Chapter 21
LANEY
I hated doctors.
Early this morning, Father informed me an attending doctor would visit me to check me over. The past four weeks had rocked things off-kilter, but I didn’t think it would have to come to this. I’m fine.
I waited in the dimly lit library on the eastern wing of the estate. It was cold and damp as if the books contained the moisture of the past, not just the words. The shelves went from floor to ceiling enveloping the entire room with a cosy, yet imposing feel.
The night before had been rough. I transposed her facial likeness image captured on intake on the painting. It was a perfect match. I was crushed, and so angry. Why did I turn a blind eye to her before she earned it? Was I that gullible that only an ounce of attention would have me foregoing my family’s security. I couldn’t admit this to Father.
At exactly three p.m., a stocky-looking fella walked in behind my father, a couple of steps behind his long stride. He wore nothing that indicated his medical authority except a badge with his name that, thankfully, had MD written after it.
“Hi—”
“This is my daughter, Laney. She’s been sick for a couple of weeks. She looks pale, sleeps little, and is anxious a lot.” He listed my ailments like accolades: “Migraines. Fainting. Rashes.” I covered the redness around my neck. “What is the matter with her?”
The doctor looked at me, uncertain, before he spoke curtly back to him. “That’s what I’m here to find out Sir, don’t worry.” Turning his gaze back to me he said, “Good afternoon, Laney. My name is Dr Archibald Borley, I’ll start by asking what you think the problem is?”
“I’m really not sure. I’ve had episodes before. Usually, they’re caused by a mental crisis, but I haven’t felt necessarily stressed for a while now. Grief-stricken, sure, but stress, not really.”
“Stress is a silent killer. It marinates under the surface and often presents itself before you even know it. I understand that the fainting is induced by anxiety?”
“Yes.”
“Was it sparked by the grief?”
“No, I got diagnosed with anxiety four years ago.”
“Medicated?”
“Counselled.”
“Are you still seeking counsel?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“It’s not that. I know it. It’s something else. It’s something concrete.”
“Mental health issues are concrete. What has made you think otherwise?”
Father let out a huff at that moment, rolling his eyes, but Dr Borley went on, “Grief is a stressor. You might not have even realised it as a cause. It’s a process; it’s still early days into the grief. I understand you have a funeral coming up soon. That’s fresh—”
“It’s something else!” I burst out. My head hurt again. “It’s something external, I know it.”
“Sure, Laney.” He smiled pleasantly, placing a hand on my leg.
I flinched.
“Moving on,” Father growled.
Dr Borley ran some routine tests, checking my blood pressure, reflexes and heart. When they all came back normal, well within healthy ranges, he returned to his line of questioning.
“Do you have experience of prolonged issues similar to this prior to this episode?”
“It’s new.”
“Okay. Any other diagnosed disorders apart from anxiety?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you have any allergies?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Father interjected.
“To tea tree oil, yes.” He spoke fast, brief and direct. “Why is that relevant?”
“Well, prolonged exposure to an allergen can develop into a case of chronic inflammation, like migraines, fainting and difficulty breathing.” He looked at me. “These are the symptoms you complained of. And such agitators on the body can induce mental flare-ups from the stress.”
“You think that’s the case?”
He nodded.
My father shook his head. “When could she have been exposed to tea tree oil? Her mother had the same allergy. I’ve made sure that no tea tree oil products are used.”
“It’s a common ingredient in many products, cosmetics or medicine.”
“Don’t test my patience. Each item that comes onto the premise is vetted.”
“Perhaps it’s not an item, but a person. Like in fragrance.”
“Fragrance?” Father turned to me, his gaze darkening. Only one person came close enough for me to breathe in their perfume for a prolonged period of time. “Symptoms started six weeks ago. Fuck!”
I sat back in silence. It all made sense.
“Is that a plausible conclusion?” His head turned toward me for reassurance.
A little sombre, I gave him a nod. I could hear Father seething in the corner.
Then, Father dragged Dr Borley to a quiet corner of the library, where they exchanged hushed tones. After the fourth occasional glance thrown at me, I tilted my head, confused. When they returned, it was tense.
