“That’s right.”
“No, wait. That’s veritas.”
“Veritas is Latin, but Verity means truth, too. They just made a name out of it.” I knew all that from a fifth grade project. I had no idea how the supposedly dead and, I was beginning to suspect, decidedly crazy Max knew it.
“Mrs. Tremont was nice,” Max said.
I nodded. “Yes, she was. She was really sad when you had your accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“No? Everyone thought you were in a car accident. And that you were dead.” A little blunt and tactless, maybe, but I was fourteen.
But Max seemed undisturbed. “I didn’t die. I just stopped.”
“Stopped what?”
“Are you the maid?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better do your cleaning, then. You aren’t supposed to come into my closet. I’m supposed to be left alone.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I shifted from one foot to the other, debating whether to just close the door and go about my business, or ask one more question.
I went with the question.
“But Max, do you want to be alone?”
Curiosity is always a mistake.
Max burst into tears. I must have spent nearly an hour trying to soothe him. Talking to him only made it worse. I couldn’t drag him out of there (the one time I tried to touch him resulted in an ear-piercing shriek). I couldn’t think of anybody I could call, even the police. There was no one in Bristol I trusted to defy Miss Underwood.
Finally Ellis, who had been the Mount Phearson’s handyman for as long as I could remember, found us. Whether he came in because he had a job in Miss Underwood’s suite, or because he’d heard Max, I never knew.
Ellis took one look at us, then went into the kitchen. He came back with a single sandwich cookie, which he handed to Max. Max pulled it apart, still sniffling, while Ellis gently tugged me away from the closet and over to the office side of the suite.
“Stay here,” he said.
I could hear them talking, over on the apartment side. Mostly Ellis’s voice. Finally there was the click of the closet door, and Ellis’s heavy footsteps coming back to me.
And then Ellis, who never frowned at anybody, was frowning at me.
“You’re not supposed to go into that closet,” was all he said.
Miss Underwood had more to say, when she came to see me that night. She told me that her brother was deeply disturbed, and that she kept him isolated for his own good.
It wasn’t like me to talk back to Miss Underwood, but I was at a rebellious age, and what I’d seen hadn’t exactly been easy to stomach. “He had an awful lot of bruises,” I said.
“Self-inflicted,” she answered, without hesitation. “Verity, you’re too young to understand what you saw today, which is why I wish you’d followed instructions, so you wouldn’t have seen it. But I am sure you don’t want to be responsible for my brother having to live out his days in some horrible institution, cut off from his family and everything he’s ever known. Do you know what they do to weak people like him in places like that? What the other inmates would do to him?”
I shook my head.
“Nor do you wish to know, I assure you. You are never to speak of Max again. To anyone. I suggest you forget you ever saw him.”
For three days, I took that suggestion. By the fourth, I was so racked with guilt for not even trying to help that I broke down and told one of my teachers what—who—I’d seen. That was what they always told us to do, if we knew a kid was being abused: tell a teacher or someone at the school. They were trained to intervene, and to report that kind of thing properly.
She reported it, all right. To the only real authority Bristol had.
I got sick that same night. I shivered, I ached, I coughed. It might have been the flu, just a coincidence, if it hadn’t been for the blinding, shooting pain that went through my whole body—each and every time I tried to speak.
My fever went up so high I had to be hospitalized. I had no ink there, and I was too weak to write in any case. I had no way to defend myself. Not that my magic would have been a match for Miss Underwood’s, anyway.
A week later almost to the minute, the fever broke. The mysterious illness was gone as quickly as it had come.
The day I was released from the hospital, a nurse told me that she’d never seen someone make such a lucky escape. I came very close to permanent brain damage, she said, even close to death.
I’m sure it was all carefully orchestrated so that the devil’s daughter was never in any real danger. But it didn’t feel that way at the time.
Miss Underwood was the one who came to pick me up. She brought me back to the Mount Phearson, and never said a word about it.
