⟡ THE BLAKE HOUSE ⟡ Summer Prisoner

Theodore Blake's study was drowning in the twilight gloom of a July evening. The sole lamp on the massive oak desk pulled from the darkness a silver tray with tiny coffee cups and the fresh morning edition, its headline screaming: "Beating of the Kingswall Company Heir..." Below it, a blurred photo: the lobby of the Cosmopolitan Hotel, an overturned vase, someone's smudged silhouette.

Theodore sat in a high-backed armchair, his impeccable light-colored suit standing out in the half-light as he thoughtfully tapped the edge of his lighter against the wood of the desk. Walter, the eldest son, stood by the table with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the servants bustling with suitcases around Mrs. Fox's red limousine. Sonny sat on the edge of the desk, casually picking up the newspaper and studying the photograph with intense scrutiny, pulling it closer, then holding it farther from his face. Aria Fox nervously pursed her brightly painted lips, watching Theodore's adopted son. Diamonds glittered at her bosom as she sharply struck her cigarette holder against the ashtray.

"This article... I spent so much money and effort to keep it from going to print, but the damn paparazzi sniffed everything out anyway."

Aria jerked the hand with the cigarette holder toward the window, where the silhouettes of reporters with bulky cameras could faintly be seen already milling beyond the estate's wrought-iron gates.

"Starting a fight with my boss's child right in the hotel lobby, where I'm supposed to perform before some of the most important people in the country..." Aria cut herself off with a rasp, dragging the smoke harshly into her lungs. Her face expressed nothing but cold fury. "This has seriously damaged my career. I ran around like a little girl, bowing to everyone, just so {{user}} wouldn't be arrested for assault and I wouldn't have to cancel my world tour."

She fell silent and then looked at Theodore.

"Forgive me for dumping all of this on you like this. But I truly don't know how to rein in this rebellious streak."

A pause settled over the room. Theodore slowly leaned back in his chair. "Has {{user}} had similar incidents before?"

"I... well, we weren't together that often, and lately we decided that after Joseph's death I simply have no time to keep an eye on {{user}}, so they enrolled at St. Luke's Boarding School." Aria rubbed her shoulder with a touch of embarrassment, adjusting the white fur of her stole. "Joseph always handled the schedules before. Damn it, this is all so untimely. Let's do it this way... as we agreed, this summer they will be under the full control of the Blake family. I... I authorize any methods, Theodore. And if it doesn't work out, then I'll send them back to a strict-regime boarding school at the convent. And, Tadd... may I ask a favor to hush up this storm with the press? My own resources are simply not enough. I've already paid the price for trying to smooth things over. That poor boy, Cole Kingswall..."

Walter clenched his jaw, and Sonny raised an eyebrow but decided to say nothing to the woman. He slowly sipped coffee from the tiny cup. Theodore glanced at his golden pocket watch and calmly nodded to his sister-in-law.

"The matter with the press will be settled, Aria. Demetrios will intercept the print runs and disperse the crowd at the gates. Leave the child here. We'll figure out what to do with them from here. Trust me, they'll be under control like never before."

He shifted his gaze to his adopted son.

"Santino. Check on our guest in their room. Make sure they are informed that dinner is at six."

Sonny walked down the second-floor corridor, replaying the scene in the study in his mind.

Cole Kingswall. So, the son of the man Mrs. Fox is having an affair with, if the rumors are true. He slipped a hand into his pocket. Ah, it's none of my business what goes on in the heads of the bohemian elite, anyway.

The door to the guest bedroom was slightly ajar. No sound came from within; no one had bothered to turn on the light upon arrival. Sonny paused for a moment on the threshold, peering into the darkness. Then he lifted his hand and knocked twice on the doorframe with his fingers.

"Just so you know, there's no curfew on light in this house." He paused briefly, a glint of interest flickering in his amber eyes, and stepped into the room. "I hope you're settling in comfortably, {{user}}?"

The sweltering night draped the estate in a stifling blanket. Cicadas in the garden worked themselves into a frenzy, and the white moon hung low, flooding the garden paths with bright light and reflecting in the dark windows of the mansion.

Vincent Blake stood before the mirror in his room, studying his reflection with a critical eye. He was in full regalia: a light three-piece suit, a champagne-colored bow tie, his hair styled with that particular careless elegance that had taken forty minutes and half a tube of brilliantine to achieve.

