Walking up the short flight of steps to the gated entrance, he jabbed at the bell with a numb finger. Somewhere inside he heard a door slam, then the sound of footsteps. A few seconds later a muffled voice came from the speaker.
“The Carroll residence,” it said in a British accent. “Who, may I ask, is calling?”
“Hey, Browick,” said Christian, recognising the voice of the family butler. “It’s me, Christian.”
“Goodness,” said the voice. “One moment.”
The gate buzzed and Christian pulled it open, reaching the heavy double doors just as they opened. Browick was there, dressed in the same three-piece, black-tie suit he always wore, and looking older than the building itself. He smiled at Christian, nodding formally. “Master Christian,” he said, his eyes glinting with happiness. “My dear boy. It has been too long.”
“It has,” said Christian. He grabbed the old man in a hug, breaking all the rules of etiquette that had been drummed into him as a kid. “How are you, old friend?”
“Old,” he replied. “I should have retired years ago, but your father won’t let me.”
“Sure,” said Christian, laughing. He knew for a fact that his dad had tried many times to offer the butler a substantial retirement package, so he could live out the rest of his years in peace and luxury, but Browick refused to leave. “Is he in? We need to talk.”
“He’s in the library,” he said. “Can I take your coat? And make you tea?”
“That would be great,” said Christian. “But can I have a scotch?”
Christian handed over the thin parka, laughing as Browick pulled an expression of distaste.
“Don’t let his cold shoulder mislead you, Christian,” Browick said. “He’s missed you more than words can say.”
Christian frowned, not sure what to make of what he’d just heard. The butler swept away without a sound, and Christian made his way through the empty lobby, running up the stairs. The mansion was vast, and it had always felt empty. Now it was more like a museum than anything else — too clean, too quiet and filled with old, unused things.
He stopped outside his mum and dad’s room — or at least the room that they had shared before she had passed away. When she had gone, his father had moved all his things into one of the back bedrooms, and this room had become almost a shrine to his mother. It felt painful to be here again, after so long away, a pressure in his chest, in his heart, as he thought of all the times he had sought shelter with his mum in this room.
He heard his dad before he saw him — a run of deep, wheezing coughs echoing off the walls of the landing. Christian left the bedroom door closed and followed the sound into the duplex library, another wave of nostalgia sweeping over him as he remembered how much time he’d spent here as a child. It had always been his favourite room in the house, mainly because one of the few things his father had always done for him, evenafter his mother died, was read him stories. Back then, Lewis had seemed like a giant, even here among the thirty-foot-high shelves. But now he looked like a corpse, hunched over in an easy chair next to the roaring fire, and sucking oxygen through his mask.
“Dad?” Christian said, gently.
His father looked up, blinking for a moment as if he didn’t recognise his own son. After a second or two, he smiled, but it seemed to take all his strength because his eyes drifted shut.
“Son.” He said, pulling the mask away from his mouth. “You remembered how to find the place, then.”
Christian ignored the comment, walking to the sofa that sat opposite his father’s chair. Despite the chill of the atmosphere, the huge room felt wonderfully cosy, and the pop and snap of the logs in the fire made Christian shiver with delight. He studied the books, spotting the spines of the ones he’d loved to read as a boy. The sight of them made him feel impossibly sad, and he spoke his next words through a lump in his throat.
“You know why I left, Dad.”
Lewis waved the words away, opening his watery eyes and staring at Christian. “You made your choice.”
“I did, but it wasn’t just mine,” said Christian. “I was only ever a tool to you, somebody to carry on your legacy. I needed to break away from this empire of yours. I had no idea if it would be for ever, but then you took the choice away from me when you banished me.”
“Rightfully so,” his dad muttered. “You were so ungrateful. After everything I did for you, everything I gave you.”
Even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t get angry, Christian felt the familiar, awful rage rising inside him.
“Everything you gave me?” he said, meeting his dad’s eyes.
“You had everything money could buy,” his dad growled.
“All I wanted was you, Dad.” Christian took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Ever since Mum died, it was like . . . it was likeyoudied too. Right when I needed you. You just weren’t there anymore.”
Lewis scoffed, but his expression was one of hurt. He sucked a breath through his mask, and Christian waited for the angry response, for the argument. But his dad just hung his head.
“I know,” he said, his admission of guilt shocking Christian so much he didn’t know what to say. “It was too hard, Christian, after she’d gone. You’re right. A piece of me went with her and I never got it back. Help me up, son.”
Christian did as he was asked, helping his father stand. The old man wheezed and limped his way to the bookcase beside the fire. After a moment of searching, he pulled a novel from the shelf. It was a first edition ofThe Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, and seeing it again after all these years brought back so many memories that Christian felt dizzy with the force of them.
