“Yes.” He nodded. “Miss Thornbury did inform me that your reaction…might be something like this.” Cornelius Sterling wiped off the sticky counter with a monogrammed handkerchief, then opened his leather briefcase. “However, I can assure you, there’s no mistake. You do have a grandmother. And she is very much alive.”
I glared at Nat, who was at the far end of the bar, with the sudden idea that she had arranged this prank, but she was too busy flirting with a customer to even bat an eye my way. My brows twitched as I tried to interpret the situation. Cornelius Sterling withdrew a single, folded paper from his briefcase.
I didn’t believe him. I wasn’t delusional. The dead cannot be born again, not as the same person, living the same life. But I stayed silent, curious to see how this would end.
“Your mother was born Esmée Thornbury,” he said. “She changed her surname to Smith nineteen years ago.”
Hearing the name cracked something inside me.
“Must be a mistake,” I muttered. “Can I see that?”
Sterling slid the page toward me across the sticky counter. My fingers curled around the sharp edges like it might vanish if I didn’t hold on tight enough.
“I assure you, there’s no mistake, Miss,” he said calmly. “Very thorough work went into this.”
I didn’t answer. The name at the top blinked back at me, unwavering.
ESMÉE THORNBURY
(SMITH)
It felt like the air folded in on itself. Like the church ceiling from that memory might collapse right onto my chest.
I remembered the organ, the cracked hymnbook, the way the stained-glass light fell across the coffin. I was told we were there to mourn a mother, a grandmother. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
I scanned the paper. Birth date. School records. Our address. Her workplace. All of it lined up with my life. My mum’s life. Except it all belonged to Esmée Thornbury, daughter of Lilian Thornbury.
I had never heard either of those names before.
“I was sent to offer you an opportunity,” Sterling said, his voice smooth like polished wood. “Your grandmother wishes you to move into her estate.”
The paper nearly slipped from my hands.
Estate.The word sounded foreign. Like it had too many syllables and too much history. It didn’t belong here. Not to the Drunken Lion’s Pub, not to me.
“She would, in exchange, provide you the inheritance your mother forfeited.”
My pulse skittered, rabbit-fast. I could only stare, let alone comprehend that what he said meant my mum had left her family behind. I was too hung up on that one word. It turned the night even more surreal.
Inheritance.
Did my mum really live a life with lawyers, estates, and inheritance? And did she really leave it for a flat that never had enough heat? Would I really believe that for years she scraped pennies and skipped meals, while knowing she had all that? Swallowing felt like I had razors in my mouth.
I felt foolish even thinking about believing it, but the question beat against my ribs like it was trying to break free. “What kind of an inheritance?”
Cornelius Sterling handed me another white sheet, with the casualness of someone offering a napkin.
“A generous one. Contingent, of course, on your agreement.”
I read it. Once. Then once more.
The clause was clear, almost absurd in its simplicity.
…which she shall receive if she agrees to spend one year at Thornhill, the estate of Lilian Thornbury…
My eyes dropped and my breath caught when I saw the sum. I’d never seen that much money. Not on bills. Not even on overdue notices. I counted the numbers. This was more than rich. It was the kind of money that made you untouchable. The kind that cracked the sky open, giving you possibilities you never even knew existed. It didn’t belong to people like me. It belonged to old names and sealed gates. To those born behind doors I was too poor to even knock on.
“And if I say no?” I was nauseous even asking. Did I really believe this to be true? And could I even afford not to?
