Gallant(11)

Hannah frowns, not at the letter but at her. “Have you lost your voice?”

Anger spikes through her. No, she signs, the gestures sharp, deliberate. I didn’t lose it.

The retort is only for herself, of course. She knows they will not understand.

Or so she thinks, until Edgar answers. “I’m sorry.” He signs as he says it, and she spins toward him, spirits lifting. It has been so long since she could speak with someone, and her fingers are already flying through the air.

But he holds up his hands. “Slow down,” he pleads, signing the words. “I’m very rusty.”

She nods and tries again, shaping the first question carefully. Where is my uncle?

Edgar translates, and Hannah’s brow furrows. “When did you receive this letter?”

Olivia signs. Today.

Edgar shakes his head. “That’s not possible,” he says. “Arthur has been—”

Just then, footsteps sound in the hall.

“Hannah?” calls a voice, and moments later a boy strides in, studying a pair of gardening gloves. He is older than Olivia by several years, nearly a man, tall and sapling thin, with tawny hair. “I think the thorns are getting sharper,” he says. “There’s another tear here, near the thumb and—”

He looks up at last and sees her standing by the fire.

“Who are you?” he demands, the softness melting from his voice.

“Matthew,” says Hannah. “This is Olivia.” A moment’s pause, and then, “Your cousin.”

Uncle. Niece. And now, a cousin. All her life, Olivia has dreamed of family, of waking up one day and learning she was not alone. Matthew does not take the news so well. He recoils from the words, as if struck. “That’s ridiculous. There are no more Priors.”

“Apparently there are,” says Edgar gently, as if her very existence is unfortunate.

“No.” Matthew shakes his head, as if he can banish the thought, and her. “No, now that Thom—I’m the last—”

“She is Grace’s,” says Hannah, and the idea snags inside Olivia, the thought that she could be somebody’s, even if they are not here.

“But the bloodline,” snarls Matthew. “My father said—Did you know?”

“No, of course not,” says Hannah, but spoken words are clumsy things, and Olivia catches the snag in her voice, the higher pitch. She’s lying. But Matthew hasn’t noticed. He isn’t listening.

“There must be some mistake,” he says. “What has she told you?”

I’m right here, thinks Olivia. Her hands form the words, but he’s treating her like a ghoul, something he can just ignore, so she reaches for the nearest breakable thing—a vase—and shoves it from the mantle.

It lands with a satisfying crash, shattering against the wooden floor, the sound loud enough to break Matthew from his rant. Then he rounds on her.

“You. Who are you really? Why did you come here?”

“She cannot speak,” says Edgar.

“But she was invited,” answers Hannah, holding up the letter.

“By whom?” demands Matthew, snatching the thin paper from her hand.

“Your father.”

All the light goes out of him. All the heat, and the fury. In that instant, he looks young and frightened. And then his face slams shut, and he surges to the hearth and casts the letter into the fire.

Olivia lunges forward, but he forces her back as the paper catches, burns. Her uncle’s words to her gone up in smoke.

“Look at me,” says Matthew, gripping her shoulders. His eyes, a lighter gray than hers and shot through with blue, are haunted. “My father did not send you that letter. He has been dead for more than a year.”

Dead. The word rattles through her.

But it doesn’t make sense. She closes her eyes, recalls the steady hand.

Come home, dear niece.

We cannot wait to welcome you.

“Matthew,” coaxes Hannah. “Could he have written it before . . .”

“No,” he bellows, the word as heavy as a door.

He scowls at Olivia, his hand tightening around her arm. He’s thin and looks as though he hasn’t slept a night in weeks, but there is something in his eyes that scares her.

“He said I was the last of them. He said there were no more.” His voice splinters, as if in pain, but his fingers bite into her skin. “You cannot be here.”

She twists free of his grip. Or perhaps he pushes her away. Either way, there is suddenly a stride’s length between them, a narrow but uncrossable chasm. They stare across it.

“You should never have come to Gallant.” He points to the door. “Go.”

Olivia rocks back on her heels. Hannah and Edgar share a look.

“It’s too dark now,” says Edgar. “She cannot leave tonight.”

Matthew swears under his breath. “At first light, then,” he says, storming out. He calls back over his shoulder. “Get away from this house and never come back.”

Olivia stares after him, angry and confused. She looks to Hannah and Edgar, hoping for some explanation, but neither speaks. The three of them stand there in the sitting room, silent save for the sound of Matthew’s stomping boots, the crackling fire, Olivia’s unsteady breath.