XXXVII
The crumbs of the pain au chocolat pastry I snacked on during my walk still dusts my windbreaker when I step into the parlor, and for a moment I feel absurdly out of place, like someone who wandered in from a bakery into a courtroom.
Everyone is already gathered.
Three lawyers stand near the fireplace, each in immaculate suits, each holding a leather folio stamped with my great‑aunt's initials. They look carved from the same block of professionalism despite being three different people, polished shoes, crisp ties, expressions that reveal nothing.
My family sits opposite them.
My uncle straightens when he sees me, relief flickering across his face. His wife's frown deepens, her gaze sweeping over my thin frame, the windbreaker, the crumbs. A few cousins hover near the doorway, whispering behind hands, their eyes darting between me and the lawyers.
The room hushes as I enter.
The mirrors on the walls catch the afternoon light, throwing fractured reflections across the velvet furniture. The stuffed beasts wait on the mansion walls foxes, owls, a wolf with glass eyes. All seem to watch from their perches, as if judging the proceedings.
The eldest lawyer steps forward, his voice smooth and resonant.
"We're pleased to see you well enough to join us. He states"
I nod, though my legs still tremble from the walk earlier. I sink into a chair, the royal‑blue upholstery scratching faintly against my windbreaker.
He opens the folio.
"As per your great‑aunt's instructions, we are here to begin the formal execution of her will."
A ripple moves through the room. Undisguised tension tightening shoulders, breaths held.
"She left you several personal effects," he continues, "a number of financial assets, and most notably… the mansion."
My uncle's wife stiffens. My uncle exhales softly.
The cousins whisper again, debating the necessity of their presence.
I brush a crumb from my sleeve, suddenly aware of how fragile I must look. I am a newly awakened heir in a faded windbreaker, sitting in a room full of velvet, pinstripe suits, and judgment.
The lawyer adds, "There are additional clauses we will need to review with you privately. Your great‑aunt was… thorough."
Of course she was, and now her house, and her legacy, is mine.
The room waits for me to speak, but I'm still absorbing the weight of it all, taking it a deep breath. I plop myself into a chaise. I fold my hands in my lap, crumbs falling like tiny punctuation marks.
"I'm ready," I say, voice thin but steady.
The lawyers nod. And the reading begins.
And somewhere behind me, the Victorian mansion waits. I face the sky, empty of mirrors. I had to leap back to another lifetime in another world full of mirrors, secrets, and a will that has suddenly made me its heir.
The lawyers laid everything out with the kind of solemn ceremony reserved for old money and older secrets.
Mr. Bello read first, the eldest of my great aunt's lawyers. He had silver hair and a slightly hunched back, his pinstripe dark gray suit an expensive Italian knit. His deep voice was deep, and his voice smooth, practiced, almost theatrical as he detailed each item my great‑aunt had left. The room felt smaller with every sentence as the tension built in my family.
"She left you the entire house young lady," he announced, "and twenty-eight million dollars for upkeep and maintenance for you and the house."
Not just the structure, but every mirror, every stuffed beast, every locked drawer, every hidden alcove she'd ever curated. The mansion wasn't just property; it was a museum of her obsessions, and now it was mine.
Then Mr. Libre stepped in, a thick waisted blonde man, skin flecked in a galaxy of freckles, smart tortoise shell glasses on his thin face. He flipped to the next section of the folio. He specialized in items and physical property.
"Your great‑aunt has left you the contents of her library." Great aunt had a collection so vast and strange that even the lawyers seemed unsure how to categorize it. Rare books. Handwritten journals. Old maps. Catalogues. A lifetime of research into things most people never believed existed. It had taken days to itemize to bequeath.
And then came the part that made uncle's wife stiffen visibly:
A safety deposit box at the local bank. The contents were yours alone.
Mr. Libre had them printed on a paper and carefully handed it to me along with a faded blue bank book, sealed with a rubber band, "There is a substantial sum of money in this passbook savings account titled to you, several sealed envelopes," and "personal effects of sentimental and historical value in trust to you in perpetuity. You cannot sell these items. They are in physical trust. If you wish to donate, there are certain approvals stipulated." He didn't elaborate. Either he wasn't allowed to, or he didn't dare. All taxes, court costs, and filing fees have already been paid by great-aunt. Your great‑aunt had prepared everything meticulously, as if she knew you wouldn't be in any condition to handle complications.
My uncle finally smiled as Mr. Libre moved on to things she had bequeathed to the family. Uncle had title to an office building, a little over twenty million dollars in cash, several original company stocks, some business accounts in a black leather book, and a vintage car once belonging to her high-born husband. His wife's eyes glittered as uncle signed with a flourish, she had been given expensive jewelry pieces and a pile of furs. A few of the cousins got various cash amounts, some clothing items, and extra taxidermy animals she'd kept in storage. One of my cousins nearly gagged as a large stuffed ram head called Lenny was handed over to her.
Finally, Mr. Candela, the youngest of the trio but the one with the most serious expression, stepped forward. His skin was a clean maple syrup color with a highlight of amber. His eyes a deep brown with high cheek bones. He signed the documents with a flourish, then pressed his notary stamp down with a firm, echoing click. The sound felt final, and biding. Your uncle watched with quiet relief. His wife watched with thinly veiled resentment. The cousins whispered, their eyes darting between me and the folios.
I sit there sickly, thin, but recovering, crumbs still clinging to my windbreaker. In a blink, and swish of a pen, suddenly a jobless broke wanderer is the owner of a mansion full of mirrors and mysteries, a library of secrets, and a safety deposit box that great‑aunt clearly meant for me alone. The lawyers closed their folios.
The room waited for my reaction. Nothing appeared differently in my appearance, calm, maybe in shock.