MORTAL COILS (17 page)

Fiona
looked away. “My grandmother isn’t home, sir. She should be back in a few
minutes.”

“Of
course.” His voice was liquid velvet. “But I didn’t come just to see her,
Fiona. I came to visit you and your brother as well.”

Fiona
looked up.

Three
things struck her simultaneously.

First,
the intensity of the man’s light gray eyes reminded her of Grandmother’s. But
where Grandmother’s stares could be razor-edged, this man’s eyes were just as
intense while somehow inviting.

Fiona
realized that she had stared far longer than was polite, but she couldn’t help
herself.

Second,
the way he stood in the doorway reminded her of Mr. Welmann, the man who had
come earlier today. Fiona had completely forgotten about him. What had he and
Grandmother talked about?

And
last, he made her think of the old man who had played his violin for them this
morning—in that they were exact opposites. The man before her was refined and
scented with spicy cologne. While Eliot’s friend was rough, ill-mannered, and
reeked of sardines and sulfur.

Fiona
rarely met anyone new, yet today she had bumped into three strange men.

“Third
time is the charm,” the man told her.

She
blinked, startled. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Yours
was the third apartment I tried. I suspected Audrey would have roosted in one
of the top corners of this fine establishment. I was not wrong.”

Fiona
found herself smiling at the man, blushing at the same time, but not looking
away as she might normally do. It was as if he were an old friend, although she
wasn’t quite sure how that felt since she had no “old friends.”

“May
I come in? I am your uncle Henry. Henry Mimes.”13

Grandmother
had never mentioned any uncles, aunts, or cousins. Fiona

13.
Henry Mimes (aka Horatio Mimes, H. M. Seers, and Hernandez del Moro), the
alleged uncle to the Post twins, appears in hundreds of paparazzi photos
starlet-draped and flesh pressed with technology moguls and the dictators of
budding tropical “republics.” Brought in for questioning by Interpol and the
FBI a dozen times, he has never officially been charged with any crime. IRS
probes found him the CEO, CFO, and president of hundreds of dummy corporations
shielding no apparent assets. His age and nationality remain undetermined. The
only thing that can be determined about Henry Mimes is that he is elusive,
mercurial, and nothing is certain about him. Gods of the First and Twenty-first
Century, Volume 11: The Post Family Mythology, 8th ed. (Zypheron Press Ltd.).

knew
this man spoke the truth, though. How else could she explain the resemblance
and the feeling that she had known him for a long time?

She
stepped back. “Of course, please come in.”

Normally
strangers were not allowed inside, but Fiona didn’t give it a second thought.
The man who claimed to be her uncle—whom she knew was her uncle—radiated
authority and warmth. She couldn’t let him linger in the hallway.

As
he crossed the threshold, the clouds outside parted and silver light streamed
through the window.

He
gazed at her. “You look so like your mother when she was your age. Her hair
curled just as yours does, and it drove all the young men wild. Although, I
have to admit you are a tad lovelier than she ever was.”

Fiona’s
face heated to fever intensity. She wanted to drop her gaze, but Uncle Henry
smiled and made her feel so at ease, her embarrassment was instantly quenched.

“You
knew my mother?” This was the stupidest thing she had said all day. He had to
know her. He would have been their mother’s brother.

Uncle
Henry’s smile never faltered, but Fiona thought she saw a slight mental pause,
then he said, “Oh, yes, we were very close.” He looked about their apartment. A
crinkle of puzzlement crossed his otherwise smooth features. “You said you lived
here with your grandmother? Audrey?”

This
question confused Fiona. If he was their uncle, that made Grandmother his
mother. And for some reason that sent a chill down her spine. How could someone
not know where his own mother lived?

With
a casual wave he forestalled her unease. “I see you don’t understand. Your
grandmother and I go way back, but not as you are thinking. Your mother and I
were half brother and sister. Same father. Different mothers.”

Fiona’s
lips formed a perfect O, but made no sound as a thousand new questions flooded
her mind.

She
saw he was waiting for her to say something. “Would you like to sit?” she
offered. “Are you thirsty? We have milk or juice.”

“I
am fine, thank you. I drank, quite a bit actually, on the journey here.” He turned
to the kitchen door as it swung inward. He spotted Cee and cried, “Cecilia!”

He
moved to her and embraced the old woman.

Cee
stiffened in his arms, her mouth open and her eyes wide. She disentangled
herself. “You . . . !”

He
held up a finger. “Say not another word, sweet lady of the Isle of Eea. Let us
savor this moment of reunion.”

Cee
shut her mouth and her eyes narrowed.

Uncle
Henry cooed, “Yes, you are just as I remembered. Not aged a day in . . . what
has it been? Ten years?”

“Sixteen,”
Cecilia whispered. “Audrey will be here soon, fool. I suggest you depart.”

Uncle
Henry’s jovial features flattened and the room seemed to chill. He tilted his
head and looked past Cecilia to the bookcase and the smudge of congealed strawberry
frosting. He touched it, then lifted the finger to his nose.

