Dinner’s at eight, which, E says, is the title of some old song. Occasionally Fabe sings part of it, because he thinks waiting until eight is really stupid, particularly when Mother and Owen fail to show up.
Rumors of their appearance at dinner tonight started at 5 p.m., but we’re never confident they’ll arrive until they actually take their places at the head and foot of the table. (Sometimes they even argue about who’s at the head and who’s at the foot.)
I’ve cadged a seat in the formal dining room that lets me stare out the windows, even when the sun is setting. It makes the buildings gold for a few minutes before the city goes dark—or dark-ish, because the artificial lights keep it constantly lighter than any other place I’ve ever lived. (Make that Mount Olympus.)
Tonight, the artificial lights are up already. Because we’re in a penthouse, we can keep the windows uncovered if we want to. One clue that Mother and Owen will actually show is that the staff is using the remotes to darken the windows so no one—no bird, no helicopter, no drone, no person with binoculars in another penthouse across the way—can look in.
Danny says that’s to prevent paparazzi (a word I learned week one) from photographing us, but E says it’s really to prevent some sniper from taking out Owen. I think both of them are fanciful. I grew up with really famous people, and no one tried to kill them.
Okay, not entirely true. If you look closely at my family’s history, you’ll see that they’re constantly trying to kill each other. But the key phrase is “each other.” I have a lot of family: more, Brit says, than the population of that Midwestern town where she lives.
Of course, we’ll get a bad apple or two. (And my sisters would’ve giggled at that, since the Trojan War started when another of our sisters, Eris, tossed a golden apple on a family dinner table and said it was for the fairest. They don’t call Eris the Goddess of Discord for nothing. Megan’s been worried that we’d end up as nasty as Eris is. The Fates had to deal with her long before we became Interim Fates. But that’s another story.)
When the housekeeper expects Mother to show for dinner, she makes us dress up. Or at least not wear blue jeans. Since the jeans I’ve been wearing today have a fried-onion-and-potato stain, I don’t mind changing.
I put on an unapproved forest green skirt with an ivory top, and some gold bangles that Athena gave me before I left. I’m not going to tell anyone that I’ve checked out mentally, but I am going to rebel just a little.
And, if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m also testing Mother. I want to see if she notices that I’m wearing my favorite colors, not hers.
When I get to the table, E’s sitting in his usual spot. Normally, he has a thick textbook or some kind of dedicated ereader, but tonight, he has nothing. His mouth is in a tense line, his thin face looks worried.
Danny, Fabe, and Gordon haven’t shown up yet. I sit in my usual spot and look first at the head of the table, then at the foot.
“You think they’ll show?” Even though I’ve decided to become my own person, I don’t want Mother to hear me gossiping about her.
“They’re already here,” E says. “Dinner might be delayed.”
I frown, about to ask him why, when Mother’s voice carries across the large room.
“There you are,” she says. I turn toward her, expecting her to be looking at the three younger boys, but she’s staring at me as if I’ve been missing instead of watching television in my room for the past three hours.
Mother’s stares are pretty powerful. She has emerald green eyes and a narrow chin. The plastic surgery she indulged in makes her cheeks shiny and the space under her eyes flat instead of slightly concave like everyone else’s. Sometimes she Botoxes, but not today, because she has a hefty frown marring her otherwise perfect features.
She sweeps a hand toward me. “You. Crystal. With me.”
Then she turns, her black silk tunic rustling. My stomach clenches, and I wonder if she heard what I said to E. Then I wonder if she disapproves of my clothes. And finally, I wonder if she already knows that I’m not going to be the dutiful daughter anymore.
E raises his eyebrows, and I suddenly realize he’d been waiting for me. He wanted to warn me about Mother. Of all the brothers, E’s been the kindest (which isn’t saying much).
Good luck, he mouths.
I nod, grateful for even that little bit of support.
