A Storm of Paper Starlings

41. The Merryweathers

I ring the doorbell, which makes a shrill, old-fashioned sound that buzzes and rattles through the wooden door frame.

When the door opens, I know I'm looking at Birdie because their eyes settle on Jed's with a pained sense of longing, and every Blackmore I've met so far has the same sparkling green eyes.

Their blonde eyebrows flatten. "Can I help you?"

"We're here to see Lotus," I say.

They drag their eyes from Jed, clearly expecting to only spare me a glance, but they do a double take. "You are a Castle."

"Penhaligon," I say.

They smile. "Of course. Well, then you must come in. Please wipe your feet or Dorothy will pretend to see dirt where there is none."

We wipe our feet on the doormat and follow Birdie, who drifts through the hall, all floaty linen and lime scented. We pass beneath an impressive staircase to an empty wood-panelled drawing room. It's no less gothic inside than out, where countless bowls of ripe fruit and vases of velvety flowers scent the air summery, like someone around here can't walk ten feet without getting the urge to make a still life painting.

Birdie turns abruptly, and Jed and I step back.

"I'm Birdie," they say. "Before the others arrive, let me issue a few words of warning. Do not employ an aggressive tone or mutter under your breath in front of Dorothy. She will object loudly and without warning, and she'd beat a banshee in a shrieking contest without running out of breath. Zola is a dwarf. Do not mention her height; she will bite you. On the arse. Do not stare at Samuel because Betsy will not tolerate it. None of us will. And please be aware Didi is not an extra in a period drama, she just never grew out of being a Victorian widow. Despite the fact she's been stringing along her gentleman caller for two decades," they say, the last part muttered under their breath. "Questions?"

I want to assure them that I do actually have manners, but that becomes debatable when Samuel Merryweather walks in, eyes soft with grief. I'm staring already. He's thin and pinched and ravaged, like an icy fire has burned his skin white.

"No questions," I say, eyes back on Birdie.

"Samuel Merryweather," says the white-haired man, stretching his arm to shake Jed's hand.

"Jed Blackmore."

"I suspected as much. Lotus has mentioned you once or twice." His eyes twinkle like he really means once or twice an hour. He reaches for my hand. "And a Castle." His hands are soft and warm as he clasps mine in both of his.

"Violet Penhaligon," I say. "Adam's granddaughter."

He nods. "My condolences."

More Merryweathers pour into the room behind Samuel, looking less goth than they did at the picnic. Samuel introduces them all, then offers us a seat. Jed and I squash together on a tiny settee.

Jed says, "I thought Betsy didn't let men into the coven."

"Oh my god," I whisper.

Rocco sweeps his bleached hair out of his eyes and says in a Mancunian accent, "She invited us to stay on the proviso that we let her chop off our balls."

Jed winces, Rai rolls his eyes, and Nico sniggers from his spot on the sofa.

"My children," says Samuel, in a mockery of pride.

"Joke," Rocco says. "Ma balls are fine."

"We're delighted for you, Rocco," says Birdie, glancing in his direction. "Truly."