Page 6 of Preaching to the Choir

Is there anyone who—?

“Are we all here?” she asked, desperately brightly. And, seeing the blankness, “The family. Everyone. Here? I mean, I got from Ross that this is a big deal, but I’m not sure… why…”

“I’m not sure why,” Ross put in. William shrugged.

“I mean, God, this isn’t the whole family,” Melissa added. “There are fucking dozens of us. We’re like ants. Lift any stone in the world and you’ll find someone related to the Enderboughs. So long as it’s a stone full of money.”

“‘A stone full of money,’” William echoed. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“Shut up. Beast.”

“Well, what happened last time?” Elena pushed.

They exchanged that look she’d been waiting for, the one that included them but not her.

“I mean, we don’t know. We were… I don’t think I was even born.”

“Your family gets together once a quarter-century?”

“Oh, God, we see each other all the time. The ones who haven’t been vulgar enough to travel, you know,” Melissa drawled. “But this is some special thing. Once in a generation thing. And it’s invite only.”

“It’s meet the ancestors,” William said. “All the old guard are here, you see? I reckon we’ll all get hauled in front of them and be given the Spanish Inquisition about what we’re going to do for the clan.”

Elena examined the phrase ‘Spanish Inquisition’ but reckoned it was more Monty Python than a jab in her direction.

“Sounds dreadful,” Melissa decided.

“The dreadfulest,” Will agreed. “Anyone peckish? I was thinking we could get them to pack us a hamper and we could actually see this place while it isn’t raining.”

“You’ve never even been here before?” Elena prompted. “I thought this was the old family pile?”

“Oh, it is, but it’s a pain in the fundament to get to, and some of us quite like our wireless connectivity,” he said airily.

“I’ve been here twice,” Melissa said. “Our place—the de la Pole house—it’s just a county over. There’s not much here unless you’re really fond of badly-tended woodland.”

“I love badly-tended woodland. It’s my favourite ever thing. It really gets me going,” Ross announced. “Elena?”

She shrugged, and all the things she couldn’t say slithered about in her head like trapped snakes. “Sure. Let’s.”

Trees there were, in abundance. The track they’d driven up the previous night was one of the few piercing the dense, gnarled woodland: oak and ash and elm, old enough to be contemporaries of the house itself. Lovingly hand-planted by green-fingered monks. Except she’d been thinking about that and hadn’t King Henry the whateverth kicked all the monks out by then?

“There was some deal,” Ross said vaguely. “The monks held on, but the lands went to the family.”

“Your family.”

“Well, naturally.”

“So you’ve actually owned this since…”

“It’s been in the family since… yes.” And one of those looks he gave her when she quizzed him about the mad English-money-ness of it all, half amused, half embarrassed. “I mean it’s not like we’re secret King Arthurs or something. It’s just… how it is.” As though she was accusing him of it being his fault, somehow. As though there was some fault to be apportioned.

“That,” Will decided, “is my new band name. The Secret King Arthurs. Synth-folk music. Very experimental.”

“Actually,” said Melissa. Just the word. She stopped, frowning. They were on what could just about charitably be called a trail through the trees. The hamper was empty except for the cups and napkins and wrappings that Ross had painstakingly collected. The sky, what little could be seen of it through the interlacing branches, was grey shading charcoal.

“Use your words, Melissa,” Will said, in what Elena guessed was supposed to be a New York Psychiatrist voice.

“Shut up,” she said. “Beast. I was just thinking. Lena asked was everyone here, and I don’t recall seeing Barty at breakfast, that’s all.” At Elena’s look she clarified, “Great Uncle Bartholomew. Crusty old fucker, must be a hundred and three. But still stomping about and complaining about losing the Ashes when he came to visit last month.”