The Becoming of Noah Shaw

by Michelle Hodkin

  “Maybe Sam cared,” I say, looking past Mara for a moment. I thought I spied a spot of red behind her. A red suit, perhaps?

  “Or he knew something? I don’t know. Why was he here?” she asks herself.

  “He had the key,” I say absently, trying to find the red-suited curator.

  Her forehead scrunches. “What key?”

  “To the bell tower he—the tower we found him in. That part of the ruins is only accessible by staff of the house and the Trust. He had the key, somehow, to unlock the gate.”

  “It—you don’t think it’s the same key his family would’ve had, do you? I mean, it’s not like they had safety regulations in the . . .”

  Great-great-grandfather. I do the maths. “Eighteen hundreds?”

  A flicker of something passes over Mara’s face, quick enough that I’m not quite sure whether I’ve imagined it.

  “The gates are old—don’t know when they were put up, but I couldn’t get past them as a child. And I did try. Some of my first lock-picking attempts, in fact.”

  “Maybe we should go back and check?”

  Maybe. Probably. But I need to check on something else, too. The professor’s letter is scratching at my mind—as Father surely intended, for some undoubtedly twisted reason. And I don’t want to bring it, or him, up with Mara. I’m entirely sure he’s full of shit, and she—well. She’s not. I can’t give her any reason to think about him. We’ve been there before, and I know where it’ll lead—with her wondering if she should leave me. For my sake—for my life, rather. But my life means nothing without her in it, so. Unmentioned the professor shall remain.

  “Why don’t you go back to find out what’s happened with Sam?” I ask her.

  “Okay,” she says slowly. “But don’t you think the English CSI equivalent is swarming the scene?”

  Doubtful—my grandmother would pull whatever strings available to make sure they’re doing whatever it is they do without being spotted by the guests. “Why don’t you find out?”

  Her head tilts. “Me? As in, just me?”

  “I still haven’t found Katie. I want to talk to her before we go.”

  Mara nods, but there’s a wariness to her. I’m an extraordinary liar, but she knows me too well.

  “What, you don’t want to be alone?” That’ll get her blood up.

  “I don’t care about that,” she says with a slight lift of her chin.

  “It’s all right if you don’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “I’m fine by myself,” she insists. “I just don’t really know where I’m going.”

  “Right. I’ll go with you back to the tower, but see if you can’t find someone here who’ll tell you whether the police have got here yet. I’ll meet you back here as soon as I find Katie.”

  She’s quiet. Not hurt—a bit annoyed, I think, but there’s more to it than that. What, I don’t know.

  I fit my hand around her cheek, thumbing her bottom lip. “All right? I won’t be a minute.”

  She nods, biting the tip of my thumb. Not softly, either.

  I lean toward her, letting my lips graze her earlobe. “I’ll be back very, very soon.”

  And then I leave her at the balcony, glancing back once and adding an arrogant grin for good measure before I take the stairs two at a time, past the great hall, past the thrumming masses of people and the silent statues, and head Below Stairs myself.

  8

  THE ENTERPRISES OF ANOTHER

  I MEANT TO LOOK FOR Bernard, or failing that, the curator—one of them must be able to tell me more about Sam, which seems nearly as important as filling in the headspace the professor’s letter is currently occupying. I find Goose instead, languidly rolling a cigarette in the doorway of a small, spare servants’ bedroom.

  I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this were a postcoital smoke, the object of his brief affection tucking himself back into his pants or her shirt in some corridor. His heartbeat is thunderous, and my mind tilts under the weight of the buzzing throng of mourners above us.

  “Neirin and Patrick split off,” he says without looking up. “Off to study for something. Good little Westminster boys they are. They send their condolences.”

  “Accepted,” I say, masking the strain in my voice. “And you?”

  A lift of one shoulder. “Bored. You?”

  “Same,” I lie.

  “And how long are you planning to remain in your home country?”

