Fiona Read Online Free

and places a wrinkled hand on Poppy’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. It’s such a motherly gesture that I can’t help but frown in confusion. “Motherly” was about the last thing I expected this dour old woman to be.
    She says softly, “Because Charlie’s had to go to Glasgow for a couple of weeks to deal with the paper, you know that. Now I know this isn’t ideal, but if you have any complaints, you only need to come to me and we’ll find you a better governess, all right?”
    There’s the woman I expected. I try not to sneer at Mabel as Poppy turns her attention back to me. Mabel squeezes Poppy’s shoulder once more and then walks off, and Poppy and I are alone.
    She crosses her arms and watches me.
    I take a deep breath and try not to put an ounce of pity in my voice. Pity is the last thing she needs right now, when she’s so angry. “Look, I know this isn’t what you wanted. That it’s not even close. But I’m here for whatever you need.”
    â€œI don’t
need
you,” she counters.
    â€œIt’d be pretty lonely here with only Mabel and the others to talk to.”
    She shrugs. “I have friends. I’m fine.”
    I’m fine
. The two words that became my mantra after Mom died. Any question anyone asked me could be answered by those words. And every time I spit them out, they tasted more and more bitter.
    I take in her tightly crossed arms and the firm line of her mouth. She’s not going to bend to me anytime soon. Not until she trusts me. And considering her whole world just got ripped out from underneath her, trust is something that is going to take a lot of time.
    â€œWell, since I’m already here,” I say finally, “why don’t you show me your homework? Let me see what I can help you with.”
    She stares at me for a moment, then shrugs, clomping in her riding boots up toward the house without waiting to see if I’ll follow.
    I sigh and trudge up the soft green hill after her.

CHAPTER 3
    Poppy and I spend the morning going over her homework and cautiously getting to know each other. We spread her assignments out in the fifth-floor room that has been designated as her study, right next to her bedroom, a place overwhelmed with pink and ruffles and glitter.
    Poppy must be a girly girl. Or, at least, she might have been before her parents’ death twisted her into this sullen version of herself.
    She doesn’t say anything as I examine the family portraits that clutter the top of her dresser: the family in ski gear on top of a pristine white mountain, the family in front of a gigantic Christmas tree, the family in front of the Eiffel Tower. I’m fascinated by the tall woman with the dyed blond pixie cut and calm smile in each of the photos. I’ve seen plenty of photos of Lily inthe
Daily Mail
and on other gossip sites, and she’s elegant and striking from every angle. I can’t imagine her being friends with my mother, the woman with hair as wild and untamed as mine and no trace of makeup, who preferred long, flowing cotton skirts over the power-woman sheaths that seemed to have been Lily’s uniform.
    It takes me a moment to realize that I recognize the tall boy in some of the more recent photos, the bored teenager standing next to his father. He must be Charlie, now twenty-two and head of the family. That curly red-brown hair and new-leaf green of his eyes is horribly familiar.
    He’s the boy from the pub. The one who sat next to me by the fire and brushed off the girl who had every other guy eating out of the palm of her hand. The one whom I caught looking at me.
    Oh my God. I was a total bitch to him. I used the voice Hex had taught me to combat mean girls and drunk boys in high school. He probably thinks I’m insane.
    But what was he doing in town? He’s supposed to be in Glasgow, doing something with the family paper. Not drinking all alone in a pub a few