Page 42 of The Villains We Make

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?”

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