Page 44 of Ashes of Saints

My head spins.

My god. Do I? Does she have a whole other family? I have no idea what other surprises could be awaiting me when I find out who Marianne Baker truly is.

“No. Well. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Chloe frowns.

“Mom wasn’t...Mom. Shit. Her name isn’t Mary-Anne Whitlock, it’s Marianne Baker.”

I watch as the information finds its way into her brain cells and she gives up, waiting for me to say I’m joking.

“Woah.”

I nod. “That’s all I know.”

“Holy shit.”

I drop my head back and stare up at the dirty ceiling and let out a loud sigh.

“So, was she on the run?”

“Dunno.”

“I bet she saw something bad happen and ended up in witness protection.” I turn my face and watch her start conjuring an entire life for my mother, like it’s a fiction novel. “Mafia. I bet it was the Italians.”

I turn back to the ceiling.

Next minute, Chloe sits bolt upright and I lift my head.

“Maybe she was some princess needing protection, and they sent you both to the United States. So, you’re actually royalty.”

I snort.

Trust her to turn this into some fairytale.

“Hence the British sandwiches at her funeral. See where I’m going with this?” Chloe presents her evidence.

I chuck a cushion at her.

“I chose those, thank you, you idiot. There were limited options—and don’t you think some king would’ve swooped in by now to tell me? I’m twenty-six!”

“You could be the illegitimate child of one of them.” Chloe holds up her finger. “And—”

“Fine. Let’s say I am. No one is ever going to tell me and with Mom dead, all proof is gone.”

“There might be something in her house.” Chloe gets all excited and untucks her legs, turning to face me. “My god, you might own an estate in Scotland and have wardrobes full of beautiful gowns and tiaras. Hypothetically.”

I purse my lips.

“I’d also lose my anonymity and need to have personal security for the rest of my life.”

“However, you get to marry a duke or some shit and have staff. Damn. You know, this might mean I end up your lady servant.”

We start laughing.

“I don’t wash come-stained sheets. You need to know that now.”

“Gross.” I throw another cushion at her. “And yes, if I order you, you’ll have to. Start practicing your curtsies.”

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