, Mr. Carlisle-Bent?” Silas asks.
“As long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?”
“Getting to know my granddaughter. Isn’t that obvious?” He turns back to me and smiles. “Now, I assume you have questions. You should ask them. I’m not long for this life, after all. Let’s not waste more time, Ophelia.”
“Okay. I will. If you promise to tell me the truth.”
He chuckles, drinks his whiskey, and holds the unlit cigarette between his two fingers. “You’ve grown up overprotected. Of course you have.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because a liar will always lie to you, and most of them are pretty damn good at it. Never ask someone to promise they’ll tell you the truth. You’ll always have to parcel that out for yourself. Now ask your questions, Ophelia.”
He’s sharper than I expected. I thought he was on his deathbed, and the way he coughs now and again confirms that, but his mind seems to be intact.
“Tell me what happened between my mother and father. Not what the newspapers said, but what really happened.”
He narrows his eyes and openly studies me, one corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t you know? They fell in love like two fools.”
Again, I’m surprised because I fully expected him to tell me the newspaper version.
“Carried on for months right under my nose. She was not for him though.”
“Because he was staff?” I ask.
“Precisely.” He surprises me with his answer. It’s honest and straightforward at least, even if it doesn’t exactly paint him in a good light. He puts the cigarette to his lips and pretends to take a drag. “An agreement had already been made for Claire. People like us, Ophelia, we don’t marry for love.”
Silas squeezes my knee and I turn to him but he’s looking at the old man who, when I look back at him, is watching us.
“You got lucky, I think. Just make sure she stays that way. Regardless, and you can think me a classist for saying it, but Horatio was staff and Claire was royalty in our world. As such, she had an obligation. She didn’t see it that way though, not when it came to Horatio. But…” he trails off, his expression darkening. “Turns out Horatio was the least of the evils that haunted—and hunted—her. Glass hearts.” He shakes his head, begins to cough, and I think I hear him say too little too late before the nurse helps him with his oxygen mask.
Once the coughing fit has passed, he looks down into his almost empty glass and this time, I’m sure I see it. Sadness. Regret maybe.
He brings the tumbler to his lips and drains it. “He was a good father to you?” he asks me, surprising me yet again.
I nod. “Yes, he was. Overprotective but I understand why now that I know this.”
“He should have brought her home. If I’d known sooner, maybe he would have. Maybe she’d be alive now if I’d just paid attention.” He rests his head back, looking tired and resigned.
Although I don’t fully understand his comment, I feel a little sorry for him.
“Go on, Ophelia,” he says, meeting my eyes again.
I clear my throat to ask my next question. “Do I have other family?”
“Apart from that piece of shit you saw me kick out of here? No. Everyone is dead. And I’ll be dead soon too. Don’t ever smoke, young lady. It’s true, all those terrible things they say and the pictures they put on the cigarette packets. It’s bad for your health.” He puts the unlit cigarette to his lips and makes like he’s inhaling. He winks at me.
I smile. He’s not horrible. A little crazy, maybe, definitely eccentric, but not horrible.
“Now. I’d like you to meet with my lawyers in the morning. There’s quite some paperwork, you can imagine. I want it signed and done before I leave here.”
“Paperwork? I don’t care?—”
“You make sure she does care,” he tells Silas. “It’s quite a lot of money, and I will be certain the right person inherits it. I’d rather burn it to ash than give it to that snake.” I’m not sure he’s talking to either of us at that last part, and I wonder if I’m wrong about his mental state.
Silas takes his wallet out and pulls a card from it. “Here. Have your lawyer contact mine. She’ll handle things on our end.” Silas turns to me. “Unless you prefer someone else.”
“No, Nigella’s fine. But you don’t even know me,” I tell my grandfather.
“I know enough. You’re no imposter. Fox confirmed that, but I’m guessing he’s regretting that now that you married the wrong boy,” he tells me then turns back to Silas. “You’ll sign something too. To protect her from you so you don’t go getting any ideas. Goddamned greed. It’ll destroy this whole damn country. Hell, it’ll destroy the world. Already has, hasn’t it?” He shakes his head.
“Mr. Carlisle-Bent, it’s time for your medication and some rest. You’re working yourself up,” a nurse says.
Silas and I stand up, taking our cue.
“Ah, fuck off,” my grandfather tells him, and I laugh. He turns to me, smiles and nods. “You sound just like her when you laugh. Horatio ever tell you that?”
“He did, actually. Many times.”
“Well, it’s true.” He turns to the female nurse. “Margaret, get that box I brought. It’s in the bedroom. Bring it to me.”
“Just a minute,” she says.
He looks up at Silas. “Your daddy’s a piece of work.”
“I don’t like to refer to him as my daddy.”
“Good. As crooked as they come and thinks he’s got everyone fooled.”
Silas smiles. “You’re right about that, Mr. Carlisle-Bent.”
Margaret returns with the box which my grandfather takes. It’s a very old, faded purple wind-up jewelry box that he fumbles to open. When he does, a small, bent ballerina takes a quarter turn to choppy, broken music before stopping. He watches the little doll inside then roots around underneath to take out a gold locket on a chain. He puts the box on his lap and opens the locket. He smiles at it fondly, and the sight of him looking at it like he is, is bittersweet. I feel the loss of this man who is sitting right here, who I know is not going to be here for very long.
“Here. It was your mother’s. Her mother gave it to her. It’s the two of them when she was just a baby. Claire left it behind when… well, it’s yours now.”
When I reach to take it from him, my fingers brush his and he captures them, holding on to them for a minute, moist eyes locked on mine. This moment isn’t bittersweet. It’s just heartbreaking.
He keeps hold of me and turns to Silas. “Keep her away from the stones, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take good care of her. Always have. Always will.”
He nods and hands me the box. “And you. You make sure you come back to see me.”
“I will. I promise. And you can trust that promise.”
He smiles.
“Come on, Mr. Carlisle-Bent. Let’s get you to bed,” Margaret says.
I watch him being led away and he suddenly looks smaller and frailer, and I feel so incredibly sad.
“You okay?” Silas asks me.
I nod, and hand off the box to open the locket. Inside are two tiny black and white photos. On one side is a woman I look a lot like and on the other is a tiny bundle of a baby. My grandmother and my mother.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Silas says.
I tuck it into my pocket and let him lead me onto the elevator and down to the lobby. We pass the entrance of the bar as we go, and I glance in to find Chandler sitting there smoking that fake cigarette and drinking a whiskey. He raises the glass to me but doesn’t smile. In fact, his face is the opposite of a smile. A chill runs down my spine.
Silas must feel it because he stops, too, and when he takes a step toward the bar, I pull him back.
“Don’t,” I say, remembering what my father told me, that Chandler Carlisle-Bent is more dangerous for me than the Foxes ever were. Understanding why he’d say that.