I slide my chair back and follow Mother. She’s wearing sling-back shoes that click on the wooden floor as she heads toward a part of the apartment I’ve never seen.
E calls it the parental suite. I have no idea if that’s its real name or if only he calls it that. But the suite is in its own wing. Mother has to open a door to go inside.
The suite smells of clashing perfumes. Mother’s Clive Christian No. 1 doesn’t really go with Owen’s Eau d’Hadrien. His is all citrusy and hers is all bergamot, sandalwood, and vanilla, which makes me want to sneeze. You’d think citrus would lose with those stronger scents, but it only makes the urge to sneeze worse.
I did sneeze the first time I encountered this clash, and Mother yelled at me as if I had some kind of problem. Apparently, I shouldn’t have a bad reaction to two of the most expensive scents in the world.
I try not to sneeze now, but it’s taking some work. My eyes are watering and I have to rub the tip of my nose. I hope Mother gets me out of the long, narrow, dark hallway and into one of the side rooms before I actually have a reaction. I can only hope that the side room smells of one perfume or the other, not both.
She opens a door five down and stands aside so I can enter. The room is very feminine, done in golds and deep reds, the colors she wants me to wear. I know the rug on the hardwood floor is expensive, because everything in this place is expensive, but I have no idea how expensive until Mother takes off her shoes and looks pointedly at my feet.
Hers are bare, but she’s had a pedicure recently. I had one pedicure shortly after I arrived in Manhattan, and vowed never to have another. I just figured I wouldn’t take off my shoes in front of people ever again, but clearly that’s not going to work.
I slide my shoes off. Mother looks at my feet, frowns, and shakes her head. She closes the door, and I heave a sigh of relief. The only perfume I smell in here is Mother’s, and it’s faint. Either she doesn’t use this room very often or she uses it late enough in the day that the perfume doesn’t rub off on the furniture.
I stand awkwardly, hands dangling at my sides. I’m half tempted to point out that I’ve had a manicure, but I doubt that’ll make her feel better about my lack of pedicure. At least the rug is soft beneath my feet.
I force myself to concentrate on that, instead of my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.
“Megan called me,” Mother says, as if speaking on the phone to anyone unapproved is a breach of protocol. “She wouldn’t hang up until she spoke to me personally.”
I swallow involuntarily. Mother’s green eyes flash, and she does something with her lips that reminds me of Hera. I try to avoid Hera. She’s Daddy’s wife, and she hates all the—as she calls them—bastard children.
I can’t avoid Mother.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mother asks.
I blink. I didn’t miss any sentences. She said Megan called, wouldn’t hang up, and then didn’t say more. Which means she expects me to make the leaps, and I’m not going to.
“I’m not responsible for what Megan does.” That sentence sounded better in my head than when I say it out loud. Out loud it sounds whiny and defensive.
“Really?” Mother asks, her voice dripping with disdain. “Because Megan called to discuss you.”
I shrug.
Mother’s eyes narrow. “She says you walked out on her.”
I let out a breath. I’m not going to sound defensive again. I’m not. So I don’t say anything.
“She says you claim you’re not coming back.”
I shrug again.
“You are not one of
my sons,” Mother snaps. “You don’t get to feign indifference. Girls don’t feign indifference.”
“Who made that rule?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She whirls, and I get a blast of Clive Christian No. 1. That perfume is some kind of stealth weapon, guaranteed to make me sneeze all over the expensive red-and-gold furniture.
“You need to apologize to me,” Mother says.
“For what?” Since I already started digging the hole, I might as well continue.
“For making Megan call me,” Mother says. “That woman is awful.”
“I know,” I say, channeling Brit’s sympathetic calm. “That’s why I walked out.”
Mother stops and looks at me sideways. Whatever she expected me to say, it hadn’t been that.
“You’re here on Megan’s sufferance,” Mother says. “She determines whether you stay or leave.”
