Chapter 12: Her House

"That isn't how it works," Dorian said.

His voice cracked on the last word.

"A paragraph in a trust isn't a court order. You can't just read something out in a hall."

"I didn't write it," I said. "My mother did. You refused me in front of five witnesses, and you shouted it."

He turned to Pauline.

"Tell her. Tell her that's not how it works."

Pauline did not answer him.

She was looking at me, and her face had gone gentle again.

"Susannah, darling," she said. "Please. I raised you."

"You put your hand on my neck on Legacy Day to find out if I had it."

"I was worried about you."

"You forged a note and slid it under Dermot's door."

Her mouth stayed soft, but her hands closed on the rail of the staircase.

"I don't know what he's told you."

"The drawer in the study had your handwriting practice in it," Dermot said from his chair, hoarse. "Forty pages of it."

Pauline lifted her chin.

"Then you broke into the study of a sick man's house, and you made up a story about it."

"Mrs. Sterrett," the night housekeeper said, very quietly. "I smelled smoke from the library an hour ago. I thought it was the fireplace."

Nobody spoke.

Pauline looked at the housekeeper, and for the first time that night she had no answer ready.

"Let him go," I said to the two men holding Dermot.

They looked at Pauline.

"Look at me," I said. "Not at her. I own this house. You work for me now. Let him go."

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