Elinor takes another glass of wine from the bar and drinks it quickly. It is warm and bitter. When she’s sure she isn’t being watched, she leans over and helps herself to an open bottle of vodka and a water glass. She pours the alcohol into it and wanders through the party, taking much larger swigs than she should.
Anna, the attractive woman in red who Heath was talking to earlier, appears at Elinor’s side. ‘They’re very beautiful,’ she says, nodding towards the two box frames mounted on the wall. In each one is a butterfly: a monarch and a blue leaf. There used to be three, but when Elinor was only nine years old, she knocked one off the wall with a ball Uncle Robert had explicitly told her not to throw in the house. She was terrified, standing in front of the shattered glass and broken frame, the dark jezebel butterfly lying crumpled in the middle of it all. Those frames were some of the only personal belongings Uncle Robert kept at Ledbury Hall. Heath found her and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb before he set about cleaning up the mess she’d created. But Uncle Robert returned home before Heath could finish.
‘Who did this?’ he asked calmly, reasonably, but the children saw his hand balling into a fist at his side. Heard the light, dangerous lilt in his voice.
Elinor started to stammer through an explanation when her brother stepped forward. ‘It was me,’ he said. ‘I was playing with the ball. I’m sorry. I—’
Uncle Robert backhanded him. An angry, red mark blossomed across Heath’s cheek. He lifted his chin and levelled a steely glare at their uncle. One that looked too adult on a twelve-year-old’s face. Uncle Robert wanted Heath to cower and when he didn’t, he hit him again. This time, with his fist. Heath fell to his knees, cradling his face, and burst into a storm of tears.
Elinor is pulled from her memories when Anna says, ‘Your uncle is very proud of you.’
‘He is?’ she asks, not bothering to censor the disbelief from her voice.
‘Oh, quite. Robert’s always boasting about his beautiful, intelligent niece and nephew. He told us that at eight years old, you learned Latin? That he taught you himself when he took his sabbatical?’
‘Yes.’ Elinor’s voice sounds flat and very far away.
The autumn their uncle declared the Ledburys were to learn Latin was the worst of Elinor’s life. They were made to sit in the library for seven hours a day, six days a week, doing only Latin – Latin sentences, Latin grammar, listening to Latin tapes. When they made a mistake, he would slap the backs of their hands with a wooden ruler until their skin split. Even then, Heath was taking care of her, correcting the errors she made on her tests when Uncle Robert wasn’t looking. That is how their dear uncle taught them Latin.
‘Well, it’s lovely he’s taken such an avid interest in your studies. He’s setting you up nicely for the future. What do you want to be when you’re older?’
Elinor looks back at the two remaining butterflies, beautiful and dead, trapped in this house forever. She thinks of her brother whose hands once tidied shattered glass and corrected her Latin, hands that, right now, are exploring another woman’s body, just metres away from where she stands. She knocks back the last of her vodka. It burns on the way down. She answers: ‘Loved.’
The party moves around her like a merry-go-round. In the dining room, she sways in the corner, breathing in the too-sweet, cloying stench of vanilla-scented candles. She wants to get away from the people and the music. She is desperate for fresh air, but outside in the garden is the billowing, heated gazebo that houses yet more merry strangers. She won’t flee to the front of the manor. Not with Heath and Sofia on the gravel drive.
Everything around her seems to spin away. The air grows thicker, making it difficult to breathe. She puts an arm out to steady herself. Somebody takes it, gripping her elbow. She looks up into the impossibly beautiful face of her brother.
‘You’re going to catch fire,’ he says and moves a tall, thin candle away from her.
‘Oops,’ she says.
‘Oops, indeed.’ Heath’s lips press together. ‘Are you drunk?’
She doesn’t feel the need to lie. ‘Yep. Are you?’
‘Jesus, Elinor.’ His eyes flick around the room. ‘What were you thinking?’
She stares at his lips and thinks of them devastating the mouth of that other girl. Betrayal burns through her like the vodka. And something else. Something cold and sharp and deeply sad: the feeling of being unloved by the person who knows her best in this world. ‘Where have you been?’ she slurs.
‘Here.’
‘No,’ she whimpers. ‘You were outside. With her.’
His eyes widen slightly. Before he can respond, they are accosted by a man with ruddy cheeks and greying hair.
‘You must be Elinor and Heath,’ he says. ‘Brent’s children?’
‘Niece and nephew,’ corrects Heath smoothly.
