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“You do not have to pretend.”
Nigel looked up at her, that familiar cockeyed grin taking shape. “You saying I should put all this in my eulogy?”
“No. I’m definitely not saying you should make a scene,” Ran replied. “But you should look at this as a chance to find some closure. To pay your respects . . . or lack thereof. Let them see that you have become a great person in spite of them. Maybe there is a chance you can reconnect with your mom. If not, then you could put them behind you once and for all. But you will never know for sure if you don’t go.”
Nigel leaned his shoulder against Ran. “Been storing that up somewhere? Jesus. Most I’ve ever heard you speak all at once. You must be exhausted.”
“Shut up,” she replied.
When Nigel first set foot in the grand foyer of the Barnaby manor, no one noticed what a great person he had become. In fact, no one noticed him at all.
A swirling bustle of servants moved between the sitting room, the dining room, and the kitchen. They were in the midst of preparing for that afternoon’s funeral—setting out covered trays of food, arranging place settings, some last-minute dusting and polishing. Nigel recognized some of the servants—his parents employed a small retinue of butlers, maids, and groundkeepers—and quickly determined that they were in charge of supervising the temporary help—the caterers, waiters, and valets. None of them noticed Nigel standing there dumb and mute.
A framed photograph of Nigel’s father sat on an easel just inside the front door, surrounded on all sides by masses of wreathes and bouquets, the flowers growing with each passing second as a florist and her team added new arrangements. Nigel stared at the not-so-recent picture of his father; he looked dapper and serious. Nigel had to think where he’d seen that image before.
It was from his dad’s company website. The photo he used to advertise financial services.
Nigel stepped carefully around the throngs of people, feeling like they were all engaged in a complicated dance that he dared not interrupt. At least until he spotted Willoughby, the family’s longest-tenured servant. The man stood imperiously supervising a team of maids as they dusted the brasswork on the main staircase. Nigel touched his sleeve.
Willoughby turned with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Have you seen my mum, Willoughby?”
“And you are?”
“It’s me. Nigel. Heir to all this aristocratic uselessness.”
The older man squinted at Nigel for a long beat as if he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. However, as soon as things clicked, Willoughby bowed deeply at the waist and became appropriately obsequious.
“Master Barnaby, my sincerest apologies. You have . . . changed.” Willoughby took Nigel’s hand in his gloved one, clasping firmly. “Might I add, heartfelt condolences on the passing of your father. He was a titan.”
“He was a tit,” replied Nigel briskly. “My mother, Willoughby. Where is she?”
“Lady Barnaby has already departed for the cemetery, I’m afraid. Busy with some last-minute arrangements, I’m sure. Your sister is here, though. I believe she and her husband are downstairs . . .”
After thanking Willoughby, Nigel skirted around the activity and took the elevator down to the basement. Immediately, the tang of salt water hit his nostrils, reminding him in a vague way of California. But, no matter how hard he wished it, Nigel wasn’t back at the Academy. That was simply the smell of the belowground pool. The whole basement was cast in the water’s shifting light, flashing aquamarine and gold.
Jessa, Nigel’s sister, didn’t look back at him when the elevator opened. She sat with her feet soaking, already attired for the day’s festivities in an appropriately formal black dress. Her blond hair was tied back in simple ponytail. Jessa was eight years older than Nigel. Like him, Jessa had been sent off to boarding school when she turned twelve, so they barely shared any time in this house together. To Nigel, she often felt more like a friendly cousin than a sister.
“Hello, Jessa,” Nigel called.
Her head snapped around immediately. “Nigel!” she practically shrieked. She hopped up and ran to him, wet feet slapping against the marble tile. Jessa hugged him and Nigel felt suddenly at home in a way that he wouldn’t have thought possible.
“You’re going to wrinkle your dress,” he said, peeling free of his sister.
“Sorry, sorry,” she replied. “I just—well, I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“It’s dad’s funeral,” Nigel said. “Thought I should put in an appearance.”
Jessa rolled her eyes. “As if the old man did anything for you. For either of us. Went and died on one of his business trips. Mom tell you that?”
“She didn’t tell me much.”
“Heart attack in some third-world country while he was doing God knows what. Call girls and cocaine, probably.”
Nigel stared at his sister. It had been more than a year since he’d seen her and even then their last visit hadn’t been for any substantial length of time—just the usual cold Christmas at Barnaby manor. For the first time, he realized that Jessa had eight more years of experience dealing with their parents than he did. No wonder she had married young and moved away from London.
