Page 7 of Holly & Hemlock
Mrs. Whitby begins the parade of courses, each dish arriving and departing in silence. I never see a kitchen door open; the food seems to materialize between one moment and the next.
Larkin’s first volley arrives with the soup.
“So, Miss Vale. Have you decided what you’ll do with the house once the novelty wears off?” His spoon cuts a perfect circle in the consommé. “I imagine it’s rather a lot to manage for someone with your . . . background.”
I’m unsure what he means by that and curious what he has been told of me, but there’s no way in hell I’m broaching that tonight. I glance at Mrs. Whitby, who is decanting a wine so dark it’s almost black. “I haven’t decided,” I say. “Perhaps I’ll make it a museum. Or a theme park.”
Larkin snorts. “You’d draw quite a crowd. The annual ghost tours alone could fund the roof repairs.”
“If the roof leaks, I suppose you’d know,” I counter. “You seem to have experience with all the cracks.”
Mrs. Whitby’s mouth twitches, just for an instant. Larkin grins, but it’s all teeth.
“I’ve kept the place standing,” he says, “which is more than I can say for some of our illustrious predecessors. You might be surprised to learn that a family seat requires more than a curator’s eye. It’s a living thing.”
I sip the wine. “So is dry rot.”
He laughs, genuinely this time, and for a second the tension breaks. But only for a second.
The main course arrives—pheasant, glazed with something sticky and red. The scent is feral, faintly metallic, and it stirs a strange hunger.
Larkin leans in, elbows on the table. “What brings you to Hemlock, really? I was under the impression your branch of the family tree had been pruned decades ago.”
I set down my fork. Aunt Maeve had indeed cut my father and me off from all contact when I was a teen. But I refuse to discuss it with Larkin, especially when he seems to have taken over as Maeve’s kin of sorts. So why did she leave the place to me then?
I shrug. “I didn’t come here for a family reunion. Or an inquisition. I came to claim my inheritance.”
His eyes are bright, avid, and when he smiles the lines at the corners deepen. He cocks his head and tips his glass at me. “Still, it’s surprising. She never cared for outsiders.”
Outsiders?!I want to point out that he, too, is an outsider, but Mrs. Whitby chooses that moment to refresh my wine. Her hand is steady, but her eyes are watching, always watching.
Conversation, like the food, continues in meticulously orchestrated courses. We spar over everything—the wallpaper, the merits of radiators over forced air, the chemical composition of shellac. Every remark is a feint, every complimentloaded. I’m not sure who is winning, but the room itself seems to be keeping score. The flames in the fireplace gutter and flare with each sharp word.
By the time dessert arrives—a sugar-crusted tartlet that looks too fragile to touch—the air between us has thickened, but the nature of the tension has shifted. Maybe it’s the wine, and my head swimming in it. Our words are no less sharp, but now they hover at the line between competition and something else.
Larkin pushes the decanter toward me. His sleeve grazes my hand, deliberate and slow.
“Careful,” he says, voice low. “Hemlock House has a way of getting under your skin.”
I meet his gaze and hold it. “I’m learning that.”
He gives a little nod, as if conceding the round. But as I lift my glass, I realize his hand is still resting near mine, closer than politeness requires. The touch, when it comes, is brief—just a brush of skin—but it lands with the weight of a promise and a threat.
Mrs. Whitby returns, clearing plates with the discretion of a magician. “Will there be coffee, sir?” she asks.
Larkin leans back, never taking his eyes off me. “Not tonight, Whitby. I want to bask in this buzz a bit longer.”
She looks to me for my answer and I shake my head because I want to bask too.
It is only when Mrs. Whitby departs—her footsteps silent as snowfall—that I exhale. The dining room, so vast at first, now feels intimate, a box of secrets.
“I suppose you think you’ve won,” Larkin says, sipping his wine.
“I didn’t think this was a competition.”
He smiles, but it’s the smile of someone who knows the house always wins in the end.
We sit in silence, the shadows lengthening, the candles guttering lower. Every so often, the house itself seems to creak in approval.
