His words, not mine.
I smile at them, too. What? Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean they don’t deserve some love.
As Lars said, everything is in place. The kitchen staff buzz around the dining room carrying utensils and whatnot. The whole house smells of jasmine, of Mother, of her spring presence and all that jazz. It’s the only scent I don’t resent too much.
Aside from weed.
John runs in the entrance, catching his breath. He’s Lars’ assistant, and yes, Lars is prim and proper and needs assistants and calendars and order.
“His lordship is here,” John shouts, like in some play.
And just like a play, the scene shifts with a shuffling of feet, and everyone stands in a line, like they’re in the military or something.
I plaster a smile on as the double doors open and in comes my father in all his lordship glory.
Okay, that’s a lie — there’s no glory, just the title. And okay, maybe the glory follows the title.
He was right to say I’m his son; it shows. We’re about the same height, but I’m a bit leaner. His face has gained a lethal edge over the years, giving him an older masculine look, nothing like some of the boyishness still scattered on mine.
We share the eyes and the proud Astor nose, as he calls it. I’m a replica, a carbon copy.
The future of the witch coven. Sorry, I mean the clan.
A tiny woman has her frail arm in his, seeming so little in comparison to his otherworldly existence, but the expression on her face is anything but little.
She’s listening to something he’s saying, and her face shines with compassion, affection…love.
Fuck how
much she loves that tyrant. How much she went through just to be with him, leaving not only her country but also her family to be by his side.
Lord Astor’s face remains blank as he talks to her, no expression, no smile, no nothing. We agree that Dad is a robot, and by we, I mean Lars and me.
Fine, Lars just listened with a judgmental expression while I informed him of that fact.
The staff bows upon my parents’ entrance. It’s been…what? A few months since they graced me with their presence?
They’ve been doing this a lot lately, disappearing to go to conferences, or more like my father dragging my mother with him to the other ends of the world like India and fucking Australia.
They used to do that when I was a kid, but I thought it was over around middle school. Nope, they’re back at it like a druggies searching for their high.
Not that I’m complaining. After all, I get to throw all the parties I want in this mansion every night. Win-win.
The moment Mother’s eyes fall on me, they brighten and soften. I almost imagine she appears too weak and thin, or is it only her pale complexion? She releases my father and runs towards me, ignoring her long dress.
“Mon chou!”
Both Dad and I reach out for her when she trips, but she catches herself at the last second and squeezes me in a tight embrace. I have to lean down so she can rest her cheek on my shoulder. She smells of jasmine, of warmth.
Safety.
“I missed you so much.” She speaks with a slight French accent that she hasn’t been able to lose even after living in England for twenty-three years.
“Missed you, too, Mother.” And I mean it. Maybe I missed her more than I’ll ever admit.
Her absence triggered something I don’t even like to think about.
There was no safety or jasmine — just like that time.