“Martha, dear,” Beatrice Thorne’s voice drifted down from the mezzanine, sharp enough to cut glass. She descended the stairs like a queen approaching a peasant, her silk robe billowing behind her. “When you brought those grocery-store lilies into my house, you brought a swarm of pollen with them. It’s settled right on the bust of Charles Thorne. Do try to remember that some things in this house are irreplaceable. Unlike the help.”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t point out that the lilies were a gift for my daughter, Lily, who was currently carrying Beatrice’s grandchild. Instead, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a microfiber cloth, and began to wipe the marble dust.
“I’m so sorry, Beatrice,” I murmured, my voice soft, laced with a practiced tremor of age. “My mind must have been elsewhere. The winter air makes me a bit forgetful.”
Beatrice scoffed, not even looking at me as she adjusted a diamond earring. “It’s a pity, really. Lily came from such… humble stock. I suppose we can’t expect her to understand the nuances of a legacy like ours if her own mother can barely manage a bouquet of flowers.”
I kept my head down, but behind my eyes, a database was running. I wasn’t just cleaning a statue; I was measuring the distance between the foyer and the security hub. I was noting the new encryption on the wall-mounted tablets. I was observing the way Beatrice’s son, Julian Thorne, walked into the room.
Leave a Comment