“That’s not what I remember.” I’m not going to tell her that we girls decided we’d live with our mothers and lose our magic, particularly since I’d just screamed at Megan because I hadn’t really been part of that decision.
“Oh?” Mother says. “Because I wasn’t consulted until I was told you were going to move in. And then I was told that it all depended on Megan.”
“Is that why you stopped going to the sessions with her?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
Mother throws a truly foul look at me. “I have a shrink. I don’t need another one.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “If you don’t go see Megan, then you can get rid of me, right?”
Mother raises herself to her full height, which—in those heels—is several inches taller than me.
“You ascribe to me Machiavellian motives,” she says.
I have no idea what “Machiavellian” is, only that it doesn’t sound good.
“I’m just looking at the logic,” I say. “If you believe that Megan’s in charge of all of this—and she isn’t, but I guess you didn’t go to all the family meetings, which is so normal for you—then if you stop going to those sessions, you get rid of me, right?”
Mother raises her chin. “I am not trying to get rid of you.”
Now she’s the one sounding defensive, and by the look of surprise in her eyes, she just realized it.
“I simply have to manage my time.” Her right hand plays with the gold bangles on her left wrist. “Owen and I are very important people, and we don’t have time for things like—”
“A daughter from a one-night stand?” I ask. “What do you call me? An Unintended Consequence?”
Her lips thin. “I’m sorry you overheard that.”
But she doesn’t deny it.
“You and I do not know each other well,” she says, “and you’ve never—”
“Whose fault is it that we don’t know each other?” I ask. Jeez—to use Gordon’s favorite word—but really, I mean, I’m beginning to sound like someone Not Me. Not Tiff or Brit either. Someone new.
“I don’t think we can ascribe fault,” Mother says in a very prim voice.
“Really?” I ask. “Because I do. You’re the one who stopped going to family gatherings, you’re the one who apparently didn’t go the mandatory meetings before bringing me here, and you’re the one who has stopped going to see Megan. So tell me again, why we can’t ascribe fault?”
Mother crosses her arms. “You are a truly unpleasant child.”
“I’m not a child,” I say.
“Oh, yes, you are. You might think you’re ancient and wise because your father gave you a job that no child should have, but you’re not. You’re just a spoiled brat who has no idea how to behave in the real world.”
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. I don’t think of myself as ancient or wise and maybe I was a spoiled brat when I had magic, but I don’t feel like one now, and this certainly isn’t the real world.
I’m so shocked at all she’s said that I don’t know where to start.
“This isn’t the real world,” I hear myself say.
“Oh, yes, it is. It’s where everyone but your privileged family lives.” Mother’s too-smooth cheeks are growing red. She’s as angry as I am. “I know how to negotiate this world. You don’t.”
“And you won’t teach me,” I say. “I talk to Tiff and Brit every weekend, and they say their moms are teaching them about this world. You barely talk to me.”
“I have people who can teach you. And you’re going to school,” Mother says.
“That’s not the same!” I shout this last part. They can probably hear me in the dining room, but I don’t care. “You’re supposed to be happy that I’m here. Tiff’s mom is ecstatic and—”
“Serena was always a bit of a bore about her daughter,” Mother says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Serena always felt she gave her daughter up under false pretenses.”
I feel like Mother punched me in the stomach. I can’t catch my breath and I’m a bit nauseous. “But you don’t?”
“Oh, honey.” Mother uses that condescending tone she usually reserves for the staff—oh, excuse me, I mean her people. “I never intended to have a child in the first place.”
“And somehow you ended up with five of them,” I say.
“Oh.” She waves her hands. The bangles jingle. “I planned Ethan. I loved his father. And I love Owen too. We didn’t really plan on Gordon, but we weren’t going to argue with the pregnancy, considering how wonderfully well the others turned out.”
Really? Because they’re total jerks, I almost say, but don’t. (I have no idea how I don’t, but I don’t.)
