Chapter 8

Chapter eight

Emily

A thousand and one pair of optical orbs flashed before me and the voice that broke the stillness came like a gunshot, a silent wail. It was the unmistakable sound of my mother’s scoff: a dry, brittle sound that hovered between a scoff and a cruel laugh, as if mocking me for daring to show my face. 

I'd known that sound my entire life, but never before had it felt so sharp, so final, like it did that evening. I didn't see her, but I knew she was up, on the middle floor, peering down at me through her nose.

Regardless, I took that brave step into the room, each step feeling like a mile. Then I caught it, the scent of lilies - my grandfather’s favorite, mingled with the sterile undertone of polished wood and old money. 

As I walked past the living room into the drawing room, ignoring familiar faces who did the same - none reached out to me, nor smiled. They simply watched, like vultures circling around a living prey, feeding on its fear.

At the far end of the drawing room, framed by velvet curtains and dappled light, sat a portrait of my grandfather, surrounded by candles and photographs from his youth. He looked proud in each one. A stoic, kind man who had lived and loved deeply. That was the moment when the emotions all came rushing back. I felt a swell of grief rise in my chest, but I swallowed it down. Not here. Not now.

Just then, a voice tore my emotions in two. A voice I wasn't expecting. “Emily!” 

My cousin, Julian stepped forward. Tall, well-dressed, and usually as aloof as the rest of them, but he seemed different that day. He was looking at me with something close to empathy. 

“Hey, Emily,” he added, opening his arms. He was offering an embrace?

I was stunned, petrified even, and hesitated for a moment. What was he planning? Was this genuine? Or, was it a trap? I searched his face for signs of danger - as if I could spot one. The devil doesn't wear Prada. My entire build-up screamed caution, but a flicker of longing won out, and I allowed myself to be pulled into a brief hug. That was the first human contact I’d had in weeks, aside from Tasha's that didn’t feel performative.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into my ear, low enough that no one else could hear. “....about everything.”

I shivered for a second, breathing in the nice fragrance of his cologne. I had no idea that he smelled so nice, how would I have known? 

When I thought the crybaby session was over, I shook myself out of my derision and was about to respond when another voice, colder and sharper, cut across the room like a blade.

“Touché, huh?” It was Aunt Margaret, it had to be her.

Julian and I swerved around to catch her stepping forward with a champagne flute in hand and a venomous smirk on her lips. “You are getting better at performance arts, but let’s not pretend the prodigal niece has returned out of pure love. We all know how she likes a dramatic entrance.”

The room seemed to teeter and my cheeks flushed with heat. It seemed like I was almost losing my foot, but I kept my posture rigid. I would not break. Not here. Not now, and definitely not in front of them.

“I came to honor my grandfather,” I declared evenly, my eyes fixed on Margaret’s. “Not to entertain whatever fantasy you’ve built around me.”

The older woman laughed, a tight, dry sound. “You always had a flair for rewriting the narrative.”

“If that's what you think of me, then it's a compliment, I would say.” I whispered, feeling the heat rising to my cheeks, and my fists clenched by my sides on reflex. 

There was more to say, but I didn't have that chance, because the butler appeared at the doorway, and cleared his throat.

“Miss Emily,” he said with a small bow, “your grandfather left something for you. He instructed it to be given only to you, and this day.”

Once again, silence was restored. The room stilled, but this time, it wasn't flared noses and proud looks, it was that of curiosity… and unease.

“For me?” I blinked, looking from Julian - who appeared to be the only friendly person in the room, to the Butler. 

“Yes, Miss. If you’ll follow me.” he added, motioning with his hands.

All eyes were on me now, but not with the usual malice. There was something else: confusion, suspicion, perhaps even fear. As I turned to follow the Butler down the hall and away from the watchers, a thought surged in my chest like thunder: What had my grandfather left behind? And why did it feel like this was only the beginning? 

The Butler led me to my grandfather's study. As a child, I knew better than to play in his study. That was his sanctuary. I entered his library and looked up at the sea of books that were neatly arranged like sacred scrolls. Books and journals on medicine, arts, a collection of poems and even books on history and politics. I coughed softly, fighting down a sob that tightened my airway. I missed grandpa. He would have defended me amidst this godforsaken family charade. I would have found solace in his arms, I would've felt untouchable, but that wasn't the case. I was touched and broken, and no one was coming to save me.

“Will you please wait here for me, ma'am? I'll be right back.” The Butler requested, then with a slight bow, he was out the door in a whip.

He returned moments later with a letter in his hand, stamped and sealed with my grandfather’s seal. I only had the chance to read the first two paragraphs before my strength failed me. Moments later, I was staggering to my car with my mind reeling like I fell out of a mary-go-round. When I took out my phone, the only person I wanted to speak to was Malcolm. I don't even know why it had to be him.