Page 76 of A Heart of Bluestone

“You can’t buy things yourself?”

“I could buy a watch for close to a hundred grand.” He shakes his head, the grin doesn’t fade. “But Father might make that pruned face of his. You know, Liv, someone has to be the responsible offspring.”

I almost smile. Almost.

But I pinch my mouth instead. The way Father sometimes does when he doesn’t approve of something but can’t quite be bothered coming out and saying it. Mother tuts or clack her nails instead.

Oliver clears his throat and mimics Father’s familiar lecturing tone, “Son, if you are take on the title of the estate, I must trust that you are able to do so with dignity, with discretion—” he leans closer and whispers the final words as though they are a great scandal “—with propriety!”

I kick at his shin. “You smoked too much.”

He doesn’t flinch.

I stuff the brochure into the crossbody bag tucked at my waist. Already, the cherry-blossom-hued leather is peeling, since I’ve shoved and kicked all around Bluestone throughout theweekends. I’m not so kind to my belongings. But I’ll just get a replacement when I need to.

Now, I understand.

If Oliver had his bag in the state of mine, all scuffed and scratched, then maybe our father would judge him for it. Look down on his abilities, his capabilities.

And so he needs me to indulge in wicked spending on his behalf.

I secure the strap over my shoulder and sigh up at him. “So what are you getting me for New Year?”

“What do you want?” he asks but answers his own question before I can, “Not clothes. Not shoes, you hardly wear any of the ones in your collection.”

True.

Shoes look prettiest when in the closet, on their shelves and in their boxes. I pick out some favourites, I wear those few over and over in a year, then replace them with new favourites, like my Mary-Janes. Favourites. I alternate between those and boots that reach between my ankles and calves for inside the academy. My ivory snowboots are for the outside.

Clothes, I like. But it’s such a dull gift—and always, far too risky.

“Jewels?” He shakes his head. “No, you have never cared much for jewellery.”

Tacky, sometimes. To wear chunks of diamonds and gems all over, I just think it looks tacky.

Mother is a minimalist with her diamonds. Less is more. I find that even less is better.

Even now, the earrings I wear are simple gold hoops about the size of Oliver’s enlarged pupils.

He eyes me closely, as if he can lure out the answer, one I don’t even know myself, because I have everything, and so I want for nothing. Or, more accurately, I want for the things money can’t buy. Like Dray being shredded by a snowmobile.

Maybe money can buy that…

Oliver tuts. “A tiger.”

“A tiger?” I lean into the railing. “A tiger in England? Running around my horses, my swans? I don’t think so.”

“I know.” He draws back a step, ready to retreat, to return to his friends and leave me now that he’s mostly gotten what he wants: a deal.

“Not another bird, Mother hates their screeching.”

She had them all moved to the aviary out back when I was twelve, then the indoor ones were placed in a newly built extension just to get them out of the Blue Wing, the side of the manor where the rooms are mostly cerulean.

“Not a bird.” He zips his jacket past his collar, up his neck. The cold is getting to him now. “A Savannah cat.”

I blink. “First generation?”

“Of course.”

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