RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,130
and only Jewish man (as far as the State records of Texas will attest) to ever strike a significant reservoir and make his fortune. He married an English woman by the name of Eleanor Fairfax Monmouth and built the house in her honor, giving it her family name. When Elodie steps into the sprawling foyer for the first time, I see the place through her eyes and the entire thing feels far too pretentious for words.
The white marble with grey and gold veins snaking through it underfoot speaks of just how much money went into building this place. The high ceilings, dotted with elaborate, glimmering chandeliers that refract the sunshine pouring in through the arched fifteen-foot high windows at the top of the staircase, scattering rainbows all over the walls. Everywhere you look, there are austere, foreboding oils of my dark-haired ancestors scowling disapprovingly down at us with judgment in their eyes. Elodie takes in the lavish decor, the opulent rugs, and the sumptuous furnishings with a level of horrified awe that makes me wonder if this wasn’t a huge mistake after all.
I am not this. I’ve been very careful to be something entirely removed from this disgusting show of wealth. I wear my clothes until they literally fall apart, and then I wear them some more just to be fucking difficult. I reject any and all suggestion of a haircut until I’m forced to take matters (and a pair of scissors) into my own hands, hacking at my hair with a practiced level of disorder that drives my father to drink.
Mercy, with her outrageously expensive clothes and her perfectly manicured everything, fits in here. Even those equipped with a feeble imagination can see that I really fucking don’t. I feel so far removed from this place that entering through the door is like cracking open the pages of a book you read a long time ago. Everything's familiar, and it feels like the story scribbled out on the pages feel like they happened to you, but it's so distant, so remote that you know it isn't really your story.
I didn't really fall down the steps there and almost bite clean through my lip when I was nine. That was some other kid. And there? I didn't stand over there, with my ear pressed to the heavy walnut door to the formal dining room, listening to my father fucking some young girl who just appeared out of the blue and stayed at the house for three weeks when I was twelve. It doesn't matter that I can't remember what her name was. Or that Patricia was three rooms over when my father was eating some girl's pussy on the grand twenty-person antique banquet table. Nope. None of it matters because that wasn't my life. That happened in another plane of existence, to another Wren, before Riot House, and Wolf Hall. Before Elodie.
I refrain from kicking my shoes off. Patricia will have a conniption when she sees me tramping through the house with outside footwear on my feet, which is the sole reason why I leave them on. Elodie isn't a shit like me. She slides out of her Doc Martens, and Mariposa appears, as if the very existence of a pair of unattended shoes in the entryway created a portal through time and space, dragging her here to attend to the matter before polite society should notice such vulgarity. I have total faith that long after she dies, my old nursemaid will spontaneously return from the afterlife to make sure that correct etiquette is observed at all times within the walls of Monmouth House.
“Master Wren,” she says pointedly, eyeing my feet. Unlike Calvin, Mariposa's less happy to see me. She holds a grudge like no one else. She's still pissed about the slugs I put in her underwear drawer when I was seven. By the time she's gotten over that and worked her way through all the other shitty things I've done to her, she and I will have been dead three lifetimes over. “They just had the carpets steamed,” she fumes. In her late seventies, she's so stooped and hunched over now that her line of sight is always locked onto people's feet; no wonder she's so good at keeping track of their footwear.
“And I'm sure they'll have them cleaned again next month, too. Even though it's completely unnecessary. Where's Pickaxe?”
Her mouth scrunches into a sour grimace. Her eyes are sharp as flint. “Dead.”