Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
An older man and woman stood behind her, each grasping her shoulder. The blonde hair and full lips gave away Saylor’s mother, and the imperious brow on him screamed Daddy Saylor. The only person in the portrait who was smiling was the white-haired gentlemen standing taller than them all, his arm around a handsome silver-haired woman. Her grandparents, I guessed. The people who spawned the fool who created Saylor Burkhardt. Which one of them took the brunt of the blame?
“What’s the matter? Are you sad that your family portrait is you, a washed-up maid, a question mark, and a tombstone?”
“No, I was just thinking that your dad would’ve saved the world a whole lot of trouble if he shot you on the sheets.”
“Well, he didn’t, but at least he stuck around afterward. What’s your dad’s name again?” Saylor threw open the doors beneath the portrait. “In here.”
I walked inside another sitting room—this one smaller, cozier, and occupied. A man sat before the fireplace, gazing into the flickering flames while sipping from a glass of amber liquid. I recognized him as one of the faces from the portrait. His hair was whiter, the lines on his face more pronounced, and the girth around his middle provided an easy resting place for his drink.
I flicked off him, taking in the rest of the space. Stepping in here was like stepping back in time to the grand Tudor manors of the thirteenth century. Dark wood covered the walls and floors, matching the intricately carved wooden panels, chairs, and tables scattered about the room—all arranged to face the roaring fire. Between the warmly glowing sconces and the fireplace, there was a romantic dreaminess about the room. It was the place you came to relax in the peace and quiet, reflecting the choices, people, and places where life took you.
“Grandpa, we need the room.” Saylor and the Wilsons were cut from the same cloth. She didn’t give the man a chance to think about it. She plucked the drink from his hands, set it on the table, and helped him up—leading him out.
He glanced at me as they passed. “Hello, dear,” he said, and patted me on the head.
“Oh, hi. Nice to meet you, Mr. Burkhardt.”
Saylor deposited him in the hall and shut the door behind.
“People know I’m here.” I crossed to the fireplace, soaking its heat into my bones. “Just in case you were planning on killing me.”
“Please. Does someone risk a life sentence by killing the disturbed weirdo who pees on their mailbox every morning? You’re a disgusting annoyance but not worth the trouble of getting rid of you permanently.” Saylor sank into the vacated armchair, helping herself to the whiskey. “At least you’re not worth me doing it myself. There are more than enough Royals and Dregs happy to drive you out of Regalia U without me lifting a finger. A lesson you insisted on learning the hard way.”
I hummed. “You’d like me to believe you’re so unaffected, but the truth is you’ve never had someone clock you in the mouth for spewing your shit. I bet that’s the first time your evil was met with consequences. Explains why you waited until I was already down to hit me back.”
“You have me all wrong, Sinclair. I can take a hit.” She crossed her ankles, flickering flames casting shadows on her slender legs. Ever the queen, she swept out a delicate hand inviting me to sit—as if I was waiting for her permission. “Curses, insults, sabotage, tricks, lies, and fights. I’ve gone up against it all... and I’m still here. On top.
“See, what you and all the outsiders don’t understand is that nothing in Regalia is handed to you. Of course you come in here and see a bunch of silver-spoon babies waiting for someone to drop dead and hand them an inheritance. You don’t know what we have to do to claim our place, and keep it.”
Saylor rose as I sat down. Frowning, I watched her stop in front of the wall and stare at it. Reaching beneath a painting, Saylor tugged on something that gave a faint click. A wooden panel swung open, revealing a small compartment inside the wall.
“You asked why I brought you here.” Saylor removed a long, delicate scroll about the length of her leg. “To do what no one else will: tell you the truth.”
Saylor spread the scroll on the thigh-high table taking up the middle of the room. The table was the same size as the scroll end to end—a pedestal made for a single item.
My feet carried me on their own power, bringing me to Saylor’s side. I skimmed the spiderweb of names, lines, and golden ink. The scroll was made of thick, yellowing paper, though I didn’t believe it was much older than me. At first glance, it looked like a family tree spanning several generations, until a closer look showed me no two last names matched.