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They’re quiet as they each digest this tidbit of information. Alessia realizes that the only person who can shed any light is Rowena.
“Are you going to talk to your mother?” Alessia asks.
Maxim snorts. “We had a fractured relationship already. I don’t see us coming back from this.”
Alessia says nothing but teases his hair once more. She wants to tell him that, in spite of how he and Alessia feel about Rowena, maybe he should listen to his mother’s side of the story. They don’t know all the details, but she doesn’t think Maxim is ready to hear that yet.
One day.
Soon.
After all, Rowena is still his mother.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tabitha makes a beeline for Alessia as soon as she walks into their classroom. “Good morning, Alessia. I’m so sorry about yesterday.”
Alessia shakes her head. “Don’t worry.”
“Did you know you’ve gone viral?” Tabitha gushes.
“No. What? Where?”
“Here. I Googled you last night after my dreadful faux pas. And look. This is what I found.” She holds up her phone, and there’s a video of Alessia playing the piano at Dimitri’s party. It’s an Instagram reel in the name of GrishaEgonov.
“You’re very good,” Tabitha says.
“Thank you,” Alessia says automatically. She’s staggered. She doesn’t remember him filming her—she was too caught up in the music. The post has over eighty thousand likes and thousands of comments. The caption reads Lady Alessia, Countess of Trevethick. Beautiful and talented.
She gapes at Tabitha, who grins. “Grisha’s not wrong.”
“Good morning, everyone.” Jennifer Knight brings the room to attention, ending their conversation. “Today, we’ll be discussing written communication and the correct forms of address, whether by email or snail mail.”
* * *
Abigail Chenoweth, our tenant farmer from Rosperran farm, and Michael Harris, Tresyllian Hall’s estate manager, are beyond excited at the prospect of making gin. I conclude my conference call with them, pleased that, if we get this project right, we might bring some welcome revenue to the estate and provide employment for the locals from the surrounding villages. There’s a great deal of work to be done to obtain the necessary licenses, planning, and all that bollocks, but I’ve got to say, I’m stoked: my first project for the estate—and all inspired by my wife.
My phone buzzes. It’s Caroline. “Caro.”
“Hi, have you seen that video of Alessia?”
What now?
“Video? No?”
“She’s on Grisha’s Instagram.”
“Well, I’d look at it, but I’m talking to you. What’s she doing?”
“What do you think she’s doing? She’s playing his grand piano—and don’t worry, darling, that’s not a euphemism.” Caro cackles at her tasteless joke.
“And?” I know about the piano playing. I was there!
“The Stepsow has seen it. She wants to know if Alessia has applied to the Royal College of Music.”
Whoa!
“Yes. She has applied.”
“What name did she use?”
“Alessia Trevelyan.”
“Good. I’ll let her know.”
“You two are on speaking terms?”
“She called. I thought Daddy might be ill or worse, so I took the call. But no, she wanted to know about Alessia, and she was sounding me out about you DJing?”
“Why?”
“The Demon Spawn is eighteen this year, and she wants a rave in the grounds at Horston.”
“Your little sister is eighteen! How the hell did that happen?”
“Stepsister!” she snaps. “And yes. Cordelia’s of age to spread her demon spawn-ness. The world should tremble.”
“Caro, my DJ days are over, unless your stepmother gets Alessia into the school. In which case, I might reconsider. It’s the only way I can get her a visa without her returning to Albania.”
“Ah. I see. No more spinning the decks for you?” Caro sounds surprised.
“I don’t have the time. Besides, the arseholes who trafficked Alessia stole my decks, and I haven’t found a minute to replace them.”
“Oh.” Caro is momentarily silenced, but before I can say anything, she continues. “I’ll let her know. Although the Demon Spawn will be terribly disappointed. You know she has a huge crush on you.”
“Does she now?” What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
Caroline sighs, and I’m not sure why.
“Anyway,” she says. “I should have some ideas sketched out for you by the middle of next week.”
“Great. Thanks, Caro.” I hang up, relieved that she changed the subject from Cordelia’s crush, and open my Instagram app.
Alessia! Viral.
Does she know?
I search for Grisha and find his profile. There are several photos from the party—he’s posing, of course, with many of the famous actors, TV personalities, and models who were present at the party, but on his reels, there’s my wife playing Bach as if that’s what she was born to do.
Wow. The video has a hundred thousand likes.
Grisha’s right, though it pains me to say—Alessia is gorgeous and talented.
And mine.
I take a moment out of my day and watch the video again. Then again. The fourth time, a movement in the background catches my eye.
I grin. Something to show my wife.
* * *
Their lessons finish early, and Tabitha invites Alessia to take tea. But Alessia politely declines and asks for a rain check; she has plans. She eyes her watch: 3:30 p.m. She has time—she’s researched the journey a few times on the internet. Out on the street, she bids goodbye to Tabitha and hails a passing cab, just like Maxim, and clambers inside.
