The Becoming of Noah Shaw by Michelle Hodkin (6)

6

SILVER FETTERS

THAT SENTENCE ECHOES UNDER THE arched ceiling as though the statues themselves were repeating it.

Your inheritance. An inheritance. The inheritance.

The sun shines dimly from the mullioned, arched windows, transforming the wrinkles that fold my grandmother’s face into a mask of light and shadow. She’d be almost cartoonishly frightening if she weren’t standing beside a Greek statue of a smiling naked boy astride a ram.

“Is it really? The time?” I ask.

Chin lifted, she begins walking again. “Today has not gone as planned, I’m quite aware. But there are things that must be discussed, things that cannot wait.”

There isn’t any point in arguing. I want nothing to do with my father or what he’s left behind. What he’s done to me, Mara—it’s more than enough. I needn’t even say it—I can thin my smile and listen as my grandmother speaks and ignore whatever she says.

She walks ahead beneath the high, lonely ceilings, turns sharply to the left, where a bank of what must surely be unused rooms lie in wait for occupants who will never arrive. One of them gets lucky—my grandmother turns a gleaming glass knob, opening the door to a time capsule from the eighteenth century. The ceiling mouldings are tipped with gold, highlighting every carefully carved curve and corner, helped along by a drapey crystal chandelier fitted with actual tallow candles (unlit). Instead, the light comes from the lit, gilt-framed portraits in every size and shape. Everything in the room is perfectly preserved, arranged, to accommodate guests in waistcoats and corsets—not the Asian woman in business casual sitting in front of the fireplace. She seems so out of place that I blink, and she seems to disappear, then reappear the next instant.

“Noah, dear, allow me to introduce you to Ms. Victoria Gao, your father’s attorney.” Ms. Gao crosses the room to shake my hand, looking far too young for the grey bob that frames her face.

“She’s here to inform you of the”—my grandmother, for the first time, appears to scrabble around for the right words—“responsibilities that you now possess as heir to your father’s estate.”

I’d thought I was prepared for this, but the word “heir” brings me up short. “Why isn’t Katie here?”

“Your father named you as the executor of his will, once you turn eighteen.”

In just a few months, then. The air seems to flare with heat, blazing. “I’m not sure I understand. Katie—”

“Your father expected you to provide for your sister as you see fit, but he expressly prohibits the transfer of executorship to your sister until she’s reached twenty-five years of age.”

“I’m not even eighteen—this makes no sense.”

“Mr. Shaw, it isn’t my job to question my clients’ final wishes.”

“Then what is your job?”

“To make sure they’re granted,” she says, and holds out a thick envelope. I put it on a side table inlaid with what was probably ivory. Fuck this shit.

“Fine.” I turn to my grandmother. “Am I free to go?” She glances quickly at the envelope on the table and then at Ms. Gao, whose expression remains placid.

“Not quite, I’m afraid,” my grandmother says. “Your father was our only child, which means that he was our sole heir. He refused to use his title when he married your mother, but never formally disclaimed it,” she says with an ugly curl to her mouth. “But that’s all over and done now. You can reclaim the title of lord.” She hits the big smile button. “And you may inherit our entire estate in addition to your father’s.”

“What about my sister?” My voice is new and rough-edged. “She loved our father, he loved her, she loves you, you love her—why is she being excluded?”

“She’s only fifteen, dear.”

“So? She’s far more dedicated to preserving my father’s legacy than I am.”

That earns a sharp-edged smile. “Your grandfather and I are less concerned with your father’s legacy than we are with the Shaw legacy. Your sister will marry, take her husband’s name, no doubt, as will her children. Whereas, yours—”

“Grandmother,” I say with a frozen little grin. “This is a difficult day for everyone. Why don’t we leave this for another time? We’re all exhausted, and there’s the incident to think about.”

Her eyebrows twitch at the word, but that’s all the acknowledgment I need to know that I’ve struck a nerve. Which I consider to be an invitation to continue. “We should be thinking about practicalities now, not an unknowable future.”

An expression of surprise, and dare I say, approval? “Yes. Well. That is a very mature suggestion, dear. Very well, then.” She stands and smooths out her dress, pats her hair—nervous tics. I’ve thrown her, which makes me wonder how much she thinks she knows of me, what she may have heard in the few years since I left home. And who might’ve told her.

“I’ll join your grandfather—I expect you’ll be along soon?” She turns to Ms. Gao, who offers a bit of a nod. Then, to me, “I’d like to introduce you to the manor’s curator. She’ll be the one to tell you everything you need to know about the estate. If you happen to run into her before we meet again, do come and find me so I can make a proper introduction. She’s wearing a red suit.” Grandmother punctuates her sentence with a sniff, playing painfully to type.

“Of course,” I say.

“Splendid. I’ll leave you to it.” She drifts slowly out of the room, as if waiting to be called back at the last second.

Ms. Gao does not approach the side table where the envelope lies, but indicates that I should open it. “In that envelope you’ll find your father’s personal financials—his liquid and real property assets, his wishes relating to Euphrates International Corporation, and—”

With my grandmother out of the room, I’m free to interrupt her. “Ms. Gao, I’d like to be very, very clear—I want nothing to do with my father. Including his money.” Her expression is glass. “Give it away, burn it, I don’t care. Give my sister what she needs and take the rest for yourself if you like.” Still nothing. “Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly.” She stands straight and still. “But what you’re asking is impossible, legally. The funds have been automatically transferred into an account in your name. The account numbers, everything you’ll need, is in that envelope. Ignore it if you like, but what belonged to your father is now yours to do with it what you will. You, and no one else.” She stands and leaves the room, leaving me alone with the poisoned fruit of my father’s poisoned labour.

The idea of touching the envelope repulses me. I intend to leave it there, to leave the room, the manor, the estate, everything behind.

But I don’t. I take it and open it, skimming my father’s last will and testament before something else catches my eye at the very end. The ghost of my father smiles as I read it.