“What party?”
“A dinner.”
“Why?”
“You need to show your face. People are talking.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll talk about you when they see me on your arm?”
I don’t answer that. “I’ll send a dress up for you.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She walks toward the exit but stops and turns back. “Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That she’s pregnant?”
After a long moment, I nod.
She snorts, then curls her lip in disgust and stalks off. I hear her slam her bedroom door, and I don’t see her for the rest of the day. Which is a good thing because I can’t seem to be around her without touching her. And she’s right about what I want. What I imagine at night. And it needs to stop because no matter what, I cannot have her. Not the way I want. Not ever.
23
Judge
Paolo has been working for my family for a long time. I know exactly the outbuilding he spoke of and why he mentioned it. And I know Mercedes well enough to know if she’s told she can’t do something, she will do just that. It’s her nature, and I need to protect her from herself.
I walk through the woods to the building. I want to be sure myself that she can’t get in there. How did she even find it? It’s a hike from the house.
The property contains several stone structures. The cellar I’d put Ivy in is one. They were primarily used for storage in the past, but my grandfather had converted this particular one for his personal use. I’d been there a time or two while growing up. We all have, my mother included. It’s not a place you ever wanted to be summoned to.
My father was a kind man. The only offspring of Carlisle Montgomery after too many miscarriages to count. But he was a disappointment to my grandfather. Too weak. Too little like him.
My mother, Margot Hawkins, was an only child. The daughter of a low-ranking Society member. The men of her family were not Sovereign Sons. My grandfather arranging a marriage between Margot and my father was a boon to Margot’s father. She would marry a Montgomery. A Sovereign Son for his lowly daughter. It was higher than he’d ever have thought to strive. They married quickly, and when they produced the first male heir—me—Grandfather knew he’d done the right thing.
Then Theron came along, and my grandfather had all he required of my father. Two sons. No daughters necessary. If anything happened to me, Theron would slip into my place. And so my parents were told they would not have any more children. I wonder if it bothered my mother. She has always been a vain, selfish, and ambitious woman. A woman for whom Society life as the wife of a high-ranking member with its lunches and parties and money was all she needed. She’s still the same today.
My father obeyed the decree laid down by my grandfather, but I know he wanted a large family. I think he even loved my mother. I can’t say the same for her. I loved him, but I also knew he was weak. No match for a man like Carlisle Lawson Montgomery.
I have to pass my mother’s cottage on my way to this particular outbuilding, but I don’t stop to see her. I still wonder if Grandfather gave her this cottage on purpose. A constant memory. When I get to the building, I take my phone out of my pocket and switch on the flashlight. I don’t hesitate to enter even though it’s been a long time since I’ve been here.
The building is made of stone. It’s an older, simpler structure than the cottages though it’s just as sturdy and possibly more so. The entrance to the room itself is set farther back, and I shine my flashlight along the walls as I make my way toward it, wondering what Mercedes thought of it as she walked in. How deep did she go? The natural light fades quickly to pitch black, and without a flashlight, you’d be walking blind. I can’t imagine she wasn’t afraid.
My steps echo off the stone floor and walls as the passage grows narrow for several minutes, then, unexpectedly, it opens up again, the ceiling higher as I reach the closed door.
I test it and confirm it’s locked just as Paolo said. Good. Even if she’d gotten this far, which I doubt, she wouldn’t have gotten past the lock.
From inside my pocket, I retrieve the key. My heart thuds against my chest as I hold it, feel the weight of it. I inherited this, too, along with everything else. To continue the tradition with my own family, I guess. What does it say about me that I haven’t burned it to the ground?
I slip the key into the lock and turn it, that sound, too, echoing. Although I think it’s in my head. Memory. The very real panic some memories elicit.
I touch my forehead and wipe the sweat that’s broken out. Then I chastise myself mentally for my weakness as I open the door.
For one terrifying moment, it’s as though he was just here. As though I am a boy in this room again. I can still smell his cigars and the leather of his boots and his whips. It all clings to this place, making it hard to breathe. I enter and switch on the light. The room is wired for electricity even though the entrance isn’t. The bulb flickers from lack of use, but a moment later, a cold, unforgiving light washes over the space.
I close the door behind me and slip my phone into my pocket, taking a moment. Needing that time to remember that it was the past. He’s gone. Dead and buried. We all survived. Well, almost all of us.
With a deep sigh, I open my eyes. It’s a simple room. Cold. I remember how cold it always was at first as we shivered before we were even told to strip but how quickly it would grow too warm. How had I forgotten that? I go straight to the cabinet where he kept the scotch. The bottle he never got to finish is half-full. I drink a healthy swallow, then another, right from the bottle before capping it. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look around the room. It’s all the same. Everything is in its place. My grandfather’s leather wingback chair and the small table beside it are both covered in dust. As is all the other furniture. The tools of his punishments. I never got rid of anything. I just locked it up and should probably have thrown away the key.