Page 100 of Boiling Point
“Seven-thirty,” I explained, low next to her ear.
She gave a small nod, then turned back toward my mother with a composed smile. “Everything’s been wonderful so far. The house is…breathtaking, really. And the tea,” she added, gesturing gently toward her cup, “perfect. Thank you for making me feel so welcome.”
A pause—only a beat—but I felt it. Mother inclined her head. “How kind.” Her tone was neither cold nor rude. Just…final. Like closing a magazine without bothering to read the rest.
Gabrielle didn’t falter, but beside me, I felt the faintest hitch of breath.
Avery appeared in the doorway, unobtrusive as ever—waistcoat immaculate, expression unreadable. “Mr. Hawthorne,” he said, his voice smooth as the polished floorboards. “Lord Branleigh has asked to see you in his study.”
Mother looked up sharply. “I didn’t realize he was back from London.”
“He returned just over an hour ago, ma’am.”
“And he didn’t want tea?”
“He said not.”
She shook her head. “London must not have gone well.”
I looked at Isabel, and she caught my hesitation. Before I could speak, she stood, smoothing the lines of her trousers with a brisk motion. “Gabrielle,” she said, her tone conspiratorial, “shall we take a turn in the garden before dinner?”
Gabrielle looked at me with the faintest trace of worry, but the warmth of Isabel’s invitation was hard to refuse. “I’d like that,” she said, voice bright, if not quite steady. She stood with care—poised but tentative. She was trying so hard, and I tried not to imagine the weight of it—of all of this. “Thank you for tea, Lady Branleigh,” she said, her voice polite but edged with the slightest uncertainty.
Isabel looped her arm through Gabrielle’s, drawing her out with ease. Avery remained, waiting with precise patience, the timeless clockwork of the house ticking smoothly around him.
“I’ll show you to his—” he began, then stopped as I shook my head.
“I know the way,” I said as I rose to my feet, the words firmer than I felt. I leaned down and kissed Mother on the cheek.
Avery stepped aside, and I passed him, my footsteps measured down the long corridor. The walk to my father’s study felt longer than I remembered, as if the house had grown in my absence.
The door stood ajar, a thin strip of light slicing into the shadowed hall. I hesitated, my pulse quickening, then pushed it open with a steady hand and stepped inside.
Father sat behind a broad mahogany desk, glasses perched low on his nose as he studied a fan of papers. The curtains were half-drawn, muting the afternoon light, and the air was thick with the residue of tobacco woven into the old leather bindings that lined the walls, the scent heavier still in the crevices of the ancient carved bookcases with their worn crests and scrolled emblems.
An ashtray sat on the sideboard—polished and unused. A half-empty teacup rested near his hand. The only sound was the quiet, relentless tick of an antique clock.
He looked older than I remembered. It had only been two years since I’d last seen him in person, but it might as well have been ten. His face had thinned, the skin drawn tight across sharp cheekbones. Still immaculately dressed, of course, but the fingers that rested beside the cup looked leaner, the joints more pronounced. Knots beneath a polished surface. He didn’t look diminished, exactly. Just…smaller. Still iron, but iron left exposed to the weather.
He looked up. “Callum.”
“Father.”
Formality hung between us like dust motes in the still air. I waited until he gestured, then took the seat across from him.
His gaze flickered over me, assessing. “I suppose I should ask how you’ve been. But I expect you’d tell me very little.”
“Come now. We’ve never been ones for small talk.”
He folded his glasses and laid them on the desk. “I do care, you know. Contrary to whatever poison you’ve fed yourself.”
I let the words sit, unsorted.
Poison? No. Just memory.
But there was no use in saying so. Not here.
Instead, I leaned back, arms loosely crossed. “Funny, I always thought silence was the family tonic.”
