Page 20 of The Feud

I can see that Marcie has questions and concerns regarding my daughter. She turns to me and asks, “Do you think you can find your way back to the reception area? I’ll meet you there and we can have a few minutes to chat in my office. I’ll see that Sylvie gets settled in.”

“Sure,” I say, and immediately feel awkward because I don’t know what to do. Marcie probably expects me to give my daughter a hug, but I know Sylvie would be horrified by any overt sign of affection. It leaves me in the untenable situation of trying to come up with a plan on the fly. Awkwardly, I put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze. “Good luck on your first day. I’m sure you will do great.”

Marcie beams at the gesture but to my utter shock, Sylvie throws her arms around me, taking advantage of the fact I’d bent down slightly. Her arms wrap around my shoulders and I start to wrap her up in a hug, the natural reaction to such a gesture. She presses her temple to mine, lips near my ear, and says, “I despise you. I’ll never forgive you for any of this.”

I’m so shocked I release her and almost stumble back. She flashes a toothy grin, which I understand is completely for Marcie’s benefit, followed by a jaunty wave. “See you after school.”

Marcie gives me a bright smile and opens the door to the classroom, leading my daughter inside. When the door closes, I exhale a massive sigh of relief to be away from Sylvie for a few minutes, frustrated that she’s rattled me so much.

The receptionist shows me into Marcie’s office to wait for her return. I pace around, unable to sit still. Barely five minutes pass from the time I left Marcie until she is walking back into her office, apologizing for taking so long. “Sorry about that. I hung around outside the door and nosily watched to see how she settled in. That young lady has some issues.”

I blink in surprise that she picked that up. While quiet, Sylvie had been very pleasant toward the school principal and there’s no way Marcie overheard the vicious things she said.

She must see the surprised look on my face because she goes on to explain, “I know a little bit about the circumstances of why she is with you. The head of school for Prescott Academy called to discuss her transition.”

“Well, that was nice of him,” I mutter.

“Her,” Marcie clarifies. “Their head of school is a female. But yes, that was very nice of her to do so. I understand that Sylvie has only been with you a few days and that she lost her mother not long ago.”

I wonder just how well-informed Marcie is. “Have you lived in Shelby County all your life?”

Shakes her head. “Originally from just outside of Louisville. I moved here after I married and stayed after I divorced. But I’ve been here long enough that I’ve heard the stories about the tensions between your family and the Mardraggons. I’m assuming that has bled into your relationship with Sylvie.”

I snort. Hard. “There is no relationship. She’s been in my home for two days now, Lionel and Rosemund Mardraggon have clearly filled her head with stuff, and the child refuses to have an honest conversation with me or anyone in my family.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard on her? She’s only nine.”

“Going on thirty,” I say, then soften my tone. “And no, I’m not being hard on her. I’m only telling you the truth of how it’s been. But my family and I are resolved to let her work through this and to do whatever we need to give her the space and time to come to grips with things. We’re very much aware that she is still grieving the loss of her mother. And since you seem to be aware of the history between our families, then I’m sure you can understand there are some inherent tensions that may arise. Sylvie arrived on my doorstep filled with hate and bitterness.”

“And is there any chance she’s feeling that from your family?”

I want to be offended but it’s a fair question. There is no love lost between our families and any time we run into one another in public, if we aren’t avoiding each other, we certainly aren’t being nice.

“I can assure you that not one negative word has been said about the Mardraggons in Sylvie’s presence.”

As much as I despise the lot of them, I’d like to think that our family has values and good principles. We know how hard things are on Sylvie and the last thing she needs to hear is negativity about her own bloodline. While I know the Mardraggons have not extended the same courtesy, I’ve discussed it with my parents and siblings, and we made a pact to hold our tongues and speak only respectful things in front of her.

Marcie’s expression turns sympathetic and she nods in understanding. “How is it actually going between the two of you?”

“It’s not going at all,” I reply tersely. “Half the time she speaks to me in French, and I don’t even know what she’s saying.”

Marcie laughs, a husky, rapturous rumble that sounds way too good to my ears.

But I frown at her. “She’s not just speaking to me in French—she’s saying horrible things to me in French.”

Marcie tilts her head in question. “Like what?”

I pull out my phone and navigate to the app I used to translate the recording from this morning. With a few taps of my fingers, I play the original recording and, admittedly, if you didn’t know what Sylvie was saying, it just sounds like a frustrated girl speaking the musical, lilting language.

Marcie looks at the screen curiously. “That was her?”

“Over breakfast. Want to know what she said?”

Marcie nods.

I push another button and a mechanical, computer-generated voice spits out the translation. “You look like a troll and you smell like one too.”

Marcie doesn’t laugh. “She’s an angry little girl.”