Page 60 of The Black Trilogy

Well, that cleared that up, then.

“B-but…you can’t!” spluttered Tia.

“Under whose rules?”

“She’s just a stable girl. Mother will go mad.”

“But she’s not a stable girl anymore, is she? At the moment, she’s a lady of leisure. Which is exactly what mother is, so she can hardly complain.”

Tia had no reply for that. She stood open-mouthed, hands on her hips.

“Well, are you eating with us or not?” Luke asked, getting the cutlery out.

“I’m not sharing a table with her. Hell would have to freeze over first.”

She looked so indignant at having to breathe the same air as me, I stifled a laugh. That earned me a glare.

“Well,” I said, looking at my watch. “The temperature’s dropping, and the devil’s wearing thermals.”

“Fine. But I’m not speaking to you.”

I set out an extra place, and she moved the utensils to the furthest end of the table. That suited me fine.

While Tia gave herself an aneurysm, I spooned the casserole onto plates. Luke even had a plate-warming drawer in his over-specced kitchen. For a moment I was impressed, but the chances were, I had one too. It wasn’t as if I’d spent enough time in my own kitchen to check.

Tia ate in silence, staring daggers at me from across the table. It could have been worse—at least she’d stopped shrieking. I ignored her attitude and chatted to Luke about the ridiculousness of Christmas traditions. When we started discussing who on earth came up with the idea of stuffing bread up a turkey’s backside, even Tia giggled. Then she remembered she hated me and went back to glowering instead.

After dinner, I left Luke to spend some brother-sister time with Tia. Judging by the shouting, it didn’t go too well. Tension levels in the house rose, so I did the adult thing and hid upstairs with a glass of wine and Netflix. After their mother turned up to ferry Tia home again, Luke trudged into the bedroom, frowning. I reached out and smoothed the wrinkles on his forehead.

“You didn’t deserve that.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what to do about her. I tried to discuss the smoking, and she went crazy again.”

“Look on the bright side; at least it was only a cigarette.”

His glare suggested I wasn’t helping, so I tried again.

“I’m not sure what to say, other than she’ll probably grow out of it.”

“Did you ever smoke?”

“A long time ago.”

“How old were you when you stopped?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen when you stopped?” His eyed bugged out. “How old were you when you started?”

“Twelve, I think.” I shrugged. “Maybe eleven. I forget.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Told you I was a wild child.”

“What did your parents say?”

“Not a lot.” Nothing, in fact.

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