The Ruby Locket by Anita Higman, Hillary McMullen Page A

afterthought, I blurted, “Oh and thank you for the book by the way. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” That at least was true.
                  The sharp edge in Ivan’s gaze softened and he tried on a smile, although it flickered like a weak candle. “Ah yes. The Radcliffe. I thought you’d enjoy it.” He pointed at my chair. “Please sit. You shouldn’t be standing on that ankle. And I shall have one of the grounds keepers fill in the hole. Perhaps you can point it out to them tomorrow.” There was a note of skepticism in his voice.
                  “Uh, sure.” No wonder I’d never formed a habit of lying. I already felt neck deep. I guess I’d be digging a rabbit-sized hole later.
                  When we were all seated, Ivan rang a small silver bell and a door in the corner opened almost immediately, as if the server had been waiting there, ear pressed to the wood. A string of waiters in black jackets poured out, carrying trays of what looked like the first course. Some kind of soup. I started when I saw Wyatt at the end of the line of servants. He looked older in his formal clothes and his unruly curls had been combed back.
                  As the servers offered us our soup, Wyatt filled our glasses with sparkling water. When he came around to me, I smiled up at him. But he didn’t even meet my eyes. Weird. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to be friendly when he served us.
                  All of the formality suddenly felt incredibly stifling, like an overly starched shirt. I picked up my goblet and gave my water a good slurp, just to shatter some of the icy pretense chilling the room. Mom gave me a quizzical look and when I glanced at Wyatt, I thought I could see a smirk fighting to be free.
                  After the soup was served we began to eat. No grace was said like Mom did at home. And not so much as a, “Wow, this looks good.” I sipped at my soup. It was cold, but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut about it. Weren’t some soups served cold? No sense in coming off like a total bumpkin.
                  The evening progressed quietly, broken by occasional small talk about the upcoming wedding, the brush of servants, and the soft clanking of utensils against fine china. Since Mom and I had never eaten or seen any of the dishes before, Ivan enlightened us, course by course. Vichyssoise, toasted Brioche with crème fraiche and caviar, a goat cheese and pistachio salad, braised duck legs with figs, and chocolate liqueur soufflés for dessert. I was happy to see Mom eating most of her food, even some of the weirder stuff.
                  Throughout dinner, I watched Ivan closely, reading into his reactions and expressions. I especially looked for signs of a latent temper. My dad may not have known about the different types of caviar, but he had always been a patient man. And I knew that’s what Mom needed.
                  I also kept thinking about the old love note hidden in Ivan’s office. Obviously it meant something to him since he’d kept it. Who was Celeste? An old girlfriend? Fiancée? If he’d been married before, surely Mom would have told me. But was Ivan still carrying a torch for this woman—reusing old speeches he’d once poured out to her on the page?
                  And then there was the matter of the toy sailboat bearing his name. The fact that it was in the catacombs didn’t necessarily mean that Ivan had ever been imprisoned in that cell. The chest could have been put down there for storage. But still…there was the nagging what if . If Ivan had been the one to make those disturbing inscriptions on the walls—perhaps as a trapped, helpless child—what kind of man would emerge from an experience so traumatic and scarring? Surely any person who had undergone that kind of terror would need serious psychological help.
                  But I