Verum (The Nocte Trilogy 2)

Dare sighs. “I think we’d better freshen up first. It’s been a long flight, Sabby.”

The nanny looks sympathetic, but is unrelenting. “I’m sorry, Dare. She insists on seeing you both.”

Dare sighs again, but we obediently follow Sabine through lavish hallways. Over marble floors and lush rugs, through mahogany paneled halls and extravagant window dressings, beneath sparkling crystal chandeliers. My eyes are wide as we take it all in. I’ve never seen such a house in all my life, not even on TV.

But even as it is opulent, it’s silent.

It’s still.

It’s like living in a mausoleum.

We come to a stop in front of massive wooden doors, ornately carved. Sabine knocks on them twice, and a woman’s voice calls out from within.

“Enter.”

How eerily formal.

Sabine opens the doors, and we are immediately enveloped by an overwhelmingly large study, painted in rich colors and patinas, encircled with wooden shelves filled by hundreds and hundreds of leather-bound books.

A woman sits at the heavy cherry desk, facing us with her back to the windows.

Her face is stern, her hair is faded, but I can see that it used to be red. It’s pulled into a severe chignon, not one strand out of place. Her cashmere sweater is buttoned all the way to the top, decorated by one single strand of pearls. Her unadorned hands are folded in front of her and she’s waiting.

Waiting for us.

How long has she been waiting? Months? Years?

For a reason that I can’t explain, I feel suffocated. The room seems to close in on me, and I’m frozen. Dare has to literally pull me, then pull me harder, just to make me move.

I feel like I can’t breathe, like if I approach her, something bad will happen.

Something terrible.

It’s a ridiculous thought, and Dare glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

We come to a stop in front of the desk.

“Eleanor,” he says tightly.

There is no love lost here. I can see it. I can sense it. I feel it in the air, in the formality, in the cold.

“Adair,” the woman nods. There are no hugs, no smiles. Even though it’s been at least a year since she’s seen him, this woman doesn’t even stand up.

“This is your grandmother, Eleanor Savage,” Dare tells me, and his words are so carefully calm. Eleanor stares at me, her gaze examining me from head to toe. My cheeks flush from it.

“You must be Calla.”

I nod.

“You may call me Eleanor.” She glances at the door. “Wait outside, Sabine.”

Without a word, Sabine backs out, closing the door. Eleanor returns her attention to us.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she tells me stiffly, but her voice lacks any sign of emotion, of sympathy or sadness, even though it was her daughter who was lost. She didn’t know Finn, so I can understand that, but her own daughter?

She looks at me again. “While you are here, Whitley will be your home. You will not intrude in rooms that don’t concern you. You may have the run of the grounds, you may use the stables. You won’t mingle with unsavory characters, you may have use of the car. Jones will drive you wherever you need to go. You may settle in, get accustomed to life in the country, and soon, we’ll speak about your inheritance. Since you’ve turned eighteen, you have responsibilities to this family.”

She pauses, then looks at me.