Chapter 3

Before George could finish, Father snatched up the bowl of broth and hurled it to the floor—bowl, soup, and all.

"Shut your mouth!"

He shot to his feet, eyes bloodshot like a raging lion—all trace of his earlier tenderness gone. "He is not my flesh and blood! He's the monster who killed Matthew! He's my enemy! I'd eat his flesh and sleep on his hide if I could! Say one more word about him in my presence, and you can pack your things and get the hell out of this house!"

George went pale as a sheet. He dropped to his knees, too terrified to utter another word.

I drifted above, perched on the carved wooden beam, watching it all with cold eyes.

Of course, my father wouldn't look for me. He wanted me dead—the worse, the better.

It had always been this way.

I remembered when I was seven. Matthew had just received a new emerald pendant—a tribute from some foreign merchant. It was worth a small fortune. He treasured it like gold.

The next day, it was gone.

Matthew came crying to Father, sniffling that I'd been the only one in his room the night before, that I'd touched the pendant.

Father didn't ask questions. He called me in from my calligraphy practice, grabbed the wooden ruler from his desk, and laid into me without a word of warning.

"Did you steal your brother's pendant?"

"I didn't! It wasn't me!" I sobbed, throwing my arms up to shield myself—but that only made him hit harder and faster.

The ruler came down like fire across my skin, leaving red welts in its wake. "Liar! Thief! Starting young, aren't you? How did I end up with such a worthless son? I ought to beat the wickedness right out of you!"

He beat me until I was raw and bleeding. I spent three days in bed, barely able to move.

Three days later, Matthew came skipping back to Father, grinning from ear to ear. He'd found the pendant. Turned out he'd decided he didn't like the gold chain it hung from, so he'd stuffed it into a hidden compartment of his jewelry box—and simply forgotten.

I thought maybe, just this once, Father would apologize.

Instead, he shot me a cold, dismissive look—his voice dripping with impatience and disgust. "If you weren't always meddling with your brother's things, I wouldn't have suspected you in the first place. And three days in bed over a few welts? Such a delicate little thing, aren't you?"

See? In his eyes, I was born rotten. A bad seed.

And Matthew? Matthew could do no wrong. Everything he did was innocent. Charming. Forgiven.

My ghost hovered in that ice-cold courtyard, nearly frozen through.

On New Year's Eve, fireworks cracked and boomed outside, painting the night sky in bursts of blinding gold and various colors. From the manor windows, the display was spectacular.

But inside, the holiday dinner was a tomb—silent and stagnant.

Father sat at the head of the table. Before him were two place settings.

One was for Matthew.

The white porcelain plate and silver fork had been polished to a gleam. Father picked up a piece of steamed bass with his own fork—Matthew's favorite—and laid it gently on the empty plate. "Here, Matthew," he murmured. "Eat up. Look, I picked out all the bones for you."

The servants standing by couldn't bear to watch. They lowered their heads, pretending not to see the madness unfolding at the table.