Chapter 1
“Keep your glasses raised. I’m not finished counting.”
Nobody moved.
Twenty-one champagne glasses remained in the air.
I counted twice.
Tobin sat behind me on the cushioned bench, both hands pressed between his knees.
Three years old.
Trying not to cry because somebody had already taught him crying made adults enjoy themselves more.
The coin-filled dessert plate rattled beside the ruined cake.
I pointed toward the first man.
“Harold.”
His glass trembled.
“Why?”
He looked at Jessamine.
Wrong direction.
I stepped closer.
“I asked you.”
His throat worked.
“Jessamine said you wanted an honest answer.”
My eyes narrowed.
“About what?”
“Whether the boy should remain after the marriage.”
The garden changed.
Jessamine’s face lost its smile.
Another guest lowered her glass halfway.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Keep it up.”
She obeyed.
“What were you told?”
The woman swallowed.
“That you were reconsidering the adoption.”
Behind me, Tobin made a small sound.
I turned immediately.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Daddy?”
“I am not reconsidering you.”
His shoulders loosened slightly.
Then I faced the guests again.
“Who told you that?”
Nobody needed to answer.
Every eye went to Jessamine.
She laughed too quickly.
“It was a joke.”
“No.”
I looked at the coins.
“Jokes don’t require preparation.”
There was a shallow bowl beside the cake.
Enough coins for dozens of people.
Placed before Tobin ever approached.
The cake itself was hollow.
No one had planned to serve from it.
This entire corner of my engagement reception had been staged for one purpose.
Make my son believe a room full of adults wanted him gone.
I turned to Jessamine.
“What exactly did you tell them?”
She crossed her arms.
“That you were tired of being judged for adopting outside the family.”
Lie.
Then a woman near the back spoke.
“Lucan.”
Margaret Wynn.
Seventy.
Old friend of my mother.
She had not raised her glass.
“I was told something different.”
Jessamine went still.
Margaret continued.
“She told me you wanted to know who could put sentiment aside before you announced a change in the household.”
Interesting.
Another guest said:
“She told us Tobin would be moved somewhere better suited for him.”
Another:
“She said the engagement changed succession expectations.”
Another:
“She said you didn’t want anyone objecting after the announcement.”
Different stories.
Same conclusion.
Jessamine had not discovered consensus.
She had manufactured it.
I looked toward my son.
Then back at twenty-one raised glasses.
“You weren’t voting on Tobin.”
I said quietly.
“You were volunteering to show me how easily someone could make you cruel by telling you I wanted it.”
Several faces changed.
Jessamine’s changed most.
And suddenly I understood why she had looked so pleased before I arrived.
May you like
She had believed the room proved her right.
Instead, it had proved something far more dangerous about all of us.