“Hell, Jessa,” Nigel replied with a shocked laugh. “I didn’t realize I’d missed you.”
Jessa pinched his cheek. “Good to see you, too. Like I said, I wasn’t sure . . . if I didn’t show, Mother would disinherit me; I’d never hear the end of it. But you? You had a ready-made excuse. Important business. Can’t get away. I’m a bloody alien now.”
Nigel blew out a sigh. “Not an alien.”
“You know what I mean.” She took a step back from him. “Go on, then. Don’t keep me in suspense. Let me see something.”
It took Nigel a moment to realize what Jessa wanted. Then, he casually reached out with his telekinesis and levitated a nearby vase filled with multicolored sand. Jessa clapped, then waved her hands above and below the vase as if to check for strings.
“Marvelous. Simply marvelous,” she said. “Owen? Did you see this?”
Nigel turned to see Owen, his brother-in-law, emerging from the nearby lounge where a muted soccer match played on the wide-screen television. Nigel had only met Owen a handful of times and he’d never failed to remind Nigel of a grown version of a Pepperpont boy. Nigel tried not to hold that against him. Owen was generically handsome, clean-shaven, chestnut hair immaculately combed, his black suit slim and perfectly tailored to his rugby player’s frame. He was, in Nigel’s experience, perpetually attached to his phone, always checking stock prices. Even now, he had to slip the device into his jacket pocket before he could give Nigel a firm handshake.
“Nice to see you again, Nigel,” Owen said. He eyed the still-floating vase. “It’s just like on the telly.”
“Isn’t it?” Jessa agreed. She put her hands on her hips. “So, lads, what should we do now?”
Nigel smiled; he could tell his sister was joking. But Owen looked flummoxed.
“We’ve got to get going, love,” he said. “You know. The funeral?”
“Oh, right.” Jessa tapped her forehead. “That.”
Owen glanced from Nigel to Jessa. “He’s supposed to change, isn’t he?”
“Change?” Nigel asked.
“I think you look cool, brother,” Jessa said, flicking one of the frayed strings on his hooded sweatshirt. “Like some conquering rock star returning home after a yearlong bender, but with superpowers.”
“That’s what I was going for.”
“But mother dearest gave me strict instructions to outfit you in the suit she left in your room. Better change or else she’ll have them dig an extra grave, eh?”
Nigel didn’t see his mother until the cemetery. She stood out, even at a distance, as Nigel made his way along the path between mausoleums, flanked by Jessa and Owen. She sat in the front row, right beside the empty pit where they’d be lowering his father’s gold-detailed coffin. It was drizzling,
so maybe Nigel’s mom had just grabbed the closest garment at hand, but Nigel sort of figured the bright white raincoat his mom wore over her black mourning dress to be some kind of statement.
“My son, don’t you look nice,” Bea Barnaby said as Nigel took a seat beside her. The uncomfortable wooden chair was dry thanks to the row of umbrella-wielding well-wishers situated behind the family.
“Thanks,” Nigel replied, even as he pulled uncomfortably at his shirt collar.
He wore the simple black suit, white dress shirt, and tie that his mom had left out for him. His discomfort at being dressed this way wasn’t at all due to the clothes themselves—they fit perfectly, his mom somehow knowing his exact measurements. No self-respecting punk would wear this monkey suit. In a very small act of rebellion, Nigel had left his shirt’s top button undone and tied a knot sloppy enough to earn demerits back at Pepperpont.
Surprisingly, his mother didn’t seem to care. She slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow and leaned against him. That was a pretty huge display of affection for the Barnaby family.
Bea looked good for a woman in her early fifties. She wore her blond hair in a jaw-length pageboy with a sharp side part. Her eyes were vivid blue and prone to dissecting looks. Bea’s face was smooth, only a tasteful wrinkle here and there. Nigel was sure she’d had work done, but it was good work.
“You look tired,” she said to him.
“Whirlwind twenty-four hours,” Nigel said dryly. “Lost Dad and all.”
Bea cleared her throat, as if getting ready for a prepared remark. “I know it might not have seemed like it, Nigel, but your father loved you very much—”
Nigel snorted. He felt his mother’s steely gaze upon him but didn’t dare meet her eyes. Ran was right. There was no point in making a scene, of making this any more miserable than it already had to be. Just get through it. Let his mother have her delusions.
