past three hours.
Mother’s stares are pretty powerful. She has emerald green eyes and a narrow chin. The plastic surgery she indulged in makes her cheeks shiny and the space under her eyes flat instead of slightly concave like everyone else’s. Sometimes she Botoxes, but not today, because she has a hefty frown marring her otherwise perfect features.
She sweeps a hand toward me. “You. Crystal. With me.”
Then she turns, her black silk tunic rustling. My stomach clenches, and I wonder if she heard what I said to E. Then I wonder if she disapproves of my clothes. And finally, I wonder if she already knows that I’m not going to be the dutiful daughter anymore.
E raises his eyebrows, and I suddenly realize he’d been waiting for me. He wanted to warn me about Mother. Of all the brothers, E’s been the kindest (which isn’t saying much).
Good luck , he mouths.
I nod, grateful for even that little bit of support.
I slide my chair back and follow Mother. She’s wearing sling-back shoes that click on the wooden floor as she heads toward a part of the apartment I’ve never seen.
E calls it the parental suite. I have no idea if that’s its real name or if only he calls it that. But the suite is in its own wing. Mother has to open a door to go inside.
The suite smells of clashing perfumes. Mother’s Clive Christian No. 1 doesn’t really go with Owen’s Eau d’Hadrien. His is all citrusy and hers is all bergamot, sandalwood, and vanilla, which makes me want to sneeze. You’d think citrus would lose with those stronger scents, but it only makes the urge to sneeze worse.
I did sneeze the first time I encountered this clash, and Mother yelled at me as if I had some kind of problem. Apparently, I shouldn’t have a bad reaction to two of the most expensive scents in the world.
I try not to sneeze now, but it’s taking some work. My eyes are watering and I have to rub the tip of my nose. I hope Mother gets me out of the long, narrow, dark hallway and into one of the side rooms before I actually have a reaction. I can only hope that the side room smells of one perfume or the other, not both.
She opens a door five down and stands aside so I can enter. The room is very feminine, done in golds and deep reds, the colors she wants me to wear. I know the rug on the hardwood floor is expensive, because everything in this place is expensive, but I have no idea how expensive until Mother takes off her shoes and looks pointedly at my feet.
Hers are bare, but she’s had a pedicure recently. I had one pedicure shortly after I arrived in Manhattan, and vowed never to have another. I just figured I wouldn’t take off my shoes in front of people ever again, but clearly that’s not going to work.
I slide my shoes off. Mother looks at my feet, frowns, and shakes her head. She closes the door, and I heave a sigh of relief. The only perfume I smell in here is Mother’s, and it’s faint. Either she doesn’t use this room very often or she uses it late enough in the day that the perfume doesn’t rub off on the furniture.
I stand awkwardly, hands dangling at my sides. I’m half tempted to point out that I’ve had a manicure, but I doubt that’ll make her feel better about my lack of pedicure. At least the rug is soft beneath my feet.
I force myself to concentrate on that, instead of my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.
“Megan called me,” Mother says, as if speaking on the phone to anyone unapproved is a breach of protocol. “She wouldn’t hang up until she spoke to me personally.”
I swallow involuntarily. Mother’s green eyes flash, and she does something with her lips that reminds me of Hera. I try to avoid Hera. She’s Daddy’s wife, and she hates all the—as she calls them—bastard children.
I can’t avoid Mother.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mother asks.
I blink. I didn’t miss any sentences. She said Megan called, wouldn’t hang up, and then didn’t say more. Which
Mother’s stares are pretty powerful. She has emerald green eyes and a narrow chin. The plastic surgery she indulged in makes her cheeks shiny and the space under her eyes flat instead of slightly concave like everyone else’s. Sometimes she Botoxes, but not today, because she has a hefty frown marring her otherwise perfect features.
She sweeps a hand toward me. “You. Crystal. With me.”
Then she turns, her black silk tunic rustling. My stomach clenches, and I wonder if she heard what I said to E. Then I wonder if she disapproves of my clothes. And finally, I wonder if she already knows that I’m not going to be the dutiful daughter anymore.
E raises his eyebrows, and I suddenly realize he’d been waiting for me. He wanted to warn me about Mother. Of all the brothers, E’s been the kindest (which isn’t saying much).
Good luck , he mouths.
I nod, grateful for even that little bit of support.
I slide my chair back and follow Mother. She’s wearing sling-back shoes that click on the wooden floor as she heads toward a part of the apartment I’ve never seen.
E calls it the parental suite. I have no idea if that’s its real name or if only he calls it that. But the suite is in its own wing. Mother has to open a door to go inside.
The suite smells of clashing perfumes. Mother’s Clive Christian No. 1 doesn’t really go with Owen’s Eau d’Hadrien. His is all citrusy and hers is all bergamot, sandalwood, and vanilla, which makes me want to sneeze. You’d think citrus would lose with those stronger scents, but it only makes the urge to sneeze worse.
I did sneeze the first time I encountered this clash, and Mother yelled at me as if I had some kind of problem. Apparently, I shouldn’t have a bad reaction to two of the most expensive scents in the world.
I try not to sneeze now, but it’s taking some work. My eyes are watering and I have to rub the tip of my nose. I hope Mother gets me out of the long, narrow, dark hallway and into one of the side rooms before I actually have a reaction. I can only hope that the side room smells of one perfume or the other, not both.
She opens a door five down and stands aside so I can enter. The room is very feminine, done in golds and deep reds, the colors she wants me to wear. I know the rug on the hardwood floor is expensive, because everything in this place is expensive, but I have no idea how expensive until Mother takes off her shoes and looks pointedly at my feet.
Hers are bare, but she’s had a pedicure recently. I had one pedicure shortly after I arrived in Manhattan, and vowed never to have another. I just figured I wouldn’t take off my shoes in front of people ever again, but clearly that’s not going to work.
I slide my shoes off. Mother looks at my feet, frowns, and shakes her head. She closes the door, and I heave a sigh of relief. The only perfume I smell in here is Mother’s, and it’s faint. Either she doesn’t use this room very often or she uses it late enough in the day that the perfume doesn’t rub off on the furniture.
I stand awkwardly, hands dangling at my sides. I’m half tempted to point out that I’ve had a manicure, but I doubt that’ll make her feel better about my lack of pedicure. At least the rug is soft beneath my feet.
I force myself to concentrate on that, instead of my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.
“Megan called me,” Mother says, as if speaking on the phone to anyone unapproved is a breach of protocol. “She wouldn’t hang up until she spoke to me personally.”
I swallow involuntarily. Mother’s green eyes flash, and she does something with her lips that reminds me of Hera. I try to avoid Hera. She’s Daddy’s wife, and she hates all the—as she calls them—bastard children.
I can’t avoid Mother.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mother asks.
I blink. I didn’t miss any sentences. She said Megan called, wouldn’t hang up, and then didn’t say more. Which
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