Dear eldest brother,
This week has been dull, dark, dreary and besides which, entirely despondent, except for the trip to the Maynard mansion last Tuesday. I went with my dear friends and classmates, all of whom enjoyed gazing at the superior and illustrious portraits of Wild’s from days of yore. Nary a nostril hair, not a whiff of wrinkle or a smidge of sallowness, but of course, that’s what you get from Wild portraiture: miles and miles of endless perfection which I endured as long as possible then made my escape in an entirely seemly manner out of an unwatched side door (I would hate to give the impression of scaling a wall) out into the winter garden.
I liked the bare bones of it, like a corpse laid out to rest, peaceful, without expectations of perfectly clippered nostrils, I mean yews, the bits of green poking out weeds that will be yanked from the earth without hesitation, the only time when the earth is left alone, left to think, to be, to rest. The dead brittle grass scratched the back of my neck while I lay, staring at clouds the color of hesitation, birds making sounds, caw, or braw, or gecko echo mecho, the crows aching to pick a fight, or maybe that’s them being polite. The wind silvered the branches over one another, the motion softer than feathers, are there feathers so straight and spiny? Maybe trees grow backwards, starting with fluff and ending with quill. Why shouldn’t a bird be so, to enjoy its own down instead of spreading it around for everyone else? I should be more generous. If I were a bird I’d rip out all my feathers and stuff them in backwards. Of course then I couldn’t fly. I’d be relegated to my nest, consoling myself with the hideous sounds only the dead can bear without laughing.
Yours always in common paternity,
Your sister
P.S. Isn’t my handwriting beautiful? I’ve been practicing all winter.
Chapter 1
The dinner club in the heart of London felt rich. The jazz music in the background, melancholy oboes and sincere trumpets, lulled me into relaxation against the black leather bench while I studied the black and silver reflective wallpaper seeing shapes and dreams that weren’t there. I leaned over the metal table, running my fingers around the lip of my glass, staring into the golden depths as though I could read my future in it.
The front door opened, spilling the sound of honking and laughter from the street while a slight draft crawled through the club, curling around my bare ankles. I didn’t need to look directly at the door to see who had entered from my position at a corner table, not when I could glance up at the reflection behind the bar and the man who polished glasses.
The large man with piercing blue eyes who had entered moved slowly, searching the room before settling on a tufted leather stool at the bar. I heard a clatter of silverware and a woman’s laugh from the dining room behind me that made the man look up with eyebrows lowered towards the sound while I forced my gaze on my hands until his attention returned to the bar and his own drink.
I forced my heart to steady and my breathing to remain even. I could show nothing until it was too late for him to recognize me. I took my time, sipping my drink delicately while I flexed my toes inside my heels. I kept my gaze on the vase holding orange poppies in front of me, the fractured glass reflecting the man’s back where he still sat, murmuring to the bartender every few minutes.
The door opened, the draft once again competing for my attention. I sat still, swirling my glass around while I watched the man turn to give a suspicious glare at the newcomer, then freeze and stare openly with a slack mouth at whoever had entered.
It was enough of a reaction that I had to glance up, to turn my head and see her at the same time she stepped past a tall, pale man and our eyes met.