She didn’t have to. I’d learned my lesson.
Ten years later, I stood in the lobby of the hotel with Lance and Agatha, and listened as Marjory Smith insisted that Max Underwood was still alive.
And who was I to argue with that?
“Mr. Pickwick told me Miss Underwood’s brothers and sister are deceased,” I said to Miss Smith.
“Matilda certainly is dead,” Marjory agreed. “But Max and Mark have only been presumed dead. Neither of their bodies were ever found.”
“When did…” I glanced uneasily at the Boyles, even now not wanting to betray the secret I’d kept for so long. “What happened to Max?”
“Well, he didn’t die in a car accident at the age of nine, as you well know,” Miss Smith said with a sniff. She followed it with a stern look, like this was my fault. Like it wasn’t her best friend who’d forced me to keep quiet.
And it worked. I was sure I looked as guilty as I felt.
“He disappeared from Madeline’s care a couple of years ago,” Marjory went on.
“And why are they assuming he died?” I asked. “How do they know he didn’t just run away?”
“Mark disappeared also, a few months later,” said Marjory. “There was some forensic evidence in his apartment, indicating he hurt Max there. And then a journal he left behind suggested… well, I don’t want to speak ill of Madeline’s family, but I think it’s safe to say that both brothers were quite disturbed.”
And wasn’t that convenient for Miss Underwood? Her parents had been hugely wealthy, in addition to owning the Mount Phearson. Having no siblings left to split all that with must have been nice. If only she’d made it out of prison to enjoy it.
I narrowed my eyes at Miss Smith. “What do you want, Miss— Marjory?” I asked, suddenly resolved to stop Miss Smithing her, either out loud or in my head. “Why this sudden concern for Max? You certainly didn’t do a thing to help him when he was here.”
“Madeline was acting in his best interests,” Marjory said. “As am I. It’s what she would have wanted.”
I very much doubted that, but I had no idea what her real game was. Eventually, the Boyles got rid of her by promising that we’d all sit down and sort things out when John Pickwick got back to town. But that wouldn’t give me a very long reprieve; apparently Lance expected him in the next day or two.
In the meanwhile, I shopped for new clothes and other basics, and ordered some supplies online. I would need to draw some blood and make some ink, as soon as possible.
I spent some time with Lance and Agatha, mostly talking about the plans for the new restaurants, contributing what I could. (I did not acknowledge any connections to chefs who might be willing to relocate.) I did my best to catch up with all that was new at the hotel.
And what was old, too. The day after I toured the grounds with Lance, I went to visit Cordelia after breakfast, and ran into Ellis walking across the lawn. I was glad to find him as hearty as ever, his hug tight and strong despite his weathered face and bending back.
“I figured you must still be around here somewhere,” I said. “You’re as much a part of the Phearson as the fireplace by now.”
“Not for much longer,” said Ellis. “I’m retiring next year
. Moving to Charleston to live with my cousin.”
Like I said, hotel staff tends to have a lot of turnover; there was nothing surprising in an old handyman leaving. But Ellis was different, the one constant at the Mount Phearson, besides Madeline Underwood.
I was happy to see him. I’d never blamed him for not being able to intervene on Max’s behalf, despite blaming myself plenty. And I imagined I would be sorry when he left. But I was also glad he was planning a future for himself, away from Bristol. I took it as yet another sign that the town was changing.
And maybe, just maybe, I could help it change for the better. I would have some influence now, as owner of the hotel. Maybe it really could be the safe haven I needed.
Or maybe not. That same afternoon, I also ran into some high school classmates at The Witch’s Brew. I went in looking for Wendy and a croissant, but was instead greeted by a nasal laugh from a prime table by the window.
“Is that Devilborn?”
“I think it is!”
“I can’t believe she came back.”
They’d always done that—talked about me like I was some sort of animal who couldn’t understand what they were saying. If I’d been sixteen, I would have kept my head down, my eyes averted, doggedly pretending not to hear them. But I wasn’t a kid anymore.