  “As briefly as I can arrange. We’ll leave as soon as Grandmother releases us from her clutches. Tomorrow, if I have the chance.”

  “Not a prayer,” Goose says, grinning.

  “Where are you off to after this?”

  “Family’s in Cornwall whilst the weather holds.” He lights the cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame. “Or Father is, in any case. Mother’s claimed the London town house in what promises to be the beginning of a spectacular divorce.”

  Goose, a year older than Patrick, Neirin, and I, was a fellow boarder despite the local family, same as I. Tumultuous childhood he never spoke of but others whispered about. Obviously, I sympathise. “Sorry, mate.”

  “I’m not.” He blows out a curl of smoke. Casual tone betrayed by his rapid heartbeat, the tightness in his frame, the sharp, quick chop of his breath between drags. “Thought I’d go for a Gap Yah,” he says, taking the piss.

  “Where to?”

  “Undecided,” he says with a classic scowl-smile I’ve only ever seen on him. “Thailand’s pedestrian. Thought of skipping about the world, but it’s exhausting just thinking about it.” His face twitches into mischief. “Perhaps I’ll join you in New York.”

  “Who says I’m heading to New York?”

  “Your girl. Overheard her conversation with your stepmother, I believe.”

  Perfect. I’d hardly spoken to Ruth of my plans myself. I really should find her. And my sister.

  “She’s quite something,” Goose says, sweeping me back into the present. “How’d you meet?”

  “My stepmother? I thought everyone knew that story.”

  “You’re really not that clever, you know.”

  “You love me anyway,” I say, leaning against the wall. “We met at school.”

  “That pit in Miami?”

  “The very same.”

  “I’m guessing she’s the reason you lost touch.”

  And there it is. “About that—”

  “You don’t need to explain,” Goose says, which is brilliant, because I can’t explain, at least, not in any way that would be satisfying.

  “I’m sorry. Truly.”

  “No worries, truly. We’ve all been busy, haven’t we?”

  That’s a word for it. “Tell me about you. Your life.”

  He barks out a laugh. “It’s my life. Same shit, you know. Was going with El for a while—”

  “El? You’ve crushed on her since she was at St Margaret’s. Bravo, chap.”

  Being back here makes me feel like the child I was when I used to visit, a regression I’m not particularly keen to experience. And yet here we are, ribbing each other the way we had at Liddell (House. The school divides its students into houses. Yes, like Hogwarts). I wonder a bit why Goose stayed after Neirin and Patrick left—the real reason. But if I ask, he’ll never say.

  So I ask instead, “You still together?”

  Shakes his head, blows out smoke, his body loosening. I can hear it, his joints relaxing, eyes drooping closed. Feigned boredom, actual sadness, a fading discordant note in the speeding, roaring mixture of sound that has me feeling bruised and exhausted—and sad—myself.

  Goose is as homeless as I would be, without Mara. And I can actually hear how shittily he feels about it. Which must be why I say, “Come with us.”

  A cock of an eyebrow.

  “To New York.”

  “And do what?”

  “Whatever it is people do during their gap year. Observe the American people. Learn their savage customs.”

  “I’ve been h
earing rumours about this mysterious thing called a Brazilian arse lift?”

  “That . . . is something some do, yes.”

  “Intriguing.” His cigarette is mostly ash, and he smothers it against the bottom of his bespoke shoe. If his family didn’t have quite the fortune mine does, they weren’t short by much.

  “Where’ll you live?” he asks me.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Manhattan?”

  “Might do.” Though it’s always felt like walking through a hive, with stacks of people reaching for a smear of sunlight and a glimpse of water. I don’t love it the way Mara does, but then, I don’t know that I love anything the way she does. She’s on a different spectrum entirely. A human one, basically.

  “You’ll have to buy a penthouse, you know,” Goose says thoughtfully.

  “Naturally.”

  “With terraces and all that.”

  “Of course.”

  “Disgustingly expensive.”

  Back to money. Family’s or father’s money, each with strings attached—psychological if not legal.

