The Becoming of Noah Shaw (The Shaw Confessions Book 1)

I MEANT TO LOOK FOR Bernard, or failing that, the curator—one of them must be able to tell me more about Sam, which seems nearly as important as filling in the headspace the professor’s letter is currently occupying. I find Goose instead, languidly rolling a cigarette in the doorway of a small, spare servants’ bedroom.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this were a postcoital smoke, the object of his brief affection tucking himself back into his pants or her shirt in some corridor. His heartbeat is thunderous, and my mind tilts under the weight of the buzzing throng of mourners above us.

“Neirin and Patrick split off,” he says without looking up. “Off to study for something. Good little Westminster boys they are. They send their condolences.”

“Accepted,” I say, masking the strain in my voice. “And you?”

A lift of one shoulder. “Bored. You?”

“Same,” I lie.

“And how long are you planning to remain in your home country?”

“As briefly as I can arrange. We’ll leave as soon as Grandmother releases us from her clutches. Tomorrow, if I have the chance.”

“Not a prayer,” Goose says, grinning.

“Where are you off to after this?”

“Family’s in Cornwall whilst the weather holds.” He lights the cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame. “Or Father is, in any case. Mother’s claimed the London town house in what promises to be the beginning of a spectacular divorce.”

Goose, a year older than Patrick, Neirin, and I, was a fellow boarder despite the local family, same as I. Tumultuous childhood he never spoke of but others whispered about. Obviously, I sympathise. “Sorry, mate.”

“I’m not.” He blows out a curl of smoke. Casual tone betrayed by his rapid heartbeat, the tightness in his frame, the sharp, quick chop of his breath between drags. “Thought I’d go for a Gap Yah,” he says, taking the piss.

“Where to?”

“Undecided,” he says with a classic scowl-smile I’ve only ever seen on him. “Thailand’s pedestrian. Thought of skipping about the world, but it’s exhausting just thinking about it.” His face twitches into mischief. “Perhaps I’ll join you in New York.”

“Who says I’m heading to New York?”

“Your girl. Overheard her conversation with your stepmother, I believe.”

Perfect. I’d hardly spoken to Ruth of my plans myself. I really should find her. And my sister.

“She’s quite something,” Goose says, sweeping me back into the present. “How’d you meet?”

“My stepmother? I thought everyone knew that story.”

“You’re really not that clever, you know.”

“You love me anyway,” I say, leaning against the wall. “We met at school.”

“That pit in Miami?”

“The very same.”

“I’m guessing she’s the reason you lost touch.”

And there it is. “About that—”

“You don’t need to explain,” Goose says, which is brilliant, because I can’t explain, at least, not in any way that would be satisfying.

“I’m sorry. Truly.”

“No worries, truly. We’ve all been busy, haven’t we?”

That’s a word for it. “Tell me about you. Your life.”

He barks out a laugh. “It’s my life. Same shit, you know. Was going with El for a while—”

“El? You’ve crushed on her since she was at St Margaret’s. Bravo, chap.”

Being back here makes me feel like the child I was when I used to visit, a regression I’m not particularly keen to experience. And yet here we are, ribbing each other the way we had at Liddell (House. The school divides its students into houses. Yes, like Hogwarts). I wonder a bit why Goose stayed after Neirin and Patrick left—the real reason. But if I ask, he’ll never say.

So I ask instead, “You still together?”

Shakes his head, blows out smoke, his body loosening. I can hear it, his joints relaxing, eyes drooping closed. Feigned boredom, actual sadness, a fading discordant note in the speeding, roaring mixture of sound that has me feeling bruised and exhausted—and sad—myself.

Goose is as homeless as I would be, without Mara. And I can actually hear how shittily he feels about it. Which must be why I say, “Come with us.”

A cock of an eyebrow.

“To New York.”

“And do what?”

“Whatever it is people do during their gap year. Observe the American people. Learn their savage customs.”

“I’ve been hearing rumours about this mysterious thing called a Brazilian arse lift?”

“That . . . is something some do, yes.”

“Intriguing.” His cigarette is mostly ash, and he smothers it against the bottom of his bespoke shoe. If his family didn’t have quite the fortune mine does, they weren’t short by much.

“Where’ll you live?” he asks me.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Manhattan?”

“Might do.” Though it’s always felt like walking through a hive, with stacks of people reaching for a smear of sunlight and a glimpse of water. I don’t love it the way Mara does, but then, I don’t know that I love anything the way she does. She’s on a different spectrum entirely. A human one, basically.

“You’ll have to buy a penthouse, you know,” Goose says thoughtfully.

“Naturally.”

“With terraces and all that.”

“Of course.”

“Disgustingly expensive.”

Back to money. Family’s or father’s money, each with strings attached—psychological if not legal.

“Highly likely.”

“Well, let me know when you decide,” he says, and stands straight. The notes in his voice swirl in little eddies as he moves. I’m hyperaware of everything today in a way I’m not usually. “Might join you after all.”

“You can fly over with us. I’ll send you confirmation when we book it.”

He holds out his hand to shake mine. “Good chap. Done then.” His heartbeat turns a bit faint for a moment. “You’re sure, mate?”

For some reason, I am. And say so.

“See you at Heathrow, then,” Goose says lightly. He thinks I mean for a week, month tops.

“Manchester, actually,” I say.

“Fuck.”

“More convenient.”Content held by NôvelDrama.Org.

“True,” he says, and stands. “Well, mate, apparently I’ve got a flight to pack for.”

“Goose,” I say. He pauses in the doorway.

“Pack to stay for a while.”

“Shall do. And, mate?”

I raise my brows.

“I really am sorry about all this.” He pauses. “About your father.”

I’m not. But this is England, so I thank him rather than saying so. Once he’s gone, I reopen the will. And ignore the torn letter, though I can’t quite bring myself to bin it. The last thing my father did before he died was decide what I should have, and that included this. The words are imprinted on my mind.

She gave her life to give life, and not just to your children.

Don’t let her death be in vain.

I take the stairs up, bypassing the hall and doing my best to avoid absolutely everyone. My father had no love for what I am, for my so-called Gifts. Everything he’d ever done for me was actually for my mother, who loved the promise of me so much she was willing to sacrifice her future for it, for which he never forgave me. He’s the one who forced me to choose between killing the girl I love or her brother, more like family to me than he ever was, and he’s the one who walked away from us—not just me but Katie, and Ruth, never to be seen or heard from again. Until, of course, he turned up dead, having stabbed himself in the neck with a shard of glass. Officially, it was suicide. Unofficially . . . I suppose we’ll never know, and I can’t help but smile when I think of what my grandmother must’ve gone through to bury the scandal as deeply as she’s done. One would think a family would want to know the truth about how their loved one died, but the fact that my father was found on the anniversary of the date my mother was killed seemed to be enough for them. And the fact that there was, reportedly, a suicide note. I haven’t seen it, and honestly don’t care to. He deserved what he got, however he got it.

My mind skitters back to that letter. He couldn’t resist this one last fuck-you, could he? I can give away his money, I can burn down his life’s work, but he knew I wouldn’t be able to throw out this letter. Not till I find out what it means. And I can’t do that without digging through the past of House Shaw, and for that I wish for the first and only time that my father could be alive for one more moment—so I could spit in his face.