I got my tea and croissant—Wendy wasn’t there—and stopped by their table on my way out. There were three of them, chatting over coffee but not, I noticed, any pastries. Still pretty, still wearing the superior expressions that said they knew it. One of them was heavily pregnant. Another had a baby sleeping in a stroller beside her.
I felt a small sense of victory, that it took me a few seconds to remember their names.
“Jessica, Abbie, Emily,” I said, with a scrupulously polite smile. “You all look great. So nice to see you.”
Jessica, always the leader, smiled back. “You look… lovely… yourself.” She put just enough hesitation around the word lovely to show she didn’t mean it. But I expected nothing less. She was welcome to judge my messy ponytail and cheap sweater to her heart’s content, as long as she didn’t hex my coffee. Or worse.
“You’ve moved back, then?” Abbie asked. “We wondered if you would.”
“Yes, I’m here to stay.” I leaned forward a little and whispered, “And you’d best keep your magic to yourselves, ladies. I’ve learned a lot since you saw me last.” I nodded toward the stroller. “And you have little ones to think of now.”
Did I seriously just threaten babies? Balls, what’s become of me?
I’d meant to be nothing but disarmingly polite. And they’d given me no reason to get so hostile, no threats to respond to.
But it had just sort of popped out.
It was worth it, though, to see their shocked and horrified faces. They didn’t expect me to stand up for myself. I’d taught them too well that I never would.
Jessica cupped her pregnant belly with one hand. “Verity, don’t tell me you’re still holding grudges from when we were kids?” She forced a laugh. “I assure you, we don’t have time for teenage silliness anymore.”
“No,” I said, matching her laugh. “I can see that.” I turned and left.
The next morning, Lance called me before I’d even dried my hair: John Pickwick had come.
I went up to the owner’s suite—manager’s suite, now that I’d assured the Boyles there would be no need for them to move—and tried not to think of the last time I was there. Before I knocked, I pressed my palm against the door and closed my eyes.
Red.
Whatever waited for me in there, there was anger in it. Mine? Or someone else’s?
I didn’t get a good look at the apartment side as Lance stepped aside to let me in, but at a glance, it seemed to be decorated in a much more homey style than Miss Underwood had preferred. I imagined the walk-in closet had changed a great deal, at least.
The office was much the same, with a couple of bland, generic landscapes on the beige walls, and not much else to catch the eye. Lance gestured toward the conference table, where Agatha already sat beside a stout man with a comb-over.
Marjory Smith sat across from them. She gave me a clipped nod, but said nothing.
“You called her before you even called me?” I asked, aware it sounded petulant. I squared my shoulders and went for a more formal tone. “Frankly, I don’t see why any of the rest of you have the right to discuss Miss Underwood’s estate with her attorney. As far as I’ve been told, it concerns only me.”
Lance cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should start by introducing you to Mr. Pickwick, before we get on with the bickering?”
I shot him a glare, but I shook Mr. Pickwick’s hand as the latter rose in greeting.
“Miss Thane, nice to meet you at last,” Pickwick said. “Heard you had a bit of trouble back home.”
“A fire in my building,” I said with a nod, and hoped that was all he meant. I’d heard nothing from either the fire department or the police back in Lenox. Had they discovered Kestrel Wick’s body? Had they tied it to Cooper or me? Had they tied her to the fire? What about my neighbor?
It all seemed so distant now, like it had happened to somebody else. But the reminder actually gave me courage. Surely if I could handle all that, Marjory Smith wouldn’t be an insurmountable challenge.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. Pickwick waited until Lance and I sat down—Lance beside his wife, which left me to take the seat beside Marjory—before sitting himself. “As to your question,” Pickwick went on, “I’m a lawyer, but I’m not really here today in a legal capacity.”
“Then what capacity are you here in?” I asked. “Because I’m feeling a bit like I could use a lawyer.”
