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Iris Vaughan. The matriarch of the family. I knew next to nothing about her, except that she had cut her daughter out of her life swiftly and thoroughly. She crooked a finger, summoning me closer. I glanced at Mom, who gave me a short, sharp nod.
I walked toward my grandmother woodenly. Everyone was silent. Vaughan eyes stared at me from faces I recognized only dimly.
A young man at the edge of the group caught my eye. He was Black—the only person in the room with skin darker than a store-bought tan—and wearing thick-framed, hipsterish glasses. The corner of his mouth quirked in a sympathetic smile, and I mirrored it instinctively. I took the last few steps more confidently. I stood in front of my grandmother and spread my hands.
“What do you think?” I asked, chin tilted up. “Am I good enough?”
I heard someone give a little gasp behind me, and someone else murmur disapprovingly. But Grandma Iris’s mouth twisted in wry amusement. “You certainly look like a Vaughan,” she said. She peered at me intently. “Yes, I know that face.” She settled back into her chair. “Welcome to Harrowstone Hall. It’s good to have you back where you belong.”
“She doesn’t belong here,” Mom snapped before I could think of how to respond.
Iris only regarded me with her unflinching gaze. “How does it feel being back?”
The answer was “inexplicably terrifying,” but I didn’t think calling my estranged grandmother’s house creepy was a good opener. “It’s very impressive,” I said.
“I didn’t ask whether the house is impressive. I asked how you feel.”
If this was a test, I was failing it already. Whatever brief moment of confidence I’d seized dissolved into my usual social floundering. I resisted the urge to fidget. “I feel overwhelmed,” I said.
“Hm.” Apparently, this was an adequate answer—but not a good one. She tapped a finger against the head of the cane, then turned her gaze on Simon. “And this is the husband, then.”
“Partner,” Simon said amiably, waving generally at the room. “Nice to meet you all.” Simon had no talent for handling subtext, and his unease was plain on his face.
“Interesting,” Iris said. Much as I loved Simon, that wasn’t usually the first word people chose for him. “Very well. We’re all here, then.”
Tension eased in the room, accompanied by the faint rustle of clothing as people shifted and relaxed. Maybe I hadn’t failed that test quite as badly as I thought. I hadn’t been escorted off the premises at least.
Iris seemed to be done with me. She turned her attention to Caleb, and I took the opportunity to fade back toward the wall.
“Hey,” came a voice at my shoulder. I turned to discover the young man who’d smiled at me. He was tall and large-framed, with medium-brown skin, his round face wearing an expression balanced between friendliness and a slightly alarming level of curiosity. His hair was buzzed close to his scalp, and he wore ablazer with a school crest embroidered over the pocket, which, combined with the glasses, made him look both polished and hopelessly nerdy. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Desmond.”
“Helen. But I guess you knew that. Are you...? I mean, are we related?” I asked, knowing how awful it sounded that I had no idea. He had the right eyes, so black the pupil and iris were almost indistinguishable, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t recognize him. Or anyone else, for that matter.
“You don’t remember? I’m Desmond. Your favorite cousin,” he said, layering on the humor in an obvious attempt to gloss over the awkwardness.
“I have a favorite cousin?” I asked. “Sorry, I have a terrible memory.”
“No need to apologize. Honestly, I always thought you were pretty annoying, anyway,” he said with a crooked smile.
I laughed—too loudly. A man with pale blue eyes shot a glare at me, and I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Desmond leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t worry. We already know you’re the black sheep of the family. We can’t possibly think any worse of you, so there’s no need to keep up appearances.” He said it all with such smooth assurance that it took me a beat to realize he was joking. I laughed again, managing to keep it at a normal volume this time, and he grinned.
A blond girl with a short bob and freckles appeared at Desmond’s elbow. She was petite in every dimension, with a delicate energy about her. She wore the same blazer as Desmond, though she’d paired it with a skirt rather than slacks.
“This is Celia—my sister,” Desmond supplied.
“You don’t remember us?” Celia asked curiously.
I flushed, mortified. It was one thing to be the estranged cousin coming for a visit, another to admit that I had no idea who they were.
“Oh! It’s all right. I don’t remember you either,” Celia said quickly.
“Yes, you do. You were just saying—” Desmond started. Celia gave him a death glare, and he shook his head ruefully. “Celia has a compulsive need to make people feel comfortable,” he explained.
“So do you need the full family tree, then?” Celia asked, as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Please,” I said gratefully. She beamed and turned on her heel so that she could point around the room.
