Page 57 of House of Furies
The sunshine through the window next to us looked inviting, and for a while I let my mind wander, simply taking in the birds that flitted through the garden and the way the wind bent the bushes and made them ripple.
“Or it could all be a coincidence,” I murmured, resting my chin on my palm. “Lee’s mother made an unfortunate connection, or several, and we were there to see the inevitable conclusion of that.”
“Is that what you truly think happened or what you want to believe happened?” Mr. Morningside joined me in gazing out the window, tapping his teeth again. “If I’m right, then George Bremerton is involved in this murder, indirectly or otherwise. It would mean he’s not acting alone. It would mean he conspiredto visit horrible suffering upon his nephew’s mother. I know it sounds intolerably evil, Louisa, but we both know the world is a harsh place and unfair.”
I nodded, and felt the despair of the previous day creep back in, surrounding me, dulling the pretty scenery outside. “It doesn’t matter which one of us is right. Any way you explain it, it’s monstrous.”
The doors swung open, and Mrs. Haylam entered, expertly balancing a tray with refreshments. The crone I had met on the side of the road didn’t look strong enough to lift a single teacup, and now here she was delivering a full silver service and biscuits. She swiftly laid out the tea and food, righting herself with a satisfied littlehmph.
“Well done, Mrs. Haylam, what a spread,” he said, beaming up at her. “Louisa and I were just discussing last night’s excitement. Do you happen to know this symbol?”
Mr. Morningside offered her the paper and she patiently inspected both sides. “The symbol means nothing to me,” she finally said. “But this phrase... The first and last children. Why does that sound familiar?”
“It’s something of a conundrum,” he said.
“I will think on it,” Mrs. Haylam replied. Her eyes were already distant and thoughtful, trained somewhere above our heads as she spun and bustled out of the parlor. “How do I know that?” she was saying to herself as she went. “Where have I heard that...”
“So distracted she forgot to pour,” Mr. Morningside said with a laugh. I reached for the pot myself and measured out tea for each of us, then settled in to not drink any. My appetite was low, and breakfast was keeping me full.
“You really should try the jam biscuits,” he was saying, mouth stuffed with sweets. “Mrs. Haylam makes the apricot preserves herself.”
“I’m not really one for sweets,” I replied softly. “The tea will suffice.”
He finished chewing, taking his time, and sipped his tea, leaning back in his chair. Then a slow, devious smile spread across his face and he picked up one of the biscuits, handing it across to me.
“Take it.”
“No, thank you,” I said stubbornly.
“Don’t put it in your mouth yet, just hold it,” he commanded. He blew out a breath that ruffled his hair, and rolled his eyes. “Will it help if I sayplease?”
I plucked the biscuit out of his grasp and held it up between both of us. “There. I’m holding it.”
“What is it that you’re holding?” he asked, his smile broadening.
“Don’t be ridiculous. A jam biscuit. Apricot.”
“And what do you want it to be?”
I frowned, sensing where this was going. Before falling asleep, I had read the chapter on Changelings. On their allegedabilities. I wanted to drop the biscuit and storm out, but I also craved the proof of his wild assumptions. That I was one of those things. That was the only thing he could mean by mentioning it so often. Wouldn’t I feel special somehow? Wouldn’t I sense, deep in my bones, that I had some kind of innate and magical gift? I only ever felt plain and mistrusted, not exceptional.
“Play along,” he said tightly.
“Fine. I wish...” What did I wish for? We never ate decadently growing up. There were foods I didn’t mind eating and ones I had eaten time and time again because it was all there was on offer. So what did I want? “Bread and butter.”
“Bread and...” He shrugged and motioned me along with one finger. “You could aim a little higher, my dear, but so be it. Make the biscuit become bread and butter.”
“I can’t.”
“You read the book?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Well then. Half of achieving a thing is just knowing you can do it.”
No.No. I shook my head hard. The biscuit trembled in my grasp. “I’m not one of those things. A Changeling. That’s not me.”
Mr. Morningside’s smile turned down at one corner. His golden eyes, generally bright with arrogance, grew softer. “You’ve been different all your life,” he said solemnly.