Mr. Pickwick chuckled. “More as a mediator, if you like. You’re right that Marjory and the Boyles don’t have a legal stake here, but they have a, shall we say, personal interest? And it would be nice to work out everyone’s concerns without things getting to the point of formal proceedings. It’s irregular, but this town has always done things a little bit differently, as I’m sure you would agree.”
That was for sure. I still had horrible nightmares about Miss Underwood coming for me every time I got a fever or the flu. I sighed and nodded. “All right then, Mr. Pickwick. What do you suggest?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have disturbed your life in New England if I wasn’t entirely confident that you are the rightful heir to Madeline Underwood’s estate.” He looked at Marjory. “But I wanted to lay it out for everyone, all at once, in hopes of getting this resolved today. I know we’d all like to move forward.”
“You have no definitive proof that Max is dead,” Marjory said. “Nor that Mark is, for that matter.”
“No, but I don’t need it,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Madeline’s will is quite clear. Even if you produced Max in the flesh right here and now, you’d have an uphill battle on your hands.”
“The Underwood fortune wasn’t Madeline’s to distribute as she saw fit!” Marjory said. “It belonged to their parents! And when they died, it should have passed to all of the children equally. You can’t simply ignore—”
“—a case you would be free to make in court,” Mr. Pickwick interrupted. “Or at least, Max or Mark would be free to do so, if they were alive. But then, by all accounts, Max was incompetent. Oh, you would probably be able to get some provisions made for him, but—”
“Listen to you,” I interrupted, staring at Marjory. “The other day you told me you were doing this because taking care of Max is what Madeline would have wanted. Now you’re saying what she wanted is irrelevant. So what exactly are you after?”
Was it the hotel? Did she want to set up Max as some kind of figurehead, under her control? But Marjory had her own job, her own life. What would she want with the Mount Phearson?
Marjory glared down her long nose at me. Her dead eyes had always given me chills as a child. But I was a grown woman now, and I could at least hide how horrifying I found her. I didn’t b
reak eye contact.
“As I’ve already told you,” she said, “I’m only thinking of Max. Perhaps you were right the other day. Perhaps I didn’t do enough for him… before. But someone should be thinking of him now.”
“Marjory,” Mr. Pickwick said. “Lance and Agatha here are making a lot of changes to the hotel. Changes they hope will make a brighter future for all of Bristol. They’d like to continue to do that with confidence, but they won’t be able to in the middle of some long, drawn-out battle for the Phearson. It would be better for everyone—the entire community—if you would just let this go.”
So that’s it. Of course.
It came down to control. Not just for Marjory, but for all of them. Bristol was a getaway town. It relied on the Mount Phearson. Whoever controlled the hotel controlled, to a large degree, the entire town by extension.
Marjory wanted to think of Bristol as hers, and her coven’s, if not my father’s anymore. She certainly would never want to think of it as mine.
As for the Boyles, all Lance wanted was stability under which to grow the business. And if things were stable in the hands of a twenty-four-year-old, who would no doubt be easier to handle, and have fewer pesky opinions of her own, than Marjory Smith, so much the better. That was good to know. People who were motivated by the bottom line were at least easy to understand.
And maybe Marjory was motivated by the bottom line, too. Controlling Max would also mean controlling a great deal of money. I hadn’t gotten into exact figures with Pickwick yet, but as I understood it, the Underwood fortune was in the millions. I hadn’t had much time to think about that part of it yet, but now that I did, I felt a little faint. No wonder everyone was squabbling over it.
Marjory stood up. “I can see I was foolish to come here,” she said with a disgusted look at Mr. Pickwick. “You didn’t want to discuss this, or do what’s right. You only wanted to bully me into letting this go.” She looked at me. “But I won’t be letting it go, dear.”
And on that note, the meeting was pretty much over. I felt Marjory’s ill will, as I walked alone back to my room. Felt it like a predator stalking me.
A new dark thing, coming for me.
Grim Haven (Devilborn Book 1) Page 6