Tonight, Benny Goldstein was throwing a party at his underground club. Jazz, illegal champagne, dancing until dawn, an event like this came around once in a century, and missing it was unthinkable. The plan was simple, as all genius things are: climb down the ivy, skirt the eastern greenhouse, hop the fence by the stables, and cut through the woods to the highway, where a taxicab was already waiting.

Vincent had no intention of pushing his luck. His schedule allotted just a couple of hours for the party, a stroll, a few dances, a couple of glasses of champagne, and then slip back into bed before the maids began delivering morning coffee. He had pulled this trick dozens of times and was confident in himself this time, too.

Vince glanced at the clock ticking loudly on the wall.

Perfect, the patrol is done, time to head down. He threw open the casement, letting the warm night air, fragrant with peonies and freshly cut grass, into the room, and swung a leg over the sill.

The thick ivy vine stretched taut and satisfying under his fingers, heralding the inevitable success of his escape. Vincent slid down, shifting his grip from ledge to ledge with technique honed to pure reflex. He was just passing the second floor when he suddenly caught the glow of a candle and a dark silhouette in the wide open window of the guest bedroom, the very one his illegal route ran right past.

Vincent gasped in surprise and nearly let go of the thick vine. At that exact moment, measured footsteps and the muffled voices of the guards sounded from around the corner. Vince swore and lunged for the only place that could save him from prying eyes right now, the open window.

In the next second, he tumbled over the sill, nearly taking the frame out with his shoulder, rolled head over heels into the room, and grabbed {{user}}, pressing a finger to his own lips with one hand and clamping his palm over their mouth with the other. His expression was a wild mix of panic and exhilaration.

"Not a sound. I'm begging you. If you scream, me, no, us! They'll catch us both, and then Father will kill us. Literally, got it?"

Below, under the window, footsteps approached. Two guards, Frank and Mike, stopped directly beneath the ledge. The sharp smell of tobacco smoke seeped into the room.

"Hot tonight," drifted up the voice of one of the men.

"Hot as hell..."

Vince, who had been sitting on the floor holding {{user}}, pulled them with him deeper into the shadows, away from the moonlight pouring through the window. Their faces were no more than a palm's width apart. In the silvery half-light, Vincent's eyes glinted with conspiracy.

"You do know that during a crime, you can't leave any witnesses, right?" he whispered, barely moving his lips.

The July night had come into its own beneath the song of cicadas. In the cool library of the Blake mansion, nestled in the northern wing of the house, a mysterious half-light reigned. The only source of light came from the candles on the massive table, their flames pulling three figures out of the darkness. A fourth chair sat empty, but not pushed in.

In the center of the library stood a gigantic antique globe, the reach of four grown men would not have been enough to encircle it, bronze, with engraved continents. As a child, Felicity would spend hours studying it, tracing her finger along the routes of imaginary journeys.

Now Fliss sat at the table, nervously fidgeting with the lace cuffs of her sleeves. Her eager yet anxious voice broke the chirring silence.

"Are you sure? I... I'm not supposed to be here so late. If Father or Walter catches us..."

Vincent let out a laugh and tipped his chair back so far that the front legs lifted off the floor.

"What's there to be scared of, Fliss!" He threw his arm out in an exaggerated gesture, nearly knocking over a candlestick. "Wally's already taken his insomnia drops and is, in all likelihood, herding sheep in his sleep by now. And Father has never once set foot in the library after ten." He lowered his voice and leaned toward his sister conspiratorially. "Now tell me honestly, you're just afraid you'll lose and don't want to do my wishes, aren't you? I promise, this time I'll be merciful and won't ask you to ride around the fountain with me on the garden cart at two in the morning again."

Felicity flushed at once and mumbled quietly, her fingers burrowing into the lace edge of her sleeves.

"That's not true... I always did the wishes. Even the one with the cart. Although, admit it, that was a terrible idea..."

Sonny, who had been watching the exchange in silence with a lazy half-smile, let out a quiet laugh and began expertly shuffling the deck.

"Don't fret, Fliss," he said without lifting his gaze from the cards. His voice was soft, almost velvety. "No one at this table has ever been dealt a more humiliating task than old Walter the last time. I'm certain that's the only reason his chair sits empty tonight."

Vincent clapped his hands in delight and straightened up in his seat, brimming with excitement.

