“Oscar told me you shook his hand,” Atticus continues, giving me a pointed look.
“And?” I counter in disinterest, not willing to hear his griping.
He speaks anyway. “You know better, Atty. That man doesn’t know us, and you certainly can’t trust him.”
“It’s not that serious, big brother.”
“But itis. What if he’d noticed something was off? What if he gets curious and violates your privacy? If he were to see you in such a compromising position, I think I’d—” he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath.
“It’s fine,” I repeat with emphasis, watching the war raging in his eyes slowly soften the longer he stares at me. “I’ll be careful.”
Only I haven’t been. Not really. When I shook his hand, the attendee, Julian, noticed something was off almost immediately. He felt the heat in my body, the burning sensation that transfers from me and into others every time they touch my skin.
I believe that if I were to let him in, even just a bit, he would dissect me and my condition in a matter of moments.
But… would that really be so bad?
“I can see it in your eyes, darling,” Atticus states. “And the answer is no. He is not to be trusted.”
With a defeated sigh, I nod, and my brother gives me a soft, loving smile.
“I’m going in,” I say, wrapping my arms over my chest. “The chill is getting to me now.”
“Sure, go get some tea. I’ll come see you after I meet with Father.” Atticus pats my shoulder before we both begin the trek inside.
We take the main staircase, both of us choosing the east extension to reach the second story, even as both sides put us on the landing.
But Atticus is heading to Hall E4 to enter our father’s study, and as I hear the sound of the grand piano, I decide to sneak into the music room in Hall E3.
Abigail isn’t the only Chastain who plays, but she is the most frequent to do so, and Atticus said Julian was with her.
I pretend to head toward Hall W4, only doubling back once Atticus turns the corner toward the study and is no longer in my line of sight.
The soft melody of the keys escapes from under the large oak doors, and from underneath the sound, I can hear soft speaking.
“Do you like this one, Julian?” I hear my sister ask.
“It’s beautiful, Missus Abigail,” a deep, warm voice responds.
Hisvoice. It sends shivers down my spine.
I open one of the doors quietly, slipping inside.
Julian is across the room, my eyes instantly finding him, and I watch for a moment as he dusts the mantle of the fireplace in the far right corner.
“Atlas!” Abigail shouts, and I turn to face forward, watching as she twists on the bench of the grand piano to face me.
“Good morning, my star,” I greet her, approaching the bench to lay a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re wearing your favorite dress.”
I know Abigail well—in fact, all of the family knows each other well. We’re very close.
“Julian picked it out,” she says, beaming up at me.
My eyes lift and return to the other side of the room, where Julian stands, staring at me.
“Did he?” I ask her, my eyes never leaving his.
“Yep! Then he told me he can tell we’re related, that he never thought I was adopted!”
