City of Saints & Thieves(28)

“Hello, Christina,” Mr. Greyhill finally says. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

“Thank you so much for having me,” I hear myself saying.

Michael nudges me with a chair and I jump. He clears his throat, and I figure out what he’s trying to do and let him scoot it under me. Is this how it’s done? I feel so awkward. My eyes flicker over the dishes in front of me. Everything is edged in gold and paper-thin. Oh God, why are there so many utensils?

Mrs. G watches me and takes a tiny sip of black tea. “Clotilde,” she says over the rim. “Will you serve our guest, please?”

A maid appears immediately at my elbow, and pretends like she’s not sneaking glances at me as she puts food on my plate. News must have already reached her that the murdered maid’s daughter is back. Clotilde arranges eggs, toast, and fruit on my plate. As she pours my tea, I see Michael very deliberately take his napkin and place it in his lap. I copy him.

“I’m . . .” Mr. Greyhill begins, then looks at his wife. “We are so happy to see you. It’s been a very long time.”

“Thank you, Mr. Greyhill,” I say, and force out, “It’s good to see you all too. Thank you for letting me stay.”

Michael glances up nervously at his mother like he’s waiting for her to burst into flames. I grip my knee below the table with my fingernails and remind myself to smile. I do and feel ridiculous, and then I don’t know what to do, so I grab for my teacup and end up dribbling the first burning swallow down my shirt. I flush with embarrassment.

“Michael says you’ll be staying with us for a few days?” Mrs. Greyhill asks, watching me fumble with my napkin from under smoothly arched brows.

“If that’s all right with you,” I say.

“Well, Michael is supposed to ask us before he invites guests—”

“Of course it is,” Mr. Greyhill says quickly. His face gives no indication of whether my stay is pleasing to him or not.

“Yes, you’re very welcome. Karibu,” Mrs. Greyhill murmurs with a thin smile. “But who were you going to stay with otherwise?”

“My aunt,” I blurt, at the same time Michael says, “Her cousin.”

We glance at each other, and I stutter, “She’s my cousin, but I call her auntie.”

“I persuaded her to stay here instead,” Michael says.

How does she do that? I wonder, watching Mrs. Greyhill. Smile with her mouth and send daggers with her eyes? She’s hard to look away from.

“Is it a school holiday for you, dear?” she asks.

“Um, yes, madam.”

“Funny. I wonder why Michael and Jenny don’t have the same one.”

I give her what I hope is an innocent little shrug. “I think it’s a French holiday.”

“Ah. I see. The French do like their holidays, don’t they? Not much work ethic.”

God, I wish she would stop staring at me. “Yes, madam. I mean, no.” I look down at my food in great concentration like I’ve never seen an egg before. I rub my sweaty palms on my thighs again and try to channel my little sister. She would be just fine here. She would know how to act. The nuns are strict, and I bet they teach her proper table manners. Maybe she’d even just have it in her DNA, some natural knowledge of how to sit at breakfast with her father, which utensil to use, how to talk to the Greyhills on their level.

I should eat something. I start to pick up a fork, only to realize they’re all slightly different. Is that on purpose? I sneak another glance at Michael and take the one he’s taken.

Mrs. Greyhill delicately pushes her food around on her plate. “That’s a lovely shirt. You know, I think Jenny has one just like it.”

The fork jumps out of my grip and clatters on the plate before I can catch it. Sweat starts to gather in the lovely shirt’s armpits. “I . . .”

But Michael steps in. “The airline lost Tina’s luggage, Mom. I told her to borrow something of Jenny’s.”

Mrs. Greyhill’s eyes travel to the tea stain I’ve created on my chest. “Oh.”

“Take whatever you need,” Mr. Greyhill says, with a pointed look at his wife. “Please, Christina, make yourself at home.”

“Thank you. I’m not sure when they’ll deliver my bag—”

“If they find your stuff at all,” Michael interjects. “I found her in baggage claim looking like a lost puppy.”

A spark of anger replaces some of my nervousness. I grab on to it and give Michael a smile. “I wasn’t lost, just my bags.”

Mrs. Greyhill finally looks away from me to a thin gold watch on her wrist. “Christina, will you join us for services?”

Again, Michael speaks up for me. “I don’t think Christina’s up for church. We’ll stay here.”

Mrs. Greyhill blinks her long false eyelashes. “I would like for you to attend with us, Michael. Christina may borrow something of Jenny’s to wear.”

“No, it’s fine, Sandrine,” Mr. Greyhill says. “Let them stay here.”

I can tell Mrs. Greyhill wants to protest, but not in front of me.

“Michael,” Mr. Greyhill says. He is looking at the newspaper now.

Michael stiffens in his seat. “Yes, sir?”