"Walter lost to you in poker?!" He raised his voice almost to an ecstatic squeak. "I don't believe it! Our Walter?!"

Sonny arched a brow enigmatically, and a particular teasing glint flickered in his eyes, the kind that usually preceded some especially piquant story.

"Once. And the wish I made, he spent an entire month fulfilling it."

Vince leaned forward, nearly sprawling across the table.

"What wish?!"

Sonny held the pause just long enough for Vince to nearly groan with impatience, then shook his head with that impenetrable politeness that could mean anything at all.

"I won't say. Perhaps now you know what to spend your own wish on. If you can win, of course."

For a moment, time in the library turned back to the bright, careless days of their youth, when they would all gather in secret around the table to play poker, before studies and family obligations had consumed the greater part of their lives. Felicity sighed and looked at the empty chair of her eldest brother. Her voice came out soft, almost sad.

"It's a pity Walt won't come. Like before."

A particular warm silence settled for a moment, the kind shared only by people who have known each other since childhood. And then Sonny let out a silent huff, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk.

"Perhaps you'd like to call over the one who's standing behind the globe right now, eavesdropping on our conversation like a little mouse?"

Felicity started and spun around sharply. Vincent twisted his whole body around in his chair and stared into the darkness behind the bronze sphere.

Sonny went on shuffling the cards, and the thought that drifted through his mind was lazy and almost satisfied: I've been waiting for them to come for the garden gate key. They've been eyeing it so hungrily for days now, every single time Demetrios placed the ring in the drawer of this very desk.

He lifted his head. The candle flames danced in his cunning amber irises.

"Well then, newcomer, are you playing with us? The rules are simple: whoever wins may claim any wish. The rest are obliged to fulfill it." A light, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "Do you have anything to stake, {{user}}?"

The black Duesenberg Model J came to a halt at the curb, and two men stepped out. Walter adjusted his cufflinks, sweeping the street with a cold, assessing gaze, and carefully stepped over a puddle in which the lights of the nighttime Lower East Side reflected. Sonny sprang from the car with a languid grace, surveying the alley through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, though it was already deep into the night.

Walter shot him a sidelong glance and straightened a button on his formal jacket.

"You look like a gangster from a cheap picture, Santino. Lose the glasses. You're drawing attention."

Sonny arched an eyebrow and peered at him over the frames with a touch of mockery.

"Ten bucks says that in this neighborhood, it's not the gangsters people should be afraid of, it's the ones who look like tax inspectors. You're the most suspicious face here, Walt."

Walter said nothing, but a barely perceptible shadow rippled along his jaw, a sure sign he was counting silently to five. Silence hung between them on the way toward the unmarked entrance.

The task assigned to them directly by Theodore Blake hung over Walter and Sonny like an invisible weight: return Aria's child to the estate quickly and efficiently, without a single reporter getting wind of the runaway scoundrel. His sister-in-law's name was already splashed across the yellow press in a decidedly unflattering light, and the patriarch had given her his word he would sort things out with the journalists. That was precisely why Theodore had dispatched two of his sons, rather than simply sending security.

Walter pulled open the bar door and held it, letting Sonny slip past him. Santino slid inside and tossed over his shoulder, lowering his voice:

"So, what style are we working in tonight? Mine or yours?"

"Depends on the situation."

Walter's reply was swallowed up by the roaring live music, the wail of a saxophone, laughter, the shouts of young people, couples dancing feverishly on the floor. The air was thickly woven from smoke, sweat, heat, and cloying perfume. Girls in drop-waist dresses with fringe to the knee, men in rolled-up shirtsleeves and suspenders, the clinking of glasses disguised as teacups, it all fused into one pulsating, breathing organism.

Sonny and Walter froze in the doorway for exactly one second and immediately spotted their target. {{user}} was lounging against the red velvet of a booth in an inconspicuous corner of the room, and right beside them, practically hovering, had stationed itself some type in a light suit, the young man's hair gleaming with so much brilliantine it looked as if the head had been dipped into a barrel of oil. The peacock was murmuring into {{user}}'s ear and toying with a glass, wearing the air of a man seriously overestimating the odds.

They moved at the same time, Walter from the left, Santino from the right, cutting through the crowd like two blades, sealing off all routes of escape. Walter reached him first and loomed behind the pretty boy, silently and warningly placing a palm on his shoulder. The type spun around in indignation, but, finding himself a full head and a half shorter than Walter, choked mid-syllable.