  “Highly likely.”

  “Well, let me know when you decide,” he says, and stands straight. The notes in his voice swirl in little eddies as he moves. I’m hyperaware of everything today in a way I’m not usually. “Might join you after all.”

  “You can fly over with us. I’ll send you confirmation when we book it.”

  He holds out his hand to shake mine. “Good chap. Done then.” His heartbeat turns a bit faint for a moment. “You’re sure, mate?”

  For some reason, I am. And say so.

  “See you at Heathrow, then,” Goose says lightly. He thinks I mean for a week, month tops.

  “Manchester, actually,” I say.

  “Fuck.”

  “More convenient.”

  “True,” he says, and stands. “Well, mate, apparently I’ve got a flight to pack for.”

  “Goose,” I say. He pauses in the doorway.

  “Pack to stay for a while.”

  “Shall do. And, mate?”

  I raise my brows.

  “I really am sorry about all this.” He pauses. “About your father.”

  I’m not. But this is England, so I thank him rather than saying so. Once he’s gone, I reopen the will. And ignore the torn letter, though I can’t quite bring myself to bin it. The last thing my father did before he died was decide what I should have, and that included this. The words are imprinted on my mind.

  She gave her life to give life, and not just to your children.

  Don’t let her death be in vain.

  I take the stairs up, bypassing the hall and doing my best to avoid absolutely everyone. My father had no love for what I am, for my so-called Gifts. Everything he’d ever done for me was actually for my mother, who loved the promise of me so much she was willing to sacrifice her future for it, for which he never forgave me. He’s the one who forced me to choose between killing the girl I love or her brother, more like family to me than he ever was, and he’s the one who walked away from us—not just me but Katie, and Ruth, never to be seen or heard from again. Until, of course, he turned up dead, having stabbed himself in the neck with a shard of glass. Officially, it was suicide. Unofficially . . . I suppose we’ll never know, and I can’t help but smile when I think of what my grandmother must’ve gone through to bury the scandal as deeply as she’s done. One would think a family would want to know the truth about how their loved one died, but the fact that my father was found on the anniversary of the date my mother was killed seemed to be enough for them. And the fact that there was, reportedly, a suicide note. I haven’t seen it, and honestly don’t care to. He deserved what he got, however he got it.

  My mind skitters back to that letter. He couldn’t resist this one last fuck-you, could he? I can give away his money, I can burn down his life’s work, but he knew I wouldn’t be able to throw out this letter. Not till I find out what it means. And I can’t do that without digging through the past of House Shaw, and for that I wish for the first and only time that my father could be alive for one more moment—so I could spit in his face.

  Part II

  All houses wherein men have lived and died

  Are haunted houses. Through the open doors

  The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,

  With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Haunted Houses

  9

  THE WORST VICE BETRAYED

  TWO BRUTAL DAYS PASSED BEFORE I was released from England. Family obligations kept me from spending any meaningful (and by meaningful I mean alone) time with Mara, and so I tried to spend the hours with Katie, but she wanted no part of me. She knew how I hated our father, and now she knows she’s been left out of the will.

  “David had this all arranged for a long time, Noah,” my stepmother said when I finally got around to speaking to her about it. She’d flipped through the will and shrugged. “It’s classic him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Even at university, it was so clear that he was trying to be his family and escape his family at the same time.” She’d gestured to the statues everywhere, the painting on the dome of the great hall. Scenes of angels and gods, Greek and Roman figures looming in every corner of the house and grounds. “Our house in Florida?” Ruth asked. “Notice any similarities?”

  She was right, of course. Exactly, obviously right. He’d arranged it the same way—on a smaller scale, obviously. But the resemblance was clear. Painfully so.

  “David doted on Katie when she came along, of course, but from the moment you were born, he treated you like a grown man, grooming you for . . . all this. Your mother,” her throat closed over the word. “Your mother drew that out of him like poison from a wound, rolled it up into a little ball, and threw it away. When she was—when she died,” she says, swerving away from murdered, “the poison crept back in again. Little by little.” She sighed. “He really should’ve been in therapy.”

