Chapter 8 - The Winter GalleryThe winter gallery had no winter in it.
It was all glass, white marble, and moonlight. It stretched along the north side of Aurelia Palace, overlooking frozen gardens where statues stood beneath silver rain. The Ashcrofts had used it for royal visitors, opera singers, presidents, and once, long ago, Helena’s wedding portrait.
Tonight Celeste stood beneath that portrait, holding Helena’s medical folder like a hostage.
She had found time to fix her hair.
That frightened Elara more than the smeared mascara had.
Celeste Beaumont did not fall apart.
She rearranged the wreckage into a new performance.
Damian entered first, but not alone. Elara came behind him, despite his warning. Marianne Holt followed at a distance, phone recording from her coat pocket.
Celeste smiled when she saw Elara.
“Of course. The maid comes too.”
Damian’s voice echoed off the glass.
“Hand over the folder.”
Celeste pressed it to her chest.
“You know, I thought I loved you.”
“No,” Damian said. “You loved the name.”
“That name was supposed to be mine.”
“It was never yours to take.”
Celeste’s smile thinned.
“Your mother made sure of that.”
Helena’s portrait watched over them. In it, she was young and brilliant, standing in a white gown beside Damian’s father. Her eyes were not fragile. They were fierce.
Celeste looked up at the portrait.
“She looked at me like I was dirt from the day we met.”
“Did she?” Damian asked.
“Yes. Because I wasn’t born in a palace. Because my mother sold perfume at a department store. Because I learned which fork to use from a etiquette video instead of a governess.”
For the first time, her voice sounded real.
Elara almost felt pity.
Almost.
Then Celeste said, “So I decided if the door would not open, I would break the house.”
Damian stepped closer.
“And my mother?”
“She was in the way.”
The words were simple.
Ugly.
True.
Celeste opened the folder and pulled out a medical report.
“Do you know how easy it is to make powerful men ignore old women? You say she’s tired. You say she’s confused. You say grief has made her difficult. You hire one doctor with debts and one nurse with a secret. Then everyone is relieved when she disappears upstairs.”
Damian’s face tightened with guilt.
Celeste saw it and smiled.
“Yes. That’s the part you don’t want the room to hear, isn’t it? You believed me because believing me was easier.”
The blow landed.
Elara saw it.
Damian did not defend himself.
“No,” he said. “I believed you because I was arrogant enough to think cruelty would announce itself.”
Celeste laughed softly.
“Cruelty always dresses well.”
Then she turned to Elara.
“And you. What did you think would happen after tonight? That he would make you family? That the old woman would adopt you out of gratitude?”
Elara said, “I thought you would stop hurting her.”
Celeste’s eyes flashed.
“You still don’t understand rooms like this. You are useful tonight because you embarrassed me. Tomorrow, they will remember you were hired help.”
Damian said, “No.”
Celeste ignored him.
“She will go back to scrubbing silver, Damian. People like her always do.”
Elara stepped forward.
“My father scrubbed the floors your stolen money walked across. He still had more honor than you.”
Celeste’s face twisted.
She threw the first medical page toward Elara.
“Honor doesn’t save anyone.”
The paper scattered across the marble.
Elara looked down.
Her heart stopped.
At the top of the page was Helena’s name.
Below it was a diagnosis.
Not dementia.
Not frailty.
Repeated chemical sedation.
Damian picked up the paper.
His hand shook.
Celeste whispered, “Ask your cousin who supplied the drugs.”
Damian turned.
Felix, dragged into the gallery by security, looked at the floor.
Celeste smiled.
“There it is. The great Ashcroft bloodline. Rotten all the way down.”
Damian looked at Felix.
“Tell me she’s lying.”
Felix said nothing.
Damian closed his eyes.
Celeste used that second.
She ran for the side door.
Elara moved first.
Again.
Celeste reached the handle.
Elara caught her by the sleeve.
Celeste spun, grabbed a crystal vase, and raised it.
Damian shouted.
Celeste froze.
Not because of him.
Because behind Elara, Helena Ashcroft had rolled into the gallery.
The old woman lifted her chin.
“Put it down, Celeste.”
Celeste laughed, wild now.
“Or what?”
Helena’s eyes sharpened.
“Or I stop pretending I need this chair.”
May you like
Then Helena Ashcroft placed both hands on the arms of the wheelchair.
And slowly, painfully, she stood.
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