Isabelle’s eyes settle on my daughter, and I see her make an effort to smile.
I sit down, reach out to touch Angelique’s hand. “This is Isabelle,” I tell her, tucking a curl behind her ear. “She’s going to stay with us for a while.”
“Belle?” she asks. “Like in my book?”
I smile tightly and nod. I want to tell her Isabelle Bishop is no princess but don’t.
“Isabelle, this is my daughter, Angelique.”
“Nice to meet you,” Isabelle says. “My little cousin calls me Belle.”
“It’s my favorite name,” Angelique says, surprising me. She’s very shy, probably my own doing. I’ve kept her apart from society for all her life. She’s known my mother, Zeke, Dex, a handful of guards and staff, but no one else. Ever. And on the rare occasion she meets someone, she mostly hides behind her stuffed bear, which is always with her, or me.
“Angelique might be my favorite name, too,” Isabelle says.
Angelique beams. “Really?”
“M-hm,” Isabelle says with a smile, and I wonder how kind she’ll be to my daughter once she comes to truly hate me. Because she doesn’t yet. She may fear me. And that won’t change. But she doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know what I plan to do with her. No one does. Because The Rite offers her some protections. I plan to strip her of those. Her brother will agree. He’ll have no choice when he sees the rest of the ammunition I’m collecting against him. I just need Santiago to come through for me and when he does, I’ll act.
Catherine, the cook who’s been with the family since I was a little boy, walks in with a huge platter of French toast. Angelique’s request. I see how she winks at my daughter and hear Angelique’s delighted gasp as she sets the dish at the center of the table.
“Oh wow!” Angelique exclaims at the mound covered in powdered sugar.
“There,” Catherine says.
I look up at her. “Is there anything healthy?”
She raises her eyebrows. “I remember your sweet tooth, Jericho,” she mutters. “But yes, of course.” And several maids enter carrying trays of eggs, bacon, sliced fruit and various freshly squeezed juices.
She makes a plate for Angelique and pours coffee for the adults before leaving. I watch my daughter’s delighted face as she eats the sweet breakfast, sugar coating her lips and cheeks, falling onto the head of her teddy bear sitting in her lap. My mother walks over to clip her hair back from her face before sitting down to butter a slice of bread. I sip my coffee and watch her. She takes a bite then sets the bread down.
I get to my feet, pick up her plate and scoop scrambled eggs onto it along with several strips of bacon.
“Protein. You need to eat to keep up your strength,” I tell her. She’s recovering from chemotherapy and while I’m glad it’s over, it’s a long, slow recovery. A few months ago, we weren’t sure she’d come this far, so every day I’m grateful for it.
She smiles up at me. “I do eat.” She gestures toward Isabelle who is also sitting with an empty plate. “Perhaps you need to make your guest feel welcome enough to eat.”
My guest. She’s not my fucking guest. And she’s not welcome.
Grudgingly, I make my way to the foot of the table. Isabelle stiffens when I reach her and lean down, picking up her dish. “You’ll need your strength, too,” I whisper so only she can hear. I load her plate with eggs, bacon, French toast, and fruit and set it in front of her. It’s a mountain but she’ll eat it. She missed dinner last night and she can stand to put on a few pounds. I straighten, look down at the top of her head as she takes in the heaping dish. “Eat,” I tell her.
Zeke watches without a word then turns to help Angelique with her knife and fork. She’s young but she watches the adults and mimics. She’s never been around other children, only adults. I wonder how she’d appear to them. If they’d find her odd. If they’d make fun of her for the mismatched eyes, the blue and gray that I passed on to her. She won’t ever be subjected to that though. Nothing will change for her now that we’re home. The tutor I’ve hired will begin her work this week and she’ll be safe where I can watch her, protect her.
I kiss the top of her head before resuming my seat and eating my own breakfast of eggs and bacon.
Zeke gets a call a few minutes later and leaves the room to take it. Once Angelique has finished eating, my mother takes her from the table, leaving only Isabelle and me.
“You’ll finish your plate before you leave the table,” I tell her when she puts the fork and knife down. She’s eaten everything but the bacon.
“I’m finished.”
“I don’t know how you were brought up, but we don’t waste food in this house.”
“I was brought up fine and don’t waste food either, but since you scooped a mountain of it on my plate without bothering to ask if I eat meat maybe you can finish it for me.”
That’s unexpected. I’m glad to see she’s got a spine.
I smile, get up and move toward the foot of the table. She isn’t expecting that and squirms in her seat as I take the chair closest to hers.
“Vegetarian?”
She nods.
I am surprised she ate the rest of it. It was, I admit, a lot. I pick up the strips of bacon one at a time and eat them while she watches. I am wiping my hands on a napkin when Dex comes to the entrance of the dining room.
Isabelle stiffens, her hands gripping the wooden arms of the chair hard.
“Room’s ready,” Dex says, not sparing her a glance.
I nod, rise to my feet then turn to Isabelle. “Up.” I pull her chair out and she rises. With the tips of my fingers just brushing her lower back I guide her toward the stairs. When we pass the hallway which ends at the steel door leading down to the cellar, I feel her stiffen. Good. I walk more slowly, only feeling her relax once we’ve passed that corridor and are climbing the stairs.
“Left,” I say at the top of the stairs.
She casts a suspicious glance over her shoulder but moves. When we get to the door beside mine, I stop her with a hand on her shoulder and take the key out of my pocket to unlock the door. I push it open. She steps inside and I follow her in, closing and locking the door behind us, making a point to tuck the key back into my pocket.
She’s watching me when I turn back to her, but I leave her standing there while I go into the bathroom to wash my hands. When I return, she hasn’t moved. She’s looking around, forehead furrowed as she takes in the room dotted with her belongings.
“My things,” she says to me.
“Some of them.”
“Your mother said someone brought them.” She walks to the far wall where her violin case is resting, touches it.
“You play violin?” I ask. I don’t know the first thing about the instrument or her level of proficiency. I guess low considering she hasn’t enrolled in any school since graduating high school.
She glances at me, nods, but doesn’t elaborate. She moves to the desk, peers inside the backpack at the notebooks there. A glance at the notebooks earlier showed they’re full of sheets of music.
“My cell phone?” she asks.
“You won’t need that. You’re a vegetarian. Anything else I should know?”