“Really?!”
He laughed, wiped his finger on a handkerchief, then set one hand upon her
shoulder. “Such the joker. I love you for it, too.”

But
Cee wasn’t joking. Something was obviously wrong.

Fiona
edged toward the front door, as Eliot emerged from his bedroom.

He
paused at her side. “I heard voices . . .” He stared at Henry.

“Our
uncle,” Fiona explained.

Eliot
searched her eyes, seeing uncertainty there.

Uncle
Henry turned and his face brightened again. “Eliot!” He took Eliot’s hand into
both of his and shook it as if they were the best of friends.

“Uh
. . . hello, sir,” Eliot managed.

“Please,
if you must be so formal, call me Mr. Mimes. Although I prefer ‘Uncle Henry’ or
just ‘Henry.’ I have so few living relations who can call me that. You would do
me a great honor.”

His
smile was infectious and Eliot was charmed by it, smiling in return.

Cecilia
snorted. “You have so few relations for good reason.”

Fiona
wanted to trust Uncle Henry, but she, of course, trusted Cee more.
Great-Grandmother’s hand drifted protectively to her throat—a gesture she only
made when Grandmother was displeased with her.

Something
was very wrong.

“Mimes,”
Fiona repeated. “Is that French?”

“Our
family is from France,” Uncle Henry told her, “and many other places. We have
cousins, aunts, and uncles in all parts of the world.”

Fiona
blinked. “We have more family?”

“You
know them?” Eliot asked. “Did you know our mother, our father?”

Henry
tilted his head, thinking, then said, “Oh, yes. Although your father”—he
shrugged—“not so well as your mother. There was quite a scandal when they fell
in love.” He shot a playful glance at Cecilia. “Shall I tell you how they met?”
He pulled out a chair and sat.

“No,”
Cee said. “Tell them nothing.”

“Why
not?” Fiona asked.

Maybe
the thing she sensed that was wrong was that no one had ever told them anything
about their family. Fiona wanted to know, even if it meant defying Cecilia . .
. even Grandmother.

Uncle
Henry craned back to Cecilia. “Yes, why not tell them?”

“I
. . .” Cee stepped back.

“Ahhh,”
Uncle Henry said in a soothing tone. “See? There is no reason.”

Cecilia
crossed her arms over her chest, but added no further protest.

“Go
on,” Fiona said. “Tell us.”

Uncle
Henry rubbed his hands. “It was in Venice many years ago during the city’s
carnival. This was a grand celebration, dancing and festivals in the street,
parties all day and night, and everyone wears a mask. Some masks are plain
leather, others encrusted with gold leaf and silver dust, jewels, and feathers
from exotic birds. This is where your mother and father met—both in disguise.”
He held out his hand with fingers splayed over his face for dramatic effect.

Fiona
was captivated. She could almost hear the crowds in the street and the slosh of
boats on the canals.

“As
I said,” Uncle Henry continued, “I did not know your father as intimately as
your mother, but I do know he cut a dashing figure, he was a polo player, and
always immaculately tailored. They said his smile was irresistibly sly. And
although I have this secondhand, they said no woman could resist him once he
settled his gaze upon her.” Uncle Henry seemed to be looking at some faraway
place, then he came back. “Quite the ladies’ man . . . which was sometimes the
problem, I would imagine.”

“How
is that a problem?” Eliot asked.

“Imagine
everyone always liking you the instant they met you. Imagine them falling in
love with you because of the shape of your nose, or the style of your hair. No,
he was a lonely man, for no woman actually knew his heart, his desires, or his
dreams.” Henry patted his chest. “So your father came masked. Hiding his face
and covering his smile to avoid the attention, and yet drawn to the crowds all
the same, seeking companionship. That is where he found your mother.”

“Was
she beautiful, too?” Fiona asked.

Henry
sighed. “More lovely than I can say with mere words, child. Men fought duels
over who would have the honor to ask for her hand. All of whom she turned down,
of course. Secret admirers showered her with anonymous gifts, but they meant
nothing to her. She thought romance a trivial thing for trivial people, and those
in love nothing more than fools.”

Fiona
would have given anything to get a gift from a secret admirer . . . just once.
What would it feel like to be the center of someone’s world?

“But
if she wasn’t interested,” Fiona said, “why did she go to the festival?”

“She
didn’t believe in love, but she wanted to,” Henry explained. “She was a woman
of intellect and purpose, but also very lonely. She once told me she went to
parties to watch people fall in love, wonder at their imprudence, but also
envied them their happiness . . . no matter how temporary.” A flicker of
sadness passed over his face and he leaned closer. “It was something she never
thought she would understand, let alone experience—but she was wrong.”

Fiona
and Eliot sat on the floor, huddling closer to Uncle Henry.

“She
saw your father at a ballroom dance. He sat as she did watching the others.
They were the only two there not enjoying themselves . . . which is when he
noticed her and approached.

“He
had seen this masked woman reject every request to dance, so he told her he
only desired her conversation and perhaps learn why so many people behaved like
idiots.