Riches | The inheritance games

Chapter 7

"The first scone is what I like to call the practice scone." Alexander says as he stuffs an entire scone in his mouth, hands one to me, one to Avery then swallows and continues lecturing. "It is not until the third—nay, fourth—scone that you develop any kind of scone-eating expertise."

"Scone-eating expertise," Ave repeats in a deadpan.

"Your nature is skeptical," Alexander notes. "That will serve you well in these halls, but if there is one universal truth in the human experience, it is that a finely honed scone-eating palate does not just develop overnight."

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Oren and wonder how long he has been tailing us. "Why are we standing here talking about scones?" Avery asks Alexander. Oren had insisted that the Hawthorne brothers aren't a physical threat, but still! At the very least, Alexander should be trying to make our lives miserable. "Aren't you supposed to hate me?" Avery asks.

"I do hate you," Alexander replies, happily devouring his third scone. "If you notice, I have kept the blueberry confections for myself and gave you"—he shudders—"the lemon-flavored scones. Such is the depth of my loathing for you personally and on principle."

"This isn't a joke." Avery replies sternly. I look down at my scone and realise mine is blueberry I look back at Alexander who noticed me notice this and gives me a bold wink. I smile at him before he turns back to Avery. "Why would I hate you, Avery?" Alexander asks finally. There are now layers of emotion in his tone that hadn't been there before. "You aren't the one who did this."

Tobias Hawthorne had. "Maybe you're blameless." Alexander shrugs. "Maybe you're the evil genius that Gray seems to think you are, but at the end of the day, even if you thought that you'd manipulated our grandfather into this, I guarantee that he'd be the one manipulating you."

I think of the letter that Tobias Hawthorne had left Ave—two words, no explanation.

"Your grandfather was a piece of work," Avery tells Alexander. I smack her arm slightly. 

Alexander picks up a fourth scone. "I agree. In his honor, I eat this scone." He does just that. "Want me to show you to your rooms now?"

"Just point me in the right direction," Avery tells him. "About that..." The youngest Hawthorne brother makes a face. "There's a chance that Hawthorne House is just a tiny bit hard to navigate. Imagine, if you will, that a labyrinth had a baby with Where's Waldo?, only Waldo is your rooms."

I attempted to translate that ridiculous sentence. "Hawthorne House has an unconventional layout." He answers my thought

Alexander does away with a fifth and final scone. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words?" I say.


After a while he starts taking us to our rooms, "Hawthorne House is the largest privately owned residential home in the state of Texas." Alexander leads us up a staircase. "I could give you a number for square footage, but it would only be an estimate. The thing that truly separates Hawthorne House from other obscenely large, castle-like structures isn't so much its size as its nature. My grandfather added at least one new room or wing every year. Imagine, if you will, that an M. C. Escher drawing conceived a child with Leonardo da Vinci's most masterful designs...."

"Stop," Avery orders. "New rule: You're no longer allowed to use any terminology for baby-making when describing this house or its occupants—including yourself."

Xander brings a hand melodramatically to his chest. "Harsh." She shrugs. "My house, my rules." He gawks at her, "Too soon?" She asks. "I'm a Hawthorne." Alexander gives her his most dignified look. "It's never too soon to start trash-talking." He resumes playing the tour guide. "Now, as I was saying, the East Wing is actually the Northeast Wing, located on the second floor. If you get lost, just look for the old man." Alexander nodded toward a portrait on the wall. "This was his wing, these last few months."

I haven't seen a picture of Tobias Hawthorne, but looking at the portrait, I can't look away. He had silver-gray hair and a weather-worn face. His eyes were definitely Grayson's, almost exactly, his build Jameson's, his chin Nash's. If I hadn't seen Alexander in motion, I might not have recognized a resemblance between him and the man at all, but it was there in the way Tobias Hawthorne's features pulled together—not the eyes or nose or mouth, but something about the shape in between.