“Leave,” Father said.
Kneeling, Dr Borley gathered the supplies he’d brought as I continued to simply sit and think.
“But, Laney,” The doctor lowered his voice to a whisper. “It is in my professional experience that grief and mental stressors do not disappear without facing it, I think you shoul–”
“Leave,” Father repeated, unmistakable command in his voice before he brought his gaze to meet mine. “We have our diagnosis.”
Without another word, the doctor left, and Father sat in the chair he’d just evicted. Bereft. After ten minutes of silence, he pulled a folded letter from his suit pocket.
“This correspondence was delayed, it’s from Aldo Novelli. He’s arriving later today for an urgent meeting. He didn’t tell me the reason, but I want you to attend.”
He handed me the open letter, but he didn’t look pleased, which was unusual for him, especially when someone as close an ally as Aldo Novelli was coming. Instead, he looked like he wished Novelli was at the bottom of the North Sea. Something was on his mind that he wasn’t ready to share.
"Father, please tell me what’s going on," I said, laying my hand on his arm and looking at him imploringly.
"Maybe," he replied, gently smoothing my hair.
"Does the doctor think I’ll recover?
"Of course, Sunshine, he thinks if we take the right steps, you'll be on the road to recovery in a day or two," he answered dryly. "I just wish Aldo Novelli had chosen a different time. I need you to be well to welcome him."
"But please, Father," I insisted, “How do I heal?”
“Distance.” My heart collapsed in on itself. “Away from the allergen. Or the cause of the allergen.”
“But–”
"That’s all. Don’t bother me with questions," he answered with more irritation than I'd ever heard from him. Seeing that I looked hurt, he kissed me on my cheek and added, "You’ll know everything in a day or two at least, all that I know. In the meantime, don’t worry about it."
He turned to leave the room but came back before my mind wandered to her and how I kicked her out of my room last night. He only mentioned we were going to the Karstein ruins to meet Novelli and that we’d start walking at dusk.
“Don’t let her out your sight.” Father poked a finger into Neenan’s chest where he had stood guard at the door. “Not for even a moment.”
I could barely hear their next words. “Where’s Kenna?” “Stables.” “Good. Keep her away.” Then he left.
When we were finally alone, Neenan came to sit across from me.
“How’s your girlfriend? In trouble with daddy already?” He moved his eyebrows in a joking manner. “What did you do? Fuck on the front porch?”
“She’s a Karstein.”
His jaw fell. “Wha–WHAT?... How– how do you know?”
“I just do. There was always something about her. Alluring but off.” I shook my head. “As if the words she’d say meant something entirely different to me than to her. You can’t tell anyone.”
“I can’t keep that a secret! She’s the traitor. We have people looking for her.”
“You have to!” I shouted too loud. “Neenan, you have to.”
“Laney…” He trailed off.
I held up a pinky finger. “I’m dealing with it. Promise.”
“Is she planning something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she have access to our armament room?”
“Yes, armed and trained in our tactics.”
“And security clearance?” He said louder. “Does she have it? She could open the gates.”
“God, Neenan, I didn’t quiz her on it!”
“Well, someone’s gotta. She could be inviting her whole family here. Or even a whole army. Laney, didn't you think about this?”
I stayed quiet. Sadness spread over my features. I just wished that for once, I could be more. More than a pawn. A strategy. For once, I wanted not to be of use for somebody. Tears pricked me.
“Oh, Laney, you really liked her, huh?”
“No.” Not yet. I couldn’t. Not at all. Not even an inkling of like. But a whole spilt ink bottle of love. God fucking dammit.
“Hey, it’s okay. You like who you like…”
“I didn’t want to lose another person.” My voice cracked. “I can’t. Neenan, I just…” I took a deep breath, and my thoughts shifted. By replacing water with fire, I smoked my tears, reaching out to swipe my hand out to knock over a pile of books from the table, causing a violent crash. “I’m so sick of fucking losing people!”