  If she only knew.

  My stepmother and my sister were already well provided for through trusts established while my father was living—I had one myself, actually—and Ruth insisted that she didn’t want anything else, wouldn’t take anything else. The will was more symbolic than anything, she said—a passing of the torch and responsibility and all that, not so much a Gringotts vault full of gold. Pity me.

  As Ruth and Katie had decided to live in Florida—my stepmother for her veterinary practice and my sister for, God knows why, honestly. Friends, a boyfriend, perhaps? Regardless, good-byes were said, our plane boarded, and then Mara, Goose, and I embarked for our return home, and Goose’s sojourn from his. I told Mara Goose would be starting off his gap year in New York. I hadn’t mentioned that I’d invited him to live with us, but what could go wrong.

  She promptly fell asleep on my shoulder upon takeoff in any case, and we were all staying in hotels for the moment anyway, so. Plenty of time.

  Throughout the seven-hour flight, plans spun through my head, and I began e-mailing with Ms. Gao. As Mara says, wanting something doesn’t make it real. But sometimes, money can. Today, it would.

  Duffels shouldered, we three handed them off to the waiting driver when we landed at JFK, and Goose split off from us to the Gansevoort (“Spectacular pool”). Mara was visibly thrilled to be here—Daniel’s already in the city, creating some groundbreaking individualised study colloquium at NYU or something, lured by a full scholarship and the most posh room and board situation the American higher education system has on offer. As for the rest of her family, they’ve been planning to move back up to the Northeast with him, to be together after, well. After their Miami experience, shall we say. Long Island instead of Rhode Island, this time; her father’s found a job with one of his old law school mates, and Joseph’s enrolled at a private school, and as far as they know, Mara will be spending what should be her senior year auditing classes in the city and going to therapy to try an
d transition back to normalcy—is what Jamie told them. I think. We should probably get our stories straight. Or fuck it, hakuna matata.

  We’re dropped off at the Plaza Athénée at eight in the morning, blinking dully beneath the pink and orange sky. Mara is pale, exhausted—she slept on my shoulder on the flight as I typed, but fitfully. I watch her, the membrane of her eyelids a light purple, her dark lashes curled and fluttering with dreams. I wondered what was happening behind those eyelids, under her dark waves of hair, inside that head. She never did manage to get back to the ruins, and I never did manage to find out more about Sam, but it doesn’t matter.

  I’m heir to the Shaw estate. Ms. Gao’s sole occupation is to take my orders as I give them. But my desire to give Mara everything is greater than hating myself for taking what my father made, and used to torture her.

  The documents—his, my grandmother’s—I feel polluted when I touch them. But I can do things now that they never would, make choices they would never make. Try and fix what my father had broken, help the people he hurt. So sign the papers I do. In a week, the revolution would begin, and I can find out everything I never wanted to know about my family if I choose. But for now . . .

  We’re whisked into the hotel, glimmering chandeliers above, the papered walls bursting with rich colours, and Mara hardly notices that we don’t formally check in. Everything’s been handled already.

  “Oh my God,” Mara says, collapsing onto the bed, splayed out like a starfish. I unbuckle one of her boots, then the other, letting them drop to the floor. Peel off her socks. She flips over onto her back to watch me with artist’s eyes, then arches up so I can slide off her jeans, blinking dreamily.

  I’ve seen her in the middle of the night and the middle of the day, with makeup and without, with her hair done up and when it’s been unwashed for days. I’ve seen her in jeans and in silk and in nothing. I would gladly spend the rest of my life just looking at her.

  Thankfully, I’m allowed to do more than that. I climb up her body to take off her shirt, and the feel of her skin makes me ten times more awake.

  And then I see what she’s wearing underneath. Her chest is cupped in black edged with ivory lace, her arse in cheeky boy-shorts that match.