I shrug and mumble, “The only reason I know what she looks like is because…hehad a picture of her on their wedding day.”
She takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, before answering. “Your mother’s name was Helina Volkov, but everyone called her Lina. She was named after her great aunt, Helina, who was as intelligent as she was beautiful, and she was a great beauty.”
“She didn’t takehisname?” I ask, confused.
Mildred shifts her gaze to the appetizer on the table, picking at some of the offerings. “It’s tradition for the women in our family to keep their… maiden name and pass it down to their daughters.” She fumbles over “maiden” like she was replacing the word she wanted to say.
“Why?” I stretch the question a few syllables.
“Well,” she takes a bite of a cube of cheese, waiting until she’s finished to carefully answer, “the Volkov name has some…prestige attached it. Wealth, power, property…things like that.”
“Wait, are you telling me my last name should be Volkov, and we’re rich?” I squawk, the rabbit hole that’s my life growing deeper.
Pressing her lips together, Mildred continues to appraise the food. “Technically, your father’s line is equally prestigious, so you could also go by Lyncas if you choose,” she says this with equal amounts of disdain and caginess, then mutters under her breath, “Carlota would love that.”
It’s like talking with the boys if they had British accents, though this has the flavor of intent. I don’t feel like she’s lying to me, but there’s a purposeful careful choosing of her words.
Suspiciously, I question, “Buthislast name is Santiago, and you said mothers pass their name down to their daughters.”
“Yes, well, it’s all very bureaucratic and complicated in our circles,” Mildred replies with a flippant wave of her hand. “Point is, no, your last name shouldn’t be Santiago, but it’s your choice on whether you wish to change it.”
The idea of the bastard’s name no longer attached to mine is overwhelmingly heady. I don’t even care that I know next to nothing about my mother’s side of the family. “Yes,” I cry, too loudly for the quiet restaurant, “I’d like to change my name to Volkov.”
“Okay, darling,” Mildred replies, the more genuine warmth I’ve grown familiar with back. “I’ll start the process right away. I’m… proud that you’ve chosen to become a Volkov. I think your mother would’ve been too.” Her eyes widen and she shakes her finger at me, then starts digging through her purse. “That does remind me.” She says into her large bag, pulling out a white envelope. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you.”
I take it and carefully open it. Inside is a credit card with a… “$5,000 limit?” I croak. “You’ve been meaning to give me a credit card with a $5,000 limit? Why? In case I have to make an emergency escape to Boca Boca?”
“What? No, it’s for any expenses you might have.” She looks at me quizzically. “Is there even such a place as Boca Boca?”
“There’s a Boca, Boca Raton in Florida and aBoca a Bocain Panama,” I answer smugly, popping a cube of, I think, brie into my mouth.
“Why… How do you know that?” She blinks at me, bafflement coloring her words.
I shrug. “Internet.”
She shakes her head, as if attempting to dislodge that information back out of her. “The credit card is to handle any personal expenses when I’m not around, until you’re eighteen, of course, and have access to your trusts.”
“Trusts? As in, plural?”Hello, rabbit hole? Can we reach the bottom now?
“Yes, well, as I mentioned, both sides of your family are… very well off, and you’re an heir to both, which entitles you to shares of that wealth,” Mildred explains way too casually, like using the word “heir” is normal.
I take a large gulp of water. My brow rises, as I inquire, “And about how much is in these trusts?”
She squirms and clears her throat, getting very British under the demand of exact amounts. With a hand angled over her mouth, she breathes, “A few hundred million.”
With that, I’m pretty sure my brain is now slowly leaking out of my head. I put the envelope into my sweater pocket, then clasp my hands in front of my mouth.
“Not that I don’t like where we live, because I do,” I start, speaking slowly. “But, uh, if we’re sowell off, why are we living in a three bedroom house in the middle of nowhere Oregon?”
“Yes, well,” she starts for the third time. Mental note:yes wellis translation forI don’t want to talk about this.“There’s a project I started recently back in London that requires the assistance of some of the people that live in Twin Cedar Pass. The house was available furnished, and I didn’t think you or I really needed a whole lot of space.”
A project that needs assistance in a small town that’s strangely full of supernatural people, and your niece just so happens to be one?
Before I can ask her to elaborate, we’re interrupted by the waiter bringing our entrees. He places the plate of pasta with sausage and marinara sauce in front of me and the plate with salmon and pasta in a white sauce in front of my aunt. Both dishes smell heavenly. Fresh grated parmesan cheese and cracked black pepper are offered and accepted.
By the time our waiter is finally gone, Mildred is taking a bite of her dinner and changing the subject. “I believe I was telling you about your mother, before we got so sidetracked.” She takes a small sip of her wine, a bittersweet expression taking over her face. “Your mother was a wonderful woman, much like her namesake. Even as a young girl, she was terribly inquisitive, particularly when it came to the people around her, but it was always tempered by a generosity of spirit. She had a way about her that made people feel safe enough to lay down their burdens at her feet.”
She sniffs and takes another bite of her meal. Looking lost in her memories, she professes, “Lina was smart and beautiful, but I think she was too tender hearted. She saw the potential for good in everyone, but not the darkness that too easily can snuff out that light.”