Between the attacks, that strange guy in the hallway and Kenna’s betrayal, I wasn’t safe. Neenan hugged me then, but the formality of it all caused the fracture of my heart to widen.
☆
When the sun fell behind the treeline, I was ready. Not long after, my father and I set out on our walk, Neenan following not far behind. He insisted on arming us before we left. I touched the knives tied to my thigh for good measure.
Passing the drawbridge, we turned right and followed the road over the steep Gothic bridge, heading west to reach the deserted village and the torched ruins of the Karstein house.
“Sunshine?” Father said. “Don’t lose touch with your family legacy.”
Stunned to silence, I paused for a moment. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re my only daughter. I should’ve known they’d come for you in particular.”
“Excuse me– What?”
“Don’t be dense, Laney. You’ve been at the centre of our strategy for years.”
“But…but I was never given much authority. How could I be at the centre of it?”
“With heart.” He nodded. “I didn’t want to give you the stress or ego that being the heir can bring. It was your grandfather’s idea.” Granddaddy, you always knew me best.
“That makes no sense, all this time, I thought it was my heart that you hated most.”
He looked at the floor, ashamed. “The heart is dangerous.”
“Why?” I breathed, but he didn’t answer.
We kept walking.
No woodland walk could be prettier yet more haunted. The ground gently rose and fell, covered in beautiful woods, free from the formality of artificial planting and pruning. The uneven ground often led us off course, causing the path to wind around the sides of hollows and hills, creating endless scenic views.
Then, the blackened brick of the Karstein house came into view.
“Because the heart rarely listens to reason.”
I was confused.
“I’ve made mistakes, Laney. This is perhaps my greatest one (is that redundant?).”
I leaned closer to him. “What?”
As a child, I knew our family was tainted by something. I always hoped that one day, I would be worthy of knowing the reason.
“When I was seventeen, I was angry at the world, three sheets to the wind, and so in love with your mother, that reason left my brain. I don’t remember it clearly. It’s like looking up from the bottom of the ocean; things are there, solidly but not clear. The heat of the match, though, I can still feel to this day. It felt heavier than it should’ve. I’d locked every door and window before I did it, except one, the library. I threw the match in there, easy fuel. It was windy that night. The Karstein house burned quick.”
“It was you.” My fist clenched.
That’s why he’s the black sheep of the family. Pity didn’t enter my body. Not for him. Only sorrow for Kenna and her family. I was taught to hate them, but perhaps their blame was justified. We’re the bad guys.
“I’m the heir?”
“That’s the reason. No one trusted me again.”
“After your mother passed away, I was left with an infant and reinvigorated anger issues at our loss. My father took pity. And took you in, me only by extension. I was a spoiled bastard. Hot-tempered. Reckless. It’s why I lost everything, Laney. I wanted to protect you from it all. You’re nothing like me. Grandfather wanted it to be yours.” He lifted his hands.
“I don’t want it,” I said quickly. Not with that history. Jesus.
He chuckled a second and lightly shook his head. “Foolish girl. I know that. I’ve changed the organisational structure so that you’ll no longer need to worry about that. Your Grandfather dying was a blessing.” His hands clamped onto each shoulder in a way I thought that he might think was affection. “I’ll rule. It’s going great so far.”
My mouth pitched open.
Rounding one of these bends, we saw the burned Karnstein mansion come into view, and I recoiled. The blackened brick was haunting. And to think I was living next to it, the site of my father’s demise—his regret.
I shivered. As I looked to my side, it wasn’t regret that washed over his features, but pride. Bile burned at the top of my throat. Maybe I could do it? I want this. If only for it not to be him.
I was so focused on the house that I hadn’t noticed our old friend, Aldo Novelli, sitting behind the tinted glass of his Audi R8.
He got out of the car as we approached. After the usual greetings, his tight smile morphed into a mask of resentment. Bleeding hurt and anger into a turbulent expression, he incessantly tapped his finger on the side of his thigh.
A beam of light shone through the dense trees, illuminating a scabbed wound on his face.
“Oh God.” My jaw fell open.
“It’s a long story,” he said, “Buckle in.”