‘That’s right. Charles Vine. I’m on the board.’ He offers his hand to Heath but his gaze wanders to Elinor. ‘I didn’t realise you were so grown up. Heath, you’re how old?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Wonderful,’ he says absently, eyes still on Elinor. He takes her hand, too. ‘And you, my love?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Really?’ He blinks. His gaze drops to her chest. ‘I’d have assumed much—’ He blinks again and relinquishes her hand. Charles clears his throat. ‘My youngest is here. You should meet him. I think you’ll have a lot in common.’
‘Why?’ she drawls. ‘Does he have tits, too?’
Charles pales and stumbles a response Elinor doesn’t catch. Heath apologises and then sweeps her into a corner until she is nestled between another table of burning candles and the heavy floor-length curtains. Tears well in her eyes.
‘Water,’ he snaps and wheels away from her, but she panics. She doesn’t want him to leave her again. She lurches forward. The room whirls and she trips, knocking into the table. It topples and hits the ground in an almighty crash. Hot wax flicks up across her arm and she yelps in pain. She is on the ground. Heath kneels beside her. She’s vaguely aware of a crowd gathering.
Then a shriek rents the air, loud enough to make Elinor’s ears ring.
The room erupts into panic.
Heath drags Elinor to her feet. She glances over her shoulder and sees the flames licking up the curtains. Heath shoves her away from the fire. The crowd surges out of the dining room and into the hall. From a nearby table, Heath snatches a bucket of ice that has all but melted and sloshes it across the curtains, higher up than the snaking flames. At first she thinks he’s missed but then she realises by wetting the fabric, he has stopped the fire’s ascent. The flames spit and hiss. Elinor spins, searching for another bucket of water. She reaches for a vase of flowers but she’s clumsy and too drunk. The vase topples. Heath scoops it up and throws the water onto the flames. The two of them stand and watch as they die out. The curtains are blackened and smoking.
Then Elinor is on her knees, emptying her stomach onto the floor. She stares at the puddle of alcohol and acid soaking into the expensive, patterned rug. Heath’s polished shoes appear, dangerously close to the pool of vomit. He crouches and takes off his suit jacket. He uses it to dab at her mouth. There is so much sadness inside her. She wonders if she sticks her fingers down her throat, that she can empty herself of that feeling, too.
He puts an arm around her and lifts her to her feet. A wave of nausea roils and she closes her eyes against it, resting her head on his warm shoulder.
She hears a man’s voice. ‘The fire brigade is on their way.’
Uncle Robert’s clipped tone penetrates her drunken stupor. ‘It’s all under control. No need for that.’ Then she is breathing in cigar smoke and cologne. Uncle Robert is close. ‘What the hell happened?’ His voice, a quiet hiss, reminds her of the flames. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
She doesn’t open her eyes. She turns her face into her brother’s chest and nuzzles into him. Then she is being guided out into the hallway and up the stairs. She stumbles. ‘Give her to me,’ Robert demands, yanking her away from Heath. Her eyes fly open as she is ripped from her brother. There is a bright burst of pain where Uncle Robert’s fingers dig into her arm. He starts dragging her up the stairs, out of view of the guests gathered on the front lawn in the freezing cold.
At the top of the stairs, Uncle Robert pushes her against a wall. ‘You’ve ruined everything.’ He is fuming, his rage burning hotter than the blaze that destroyed their curtains. ‘How dare you embarrass me like this? In front of my colleagues? The board?’ His grip tightens and she presses her lips together to stop herself from crying out. ‘Do you have any idea what’s at stake?’ He shakes her. A whimper leaks from her mouth. ‘Where did you get the drink?’
‘It’s a party. There’s alcohol everywhere,’ Heath says. Then he tacks on a lie, ‘I let her have a glass or two of wine.’
Uncle Robert rounds on Heath. ‘You got your seventeen-year-old sister so drunk she almost burned down the house,’ he sneers. ‘Mummy and Daddy would be proud.’
Heath takes a menacing step towards their uncle. A thin layer of ice forms beneath Elinor’s skin. She shrugs out of Uncle Robert’s grip, but she’s unsteady on her feet, and flings her arms out to her brother like a child. He pulls her to him and holds her against his chest. ‘I’ll put her to bed.’
‘Drown her in the pond for all I care,’ barks Uncle Robert.
Her legs are lifted off the floor. She is carried past her uncle but his voice follows them down the hall, venomous and grave, ‘I’ll deal with you later, boy.’