Chapter 4: Wearing Her Name

"Again," Veronica said.

"Good evening. It's lovely to meet you." I said it the way they'd shown me. My mouth was sick of it.

"No." She didn't look up from her coffee. "Fiona doesn't say lovely. Lovely is for people who want something."

"Don't we want something?"

Fiona laughed from the window seat, one foot swinging. She'd been parked there since breakfast, watching me like daytime TV. "And don't smile with your whole face. I never do. It gives people ideas."

"Like what?"

"That you're friendly."

"Is it wrong to be friendly?." I asked.

"Watch." She stood and said *Good evening* in a voice that could have cooled soup. I hated how good she was at it.

"Chin up," Veronica said. "Slower. You walk like you're late for a bus."

"I usually am."

Nobody laughed except Fiona.

That had been the whole day, and most of the night before. Walk. Sit. Pour tea without watching the cup. Talk low, say less, and let a silence run until the other person gets nervous and fills it. They'd taken my sneakers. The shoes they gave me pinched my toes, and the dress was gray and soft and so expensive I was afraid to breathe near it.

They had kept their word about Gran, at least. Last night Veronica put her phone on the bed between us, on speaker. Gran sounded small and crackly.

"Are they feeding you?"

"Yes, Gran."

"You sound funny."

"I'm tired."

"Eat something."

That was all. I pressed my fist to my mouth until the line went dead.

---

The car came at noon, Veronica took the seat across from me. Richard slid in beside her. Fiona stood on the steps with her arms folded and wiggled two fingers.

"Don't scuff the shoes."

"They're pinching me."

"Good. That's how you know they cost something."

The gates closed behind us. For an hour nobody spoke. Then Veronica, eyes on the window: "You are Fiona. They've read the reports. Whatever they believe about you, you do not correct it."

"What do the reports say?"

"That you're difficult."

"Well, that part's easy."

"Not like that." She finally looked at me. "And fold your hands. Hide the knuckles. Fiona's have never touched a washing machine."

I folded them. They were red and cracked from the laundry soap, and I'd stopped noticing until she said it.

"What if they find out?" I asked.

"They won't."

"But if they do?"

"Then you'll wish they hadn't." She said it mildly, like she was mentioning the weather. "Your grandmother's suite is paid through the end of the month. After that, I decide."

Richard coughed into his fist and looked out his own window.

I turned to mine. Trees, and more trees. Somewhere past them a man was waiting to marry my sister, and I was about to be handed over like a parcel nobody wanted to sign for.

A bend later, Richard leaned toward me. "Keep your head down at first," he said, very low. "Let them talk. They like to."

"Is that you being a father?"

He looked at his own hands. "It's me being someone who's met them."

*Them.* I almost asked which them. Then Veronica started in on how I should sit, and the question slid away.

---

The Salvatore house was dark stone, long and low, and the gate swung open before the car even slowed. I pressed my knuckles into my knees. Somewhere across the city, Gran was eating soup off a tray, and I was about to lie to a stranger's face to keep it that way. I didn't see a guard. I didn't see anyone. The quiet inside wasn't polite, like the Ashcrofts'. It felt owned.

A man in a gray suit led us down a hall of shut doors. My heels were too loud. The last room was a long study, glass along one wall. Three tall chairs stood against the far side, set slightly apart from the others, empty. A man stood at the window with his back to us. He let us stand there. I counted four breaths.

Then he turned.

Tall, dark suit, the kind of face that would have been handsome if anyone had ever let it do anything. His eyes went over me once, head to feet, like a man reading a contract.

"Lord Ashcroft. Mrs. Ashcroft." A nod each. "Miss Ashcroft."

"Mr. Salvatore." I made it low and slow. It almost sounded like me pretending to be her, which was exactly what it was.

"I'll be brief. I did not ask for this arrangement."

"Neither did I."

It came out in my own voice, flat and a little rough, the one I used on diner customers who snapped their fingers. Beside me, Veronica went still as a post.

His eyebrow moved, barely. "I was told you were difficult."

"People say that."

"Are you?"

"Ask me tomorrow."

Veronica made a small noise in her throat. Mr Salvatore didn't look at her. He crossed the room without hurrying and stopped about three feet from me, closer than a stranger should stand. I could smell soap and something darker, like wet wood.

Then he breathed in.

Not a sniff, exactly. One slow breath through his nose, the way you'd check milk. I held still. Nobody had covered this in the lessons.

His hand closed into a fist at his side. His eyes dropped to my folded hands, to the red knuckles, and stayed there.

"Something wrong?" I asked, low and slow, the way Fiona would.

"No." He said it like a man who wasn't sure.

A clock I hadn't noticed ticked somewhere behind me. It was the only thing in the room that moved.

"Shall we sit?" Veronica said brightly, a beat too fast. "There are terms to go through."

He didn't look at her. He was still looking at me.

"Yes," he said. "Let's."

I glanced at Veronica, and my stomach turned over. Her hand on the back of the chair had gone white at the knuckles. For two days I'd thought nothing scared Veronica Ashcroft.