The Last Wish

2. The Nest

Palistone Manor was the crowning jewel of Frank Palistone's property portfolio, a vibrant stone set in the turning colours of Fall in upstate New York. Leaves of gold and red and amber and orange painted the tips of the trees surrounding the estate, their autumnal patchwork just barely visible from Frank's study on the top floor. The house itself had been built with English castles in mind, matching towers rising from opposite corners, while crenelations formed a perimeter around the roof terrace. From the main road that wound past the Palistone family home, one might think they had spotted a fairy tale castle poking out from the forest's canopy. Frank liked that thought; there was, after all, a touch of fairy tale to the story of his success.

He kept his gaze fixed on the distance as he took a sip of scotch, glad to be in the warmth of his study. It was here that he did his thinking, staring out of one of the towers through a lancet window criss-crossed with diamond panes of glass, drink in hand. Today was especially cold, though that was only one reason he had dressed in a trusted black turtleneck. In truth, he needed his strength, and the tightness of the collar around his throat gave him the sensation of being supported. Frank shivered as he imagined how the day might unfold.

"They've arrived."

Frank broke his stare to see who had spoken, only to realise it was his own voice, a trace of condensation left behind where his breath had collided with the cold window.

"Yes," came a reply, though there had been no question about it. Frank had simply known. He drained the glass and acknowledged the owner of the unasked-for-answer. Mr Saunders stood in his purple suit, bulging at the might of his muscular frame, hands crossed in front of his crotch. For a man of his size, Frank was always surprised by the quietness of Mr Saunders' comings and goings. Of course, he thought, I shouldn't be surprised, considering...

Frank nodded and left the glass on his desk. With heavy limbs, he pulled a striped navy blazer from the back of his chair, arms too stiff to pull it on with a flourish as he once had. In an instant, Mr Saunders was beside him, taking the blazer and opening it behind the old man. Gingerly, Frank raised each rusted arm behind him in turn, slotting them one by one into the blazer. When had he gotten so old? Moments earlier, he had felt as young as the man who had first met Mr Saunders so many years earlier. He looked at the towering man with his serious face and smiled appreciatively.

"Thank you, Mr Saunders," he said, almost breathless from the strain of moving from the window to dressing. He always made sure to thank Mr Saunders - he was not paid, after all, and so his gratitude required weight and value - treating him now like an old friend. Without a word or an acknowledgement of the thanks, Mr Saunders half-raised a crooked arm so that Frank could hold on and be helped to the staircase leading from the study in the tower, down to the lower levels. Frank took one last look back at the window, sure that he saw the reflection of his younger self staring back from across the years. Satisfied that there was no such spectre watching him, Frank let Mr Saunders guide him down the stairs to greet his children.

Jamie Palistone was more than aware that he was not at his best. Crusted sleep still gathered at the corners of his eyes from a morning of dozing, and he hadn't had time to tame his wild hair or even brush his teeth. The clothes he had driven in had been pulled from his unpacked suitcase, still unmistakably ripe from days of travel. Despite all this - and despite the sour smell at the pit of his chequered shirt - Jamie was simply relieved to have made it home before the sun had set. To keep his father waiting would have been an unwise choice.

There was, however, the matter of his siblings' judgemental stares as he half-ran from the car across uneven gravel, holdall slung over his shoulder, bursting through the front door. They greeted him with icy cold looks in the entrance way, all gathered at the foot of the grand staircase like a mob of fans awaiting a celebrity's visit.

Denise was at the centre of them, her crossed arms almost as tight as the binding of her hair or the black dress hugging her waist or the frown cut across her face. She only glanced at her brother, turning back to watch the top of the stairs for any sign of their father.

"You're late," she said.

Deacon seemed to snigger into his crystal cut tumbler, a little vodka dribbling from his lips. Jamie didn't waste the energy shooting a glare at his brother, a gorilla in an ill-fitting suit.

"Nice to see you too," Jamie replied, still catching his breath from the rush of getting from the city to the manor. "Where's dad?"

"He's on his way," Paisley answered, stepping down the stairs with a joyful bounce.

"Hey, Paze," Jamie smiled, opening his arms wide for a hug. The youngest Palistone sibling jumped from the second-to-bottom step, quickly leaping into his brother's arms. Denise rolled her eyes at the affectionate display, while Deacon let the boredom show on his face, now leaning against the dark wood banister at the foot of the staircase.

"Sorry to keep you all waiting," Frank announced from his perch at the top of the staircase. He was standing beneath a larger than life portrait of himself, hung above the antique chest they had all grown to recognise as a treasured heirloom from their youth. Mr Saunders stood at his master's side. Jamie was always taken aback at the sight of the man, who never seemed to change from one day to the next - his facial hair still lined his jaw and circled his lips, the texture of his olive skin still perfectly unblemished and smooth, the pristine purple suit always snuggly wrapped around his biceps and shoulders and torso. The unsettling feeling in Jamie's stomach wasn't for Mr Saunders though - it was for the old man staring down at him, and the memory of disappointment radiating from his father's glare every time they had argued over the direction of Jamie's life.

In reality, there was no real conflict between them – at least, nothing significant – but the two men had found themselves at odds since Jamie declared that he would use his almost limitless trust fund to save the world in his own way. His lips thinned as they pressed tightly together, hands on Paisley's shoulders as he manoeuvred his father's favourite child in front of him.

Denise - who mistakenly thought herself the favourite - grabbed the banister and stepped onto the first stair, intent on helping her father. Frank simply raised a hand and shook his head, guiding himself down the stairs, hand sliding along the polished oak railing. Despite his refusal of assistance, Denise remained poised to rush to Frank's aid, watching each of his achingly slow steps with great interest. He paid her no heed.

At the foot of the stairs, Frank dusted his jacket down and smiled at each of them, lingering longest and most lovingly on Paisley. A gentle hand tousled his son's hair. Once retracted, the hand extended to Jamie, who shook it, hiding his surprise as he did so. Father and son nodded at each other and nothing more was said between them.

Frank took his place in the middle of the double doors leading to the drawing room, addressing his assembled brood.

"Thank you all for coming. I'm glad to see each and every one of you."

On the last note, Jamie noticed his father's eyes linger on him a half-second longer than his siblings, and he felt – for the first time in too long – welcome at Palistone Manor.

"Now," Frank continued, "It's time to begin."