That gut-punch feeling is growing stronger. I almost double over, but I can’t. I’m not going to let her see how I feel.
“You just didn’t intend to have me,” I say.
“I thought I’ve been clear about that. Your father was a mistake, darling. He was charming and he probably magicked me, I mean, I generally don’t go for short men—”
“No,” I snap, “you just go for powerful ones, and there’s no one more powerful than my father.”
She stops and looks at me, really looks at me, like she’s never really seen me before. “You do know that all this magic talk is nonsense, right? Because magic doesn’t exist.”
“Then explain all the things you saw when you visited Mount Olympus,” I say.
“You’d be surprised at what technology can do,” she says. “Holograms, virtual reality, even the judicious use of video can make anyone believe anything. Particularly if there’s alcohol involved.”
I’m shaking. The pressure on my chest is so intense, I can barely take a breath. I’m too young to have a heart attack, right? Because the symptoms seem the same.
“That’s what you tell yourself?” I ask, happy that my voice isn’t shaking as badly as the rest of me. “That Daddy plied you with drink and you ended up pregnant?”
“To my shame, yes,” Mother says.
“And I’m just an example of your shame.” My voice is getting even stronger.
She shrugs one shoulder and inclines her head slightly, as if she expects me to understand. “When you get older, you’ll realize that most women—forgive me, most people—don’t want to revisit their one-night-stands.”
“Even if there’s a child involved,” I say.
“Even if,” she says. “Usually, in the real world, one person ends up with custody of the child.”
“The mother.” I’ve seen the movies. I know. “The father doesn’t usually get told.”
“Your father monitored. Some of the other women I spoke to who’ve had his children say that he always monitors. He’s rather obsessed with progeny, you know.”
It would have been nice if he had spoken to his progeny once in a while. But I don’t say that to her. Because we’re not talking about Daddy.
“He took you the day you were born,” she says. “You know that, right?”
I can’t manage more than a shallow breath. Even my ribcage hurts. “Yes, I
know.”
“Most people would understand, then, that they’re getting full custody. This pretense at keeping me involved, I’ve never understood it. Especially since the culture you were raised in is so odd.” This time, she shrugs both shoulders. “That’s why I faded out. Owen assures me that custody battles across nations are fraught and complicated, and when the opposing party has a limited view of reality, well, the battles become even more complicated.”
It takes me a minute to realize that she means Daddy has a limited view of reality, not her.
“You could have just told him,” I manage to say.
She gives me a pitying look. “Oh, darling, I did. Repeatedly. But he kept saying a girl needs her mother. Even if a girl only needs her mother for designated times of the year, apparently. Had I known how little he really cared about you or anything else for that matter…”
She lets her voice trail off, but I desperately want her to finish that sentence. I want her to say, Had I known how little he really cared about you, I would have taken you immediately.
Instead, she studies my face as if she can see that want, that need. She shrugs a third time.
“Well, darling, had I known, I would have spoken to someone there to make sure you were properly cared for. I had no idea that you had essentially raised yourself.”
I have so many retorts. I didn’t raise myself. I have sisters, family, people who love me. But what comes out of my mouth is, “You mean raise myself like your boys are raising themselves?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Crystal. We’re raising the boys.” She shakes her head at me.
“You’re never here,” I say.
“And you sound like a broken record. You used to say that to me when I came to Greece, and you’re saying it now. You simply do not appreciate what I do for you.”
I cross my arms. It feels like I’m holding the pain inside so that it won’t crush me. “What do you do for me?”
She tilts her head, as if I’ve asked her a question in a foreign language. “Look at how you’re dressed,” she says, then raises her eyebrows a little. “Well, that’s probably not a good example, since you clearly haven’t been listening. But you don’t want for anything. You’re in the best school in the country—and believe you me, it cost a fortune to get you in there. Everyone in this city would love to live like you do. Everyone. I don’t even question your expenditures like I question the boys’.”
Crystal Caves Page 5
