Page 139 of A Heart of Bluestone

But that’s not my fault.

On Sunday, Mother sent me treats, and I have no fucking willpower at all.

I call to thank her.

But my fingers are slow on the phone, pressing in the numbers with too much effort, too much pressure, and my posture is too sagged against the booth wall.

I know it’ll be just a few minutes before my father forces his way onto the call—and then I’ll be at his mercy.

He hasn’t called me since the time I punched my brother, and he chewed me up and spit me out.

The thing with Father is if he hasn’t called, he hasn’t thawed.

I brace myself and, heels of my shoes bouncing on the floor with my rising anxiety, I hit the last number—and the line dials.

I force down the protein bar that’s flaked and crumbed in my mouth. I should have brought water.

The line connects.

Mr Younge answers with the name of our home. “Elcott Abbey.”

“It’s Olivia,” I say with a dry-throated cough.

“I’ll transfer you to your fath—”

“I’m calling for mother.”

There’s a pause.

I can practically hear the rolled eyes on the other end.

“I will connect you,” he says, finally.

The line goes soft for a few moments.

Then, with a slick layer of surprise, “Olivia?”

“Hi,” I say with a faint smile, one that just the sound of Mother’s voice lured out of me. “Got the parcel. Thank you.”

Mother keeps her tone light,distant, “Parcel?”

“The imps brought it this weekend. The chocolates and the fudge?”

Silence is my answer.

I frown at the wall opposite me. “You know, the treat basket?”

Fudges from seaside English towns, macaroons from France, chocolates from Belgium—all my precise favourites, and a sarsaparilla from the North Americas. A treat basket that isn’t just picked up from a store, it has to be made, each item ordered and collected and tailored to me.

“I did not send you anything,” Mother says, her tone careful. “Your father wouldn’t approve of such gifts for you at the moment.”

My mouth pushes out into a pucker. I bite down on the insides of my cheeks.

Father’s still that mad, huh?

I doubt it has so much to do with punching Oliver, but everything to do with my attempt to hit Dray in the face after pummelling him on the shoulders and chest and arms, and especially that it was all so public.

My face is a sour disappointment. “Oh.”

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