The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions #1)(8)
My grandmother pauses, obviously debating whether to accept it or demand an explanation for missing the funeral. But that would mean causing a scene in front of Mara. My grandmother turns her steel blue eyes on her. “I must steal my grandson from you now. But please”—she gestures ever so graciously—“have some tea, a bite to eat—rest for a bit. I can have Allegra make up a bed for you in one of the downstairs rooms.”
Mara opens her mouth to respond—to refuse, surely, if for no other reason than it being the middle of the bloody day—but I intervene. “I agree, sweetheart.” Mara’s expression is filled with such obvious incredulity at my use of that expression, it’s nearly impossible to bite back my laugh. “Have a lie-down. It’s been a trying day. I’ll find you in a bit, just . . . make yourself at home.”
A tiny smile at my extremely awkward code for “Go forth and find out what in fresh hell is going on.” She nods and manages to feign a yawn. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m . . . overwhelmed?” She looks at me for approval, and gets it.
“Of course,” my grandmother says, a lift in her voice whilst she takes my arm. And then I’m steered away, flicking a winner’s grin over my shoulder at my girl. It takes a moment to register that I’ve been shuttled into a side corridor cordoned off from the public, filled with some of the many marble busts of past generations of Shaws, casting long shadows that slice the marble floor.
The staccato rhythm of my grandmother’s heels halts once we’re alone. “Noah,” she says, casually brushing something from the shoulder of my suit. “It’s time to discuss your inheritance.”
6
SILVER FETTERS
THAT SENTENCE ECHOES UNDER THE arched ceiling as though the statues themselves were repeating it.
Your inheritance. An inheritance. The inheritance.
The sun shines dimly from the mullioned, arched windows, transforming the wrinkles that fold my grandmother’s face into a mask of light and shadow. She’d be almost cartoonishly frightening if she weren’t standing beside a Greek statue of a smiling naked boy astride a ram.
“Is it really? The time?” I ask.
Chin lifted, she begins walking again. “Today has not gone as planned, I’m quite aware. But there are things that must be discussed, things that cannot wait.”
There isn’t any point in arguing. I want nothing to do with my father or what he’s left behind. What he’s done to me, Mara—it’s more than enough. I needn’t even say it—I can thin my smile and listen as my grandmother speaks and ignore whatever she says.
She walks ahead beneath the high, lonely ceilings, turns sharply to the left, where a bank of what must surely be unused rooms lie in wait for occupants who will never arrive. One of them gets lucky—my grandmother turns a gleaming glass knob, opening the door to a time capsule from the eighteenth century. The ceiling mouldings are tipped with gold, highlighting every carefully carved curve and corner, helped along by a drapey crystal chandelier fitted with actual tallow candles (unlit). Instead, the light comes from the lit, gilt-framed portraits in every size and shape. Everything in the room is perfectly preserved, arranged, to accommodate guests in waistcoats and corsets—not the Asian woman in business casual sitting in front of the fireplace. She seems so out of place that I blink, and she seems to disappear, then reappear the next instant.
“Noah, dear, allow me to introduce you to Ms. Victoria Gao, your father’s attorney.” Ms. Gao crosses the room to shake my hand, looking far too young for the grey bob that frames her face.
“She’s here to inform you of the”—my grandmother, for the first time, appears to scrabble around for the right words—“responsibilities that you now possess as heir to your father’s estate.”
I’d thought I was prepared for this, but the word “heir” brings me up short. “Why isn’t Katie here?”
“Your father named you as the executor of his will, once you turn eighteen.”
In just a few months, then. The air seems to flare with heat, blazing. “I’m not sure I understand. Katie—”
“Your father expected you to provide for your sister as you see fit, but he expressly prohibits the transfer of executorship to your sister until she’s reached twenty-five years of age.”
“I’m not even eighteen—this makes no sense.”
“Mr. Shaw, it isn’t my job to question my clients’ final wishes.”
“Then what is your job?”
“To make sure they’re granted,” she says, and holds out a thick envelope. I put it on a side table inlaid with what was probably ivory. Fuck this shit.
“Fine.” I turn to my grandmother. “Am I free to go?” She glances quickly at the envelope on the table and then at Ms. Gao, whose expression remains placid.
“Not quite, I’m afraid,” my grandmother says. “Your father was our only child, which means that he was our sole heir. He refused to use his title when he married your mother, but never formally disclaimed it,” she says with an ugly curl to her mouth. “But that’s all over and done now. You can reclaim the title of lord.” She hits the big smile button. “And you may inherit our entire estate in addition to your father’s.”