The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes by Cathy Ace Read Free Book Online Page A

quietly and thoughtfully.
    â€œDeath is death,” snapped Alice. “There’s nothing clean about it. It’s a filthy business. Even when it’s just an accident.”
    â€œMother.” Mair sounded shocked.
    â€œGrow up, girl. I think I made a mistake with you—you don’t seem to have matured at all, you’ve just grown older. I should have sent you out into the world. But I needed you near me.” I caught Mair’s expression of silent rage at her mother’s words. “He was lucky he didn’t suffer, like some of us do.”
    Mair snapped, “You don’t suffer, Mother. You live in luxury, with people tending to your every need. Since Father met you when you were sixteen, you have never wanted for anything. You are in excellent health for a woman of your age.”
    â€œMair, sit down and eat your dinner, so you don’t embarrass our guests.” Alice spoke as though her daughter was five years old, and Mair acted accordingly, quietly sitting and doing as she was told.
    Bud and I dared to exchange a knowing glance across the table, but our attention was then immediately captured by Owain, who pressed the cook with, “So how did he look? I’ve never seen a dead body. Not a fresh one. Lots of very ancient ones, of course.”
    â€œNot appropriate, Owain,” commented Mair.
    â€œWhy not?” he asked plaintively.
    â€œWe’re eating,” replied his mother.
    Everyone applied themselves to their loaded plates in silence for a few moments. I was assessing the family dynamic— it’s what I do, I can’t help myself —as I slathered my whole-wheat toast with what I was pretty sure was salted butter, then topped that with a thick dollop of moist, rough, rich pâté. The sensation as I bit into it was exquisite, the flavors a delight. It was definitely salted butter, and the pâté—oh the pâté! The rabbit was almost sweet, and there were hints of pepper and raspberry, a distinct note of salty acidity from capers, and finally, triumphantly, the richness of brandy in there somewhere. It seemed that Mrs. Dilys Jones was, indeed, a good cook. I was pleased and relieved, and I gave myself up to the pleasure of enjoying the first course in happy anticipation of an excellent meal.
    Siân had decided that half a slice of toast with a smear of pâté was enough for her, so while the rest of us were still nibbling and munching, she had nothing to do but chatter. “Of course we were all very sorry to hear about the accident. I gather Mr. Davies lived here, is that right?” I wish she’d picked a different topic.
    Eirwen answered, which I suspected was a brave move on her part. “He arrived after he married Rhian, that’s Dilys’s daughter, about six years ago. You’ll have met Rhian, Cait; she’s the person who’s been planning your wedding. They have . . . um, had . . . well, Rhian still has , an apartment in the private wing. As do we all. Alice has the floor above the drawing room, and Janet has a room there too. Owain and Mair have the next floor up, then Idris and me, and the children of course, have the next, with Dilys, and Rhian and David on the top floor. We all manage very nicely.”
    As I continued trying to swallow the mouthful I’d taken, my heart became a big lump in my chest. Rhian Davies. Of course. It was her husband who’d died. I’d grown to like Rhian—we’d been in touch for months, planning the wedding.
    Bud was smiling at Eirwen just a little too brightly as he said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You call the entry level the ‘ground floor,’ then the first upstairs floor is the ‘first floor’? Right?”
    Eirwen nodded eagerly.
    Bud blustered on, “It sounds as though you have a different number of floors in each wing.”
    Eirwen smiled, pleased to have a change in topic.