Every family has its demons, but the Skylar's craft a new meaning for the phrase.
Before the murder, Clara's greatest worry was scaring off the gold-digging gentlemen drooling over her father's business. Now, with the family plummeting covertly int...
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Would a simple stare truly be cause for alarm?
I had visited the decaying Argent Avenue several times in the past – so much that I could make the walk by the Thames with my eyes pinched shut – but never without a chaperone. However, with mother beside herself all afternoon with party preparations, and father attending a meeting, I was left with little choice. I scoured the house top to bottom for Ezra but, to the surprise of no-one, he was missing.
It may have been the wiser decision to wait for a willing escort but, frankly, I could not bear to sit in that social circle for another minute, listening to Charity's criticisms of my flimsy feather stitch and Jayne's incessant obsession with her new husband.
The sharp-eyed young man caught my attention as I turned the corner by the unlit lamppost and broken brick wall. He had entered the street from the north entrance, whereas I came in at the south, and stopped just as abruptly as our eyes met from opposing corners.
My lips parted in recognition, but I would not back down. With a straight back and arched brows, I dared him to take another step across the wet cobblestone road, an innate fear willing him to leave.
To my own astonishment, he turned and fled, dipping his head so raven strands fell from a loose hair tie and brushed the blue fabric of his faded blazer. When I angled to spy around the corner, he was nowhere to be found. Nothing but shadow remained.
Shivering – and not from the cold – I pressed on, careful to step over the ruins of the smashed-up wall, brick residue dusting the tips of my boots.
The street was as crowded as usual, Uncle Jed's less fortunate neighbours staggering between their crumbling houses and perching themselves on the roadside, many of them soot-stained and rag-bound. Their whimpers made me wince, but the dry coughing had me flinching, hugging the ivory knitted shawl closer to my chest and covering my mouth with the tasselled end. My pace quickened as eager eyes latched onto my silk skirt.
I should have waited for a chaperone.
Uncle Jed was by no means poor, yet he sacrificed his youth of wealth and comfort to wedge himself in a tiny, terraced home with grimy windows and a leaking roof on the sole basis of distancing himself from the 'aristocratic nonsense' that occurred in his childhood residence. I had no say in the matter – he made the move the year Ezra was born – but as a child I often asked why his lifestyle remained so basic while the rest of the family gorged. He explained how money was better spent on things that mattered; not the rich, sugar-dominated treats we ate, or the imported fabrics we wore. I thought I understood the notion as a child but, as I grew to discover where those inherited funds went, fell back into the tormenting naivety.
After pulling myself up the three steps by the rusted railing, I thumped my gloved knuckles against the chipped wood.
