Page 29 of Twisted Gift
She leans over to close the dishwasher and kisses my cheek. “Anytime, honey.” She walks over to the stove and turns on the burner after filling the kettle with water. “I’m glad you came home this weekend.”
I smile. “I wouldn’t have missed it, Mom.”
She nods. “Of course not.” Pulling a few mugs out of the upper cupboard, she drops tea bags into them.
Dad walks through the kitchen talking on his cell phone. When he frowns while mentioning Nan’s name, my pulse jumps. My dad’s mother is no spring chicken, and her health hasn’t been the best over the last handful of years.
“What’s going on at Nan’s?”
Dad grabs his cup of tea off the counter and kisses Mom’s cheek before walking back into the living room, still talking on the phone.
“She’s okay,” Mom says, leaning against the counter. “She and your dad decided it was best she move into a care home. She’ll still be able to live independently for the most part, but there is help there when she needs it.”
I let out a breath, relieving the pressure in my chest. “That’s good,” I comment.
Nan has lived in the same old Victorian home since I was a baby. It was the house she grew up in; the property has been in my dad’s family for decades.
Holy shit. Why didn’t I think about that months ago when I had Tristan look into my family history? Dad didn’t have anything that dated back far enough to reveal the fae in our family, but Nan might.
“Do you need help with the move?” I ask.
“Are you sure? We weren’t going to ask. Your dad and I didn’t want to make you feel guilty if you didn’t have time.”
“I have time,” I tell her. “I can help.”
Mom nods. “Okay, honey.” She sighs. “I love her to death, but that woman is a serious pack rat. The attic is full of stuff that has to be over a hundred years old.”
I arch a brow. “Seriously? What does she even have that’s that old?”
Mom shrugs. “Heirlooms, according to your father. She kept everything that was passed down from your granddad’s family after he died. She didn’t do anything with it, of course. It’s just been sitting there, collecting dust all these years.”
I laugh a little. “Awesome. Glad I’m sticking around to help then.”
She presses her palms together as if she’s about to pray. “Bless you.Thankyou.”
I wave her off, grinning at her display. “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”
Okay, yeah. Itisthat bad.
We’ve been here for three hours and haven’t come close to making a dent. This clean-out is going to take days.
Nan, Mom, and Dad are downstairs packing up the breakables in the kitchen and dining room. There are plenty of dishes that were on display but never used because why would you use dishes for their intended purpose when you could just stick them in a cabinet to look at from time to time?
Being the youngest, I got roped into climbing into the attic to go through the piles of dust-covered boxes. There are enough heirlooms for a Marshall family museum. I’ve sneezed so many times my head feels heavy and fuzzy, and my throat is scratchy as if I’m getting sick. I duck to avoid the low, exposed beams, and manage to crack the lone window open enough to inhale some fresh air.
Keeping the window open, I walk away from it and gulp down some water, tossing the empty bottle toward the garbage bag I started, and move on to another box. Instead, I find a trunk. It’s just labeled Family Effects. Nice. Very specific. The words are faint, probably written long before even Nan was born.
Holding my breath as I ease the lid of the trunk open, I squint at the darkness inside. I drag the lamp I’ve been using for light closer so I can see what’s inside.
Paper. It’s filled with yellowed, worn paper.
I push the lid of the trunk back and reach inside, pulling a bunch out. Thumbing through the delicate sheets, I note the dates go back at least a century.
“Holy shit,” I mumble.
Some of it looks like old, handwritten receipts, most of which have such faded ink I can’t make out what’s on them. I empty the entire box, glancing over a few things. I’m flipping through a leather-bound notebook when a folded piece of paper slips out and falls to the floor. I pick it up and open it, surprised to find the writing quite well preserved.
Names are scrawled across the page. Under them sit small black-and-white headshots with lines connecting them to others all the way down the page. Written in neat cursive across the top is Marshall Family Tree.
