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17
Raela Timor took her place at an ebony dining table that was so large it took up almost the whole dining room, and that room was twenty feet wide and thirty long.
The family of four was at the north end of the table, with Kronin Stark — still in his tailor-made suit, still wearing his red silk-and-gold tie — at the head. When Rita the maid served Raela her sliced pork roast and red cabbage, the girl thanked her but did not pick up her fork.
“You gonna eat that, sis?” Michael asked.
He hadn’t been home in a week, but he could tell that there was something wrong. His court-appointed guardian, Maya, was drawn and haggard, while Kronin looked even more menacing than usual. Raela, as always, was beautiful. If anything she was even more ethereal, slighter, even closer to taking off on the slightest passing breeze.
“I’m not that hungry,” she said.
“You should eat,” Maya suggested, worry stitched into the words.
“Maybe later.”
“Eat your food,” Kronin Stark growled.
“Is that an order?”
“You damn well better believe it’s an order.” The master of the house spoke in his deepest, most threatening bass tone.
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Wa l t e r M o s l e y
Michael felt a quailing in his chest.
Raela rose from her seat.
“Sit down,” Kronin commanded.
“I will not stay at a table where men are cursing at me,” she said.
With that the girl walked out of the room. Michael thought that she seemed a little uncertain on her feet.
“Raela,” Kronin called, his voice filled with sudden grief.
But the woman-child left the room without looking back.
“What’s wrong with her?” Michael asked.
“Shut up and eat your food,” Kronin snapped.
L ate r that eve n i ng Michael found his sister in the upstairs living room. She was knitting him a sweater made from a skein of uncolored raw silk that was specially imported from Tibet by one of Kronin’s thankful business partners.
Raela was always happy to see her brother. She cared for him more than anyone, at least until she’d met Eric — and now Tommy.
“What’s wrong with Stark?” Michael asked. “He’s like a grizzly.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, not interrupting her stitch count.
Though Michael was the older sibling, he knew better than to make demands of his sister. He brought out one of his economics texts and sat there vainly trying to plumb the secrets of money and how it made and destroyed men’s lives.
A half an hour or so later, Kronin Stark lunged into the room. He was still wearing his suit but had discarded the tie. His feet were prone to swelling, so he wore slippers instead of shoes.
“Leave us alone, Michael,” Stark said, while his eyes bored into the downcast girl.
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F o r t u n a t e S o n
Michael stood, and so did his sister.
“You stay,” Kronin ordered.
“I’m not your damn servant,” she said, barely raising her voice. “And neither is my brother. If you want to talk to me, do it with Mikey here.”
Michael felt like a bug he’d once seen on the nature chan-nel. Beneath the sand a hypersensitive subterranean snake was stalking him while from behind came the shuffle of a small rodent that had picked up his spoor. He’d die if he ran and die if he stood still. Michael had turned off the show, unable to bear it because of his identification with the insect.
“I will not be bullied by you,” Kronin said to the queen of his heart.
“I’m not the bully.”
“What did you do with that money?”
“It’s my money, and I can do with it what I please.”
“Not ten thousand dollars.”
“Why not? Didn’t you put it into my account? Didn’t you tell me that you trusted me to make sensible decisions?”
“I don’t know if I trust you anymore.”