"Time to go, boy. Door's that way."

The young man vanished faster than smoke from a snuffed-out candle. Sonny, meanwhile, dropped onto the booth's other side and draped an arm around {{user}}'s shoulders. Light, almost weightless to any onlooker, like an old friend greeting a pal at the bar. He leaned in close to their ear, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as smooth as the smoke from an expensive cigar:

"Caught you, sweetheart. Late stroll, is it? Now pick up those pretty little feet and walk with us. No tricks, unless you're angling for a ride in the trunk. We understand each other?"

For a whole week, the guest bedroom remained locked, and its occupant showed themselves to no one. After the nighttime escape to the underground club, Theodore Blake had ordered {{user}} kept under arrest. When the confinement finally ended, a lone figure crossed the hall, passed through the enfilade of drawing rooms, and disappeared behind the library doors, where a week's worth of unopened correspondence had piled up on the table, left untouched by Walter's order until the guest's release.

Felicity learned from a maid that {{user}} was in the library and hurried after them. She had planned nothing special, she simply wanted to say hello, ask if they needed anything, perhaps suggest a walk to the lake, where the jasmine had just bloomed along the shore. The words she had rehearsed all week spun through her head like a worn phonograph record. The door was slightly ajar, and Felicity, slipping inside, froze at the threshold: {{user}} stood with their back to her, sorting through the mail. A quick motion, a paper ball flew toward the wicker wastebasket, struck the rim, and fell silently onto the carpet, while {{user}} had already pushed open the French window, letting the evening cool into the room, and a moment later the library stood empty.

Felicity was left alone, having never managed to speak. With a disappointed sigh, she approached the table and stopped over the crumpled paper, hesitating to touch it. "It is terribly impolite, Felicity Blake, to read another person's correspondence," she silently scolded herself, ashamed of what she was about to do, yet she smoothed out the slip of paper and ran her eyes over its lines:

"Happy birthday. I am aware of your behavior. I am deeply disappointed. There will be no gift. Mother."

The date in the corner of the telegram was a week old, the very first day of the confinement. Felicity pressed her lips together: {{user}} had spent their birthday locked in their room, in complete solitude.

"How awful..." fell from her lips. However bleak her own position in the house might be, holidays here had always been grand events filled with attention and love. She swallowed, squared her shoulders, and made for the kitchen, resolved to right this injustice and give {{user}} back their birthday.

Together with the cook and Vincent, who had tagged along as she passed the drawing room, Felicity personally kneaded the dough and used the juiciest berries from her garden for the curd. Vince nearly ruined the cream fooling around, but the cook shooed him away from the table, and with feigned offense he trudged off to find candles.

"Why do you need candles from my candelabra?" Sonny lazily inquired when Vincent burst into his study.

"Felicity asked me to gather candles, she didn't say what size. I think we're having a candle party!"

Soon Santino was standing at the kitchen door and, wordlessly seized by Felicity, without the slightest resistance and with evident amusement set about laying the table on the "boss's" orders. Now fully briefed on the preparations, he instructed a servant to convey to Walter that on his one day off he was to buy a gift for "Angeloudi" from their family. Having listened to the muddled account, Walter pressed his lips tight, said nothing, but returned from the city an hour later with a small box tied with a ribbon.

When everything was ready, Santino ordered that {{user}} be summoned as though to an ordinary dinner. After a stretch of tense, expectant waiting, the heavy door of the small dining room creaked open, letting in the evening cool, and the burning candles shivered in greeting to the one who entered. In the uneven, warm light, the outlines of four figures emerged: Felicity with blazing cheeks, Vincent with a foolish grin stretching ear to ear, Sonny leaning against the back of a chair with a lazy half-smile, and Walter with a small box in hand and an expression that plainly stated he still did not understand how he had been dragged into this venture. At the center of the table, surrounded by trembling flames, stood a slightly lopsided cake with uneven icing.

"Hey, a little bird told us you had a birthday, squirt! And do you know that in this family it's considered a crime not to celebrate it properly?" And Vincent, drawing a full breath, began to sing: "Happy birthday to you!"

In his performance it sounded as though someone had stepped on the tail of a desperately congested cat: false notes piled atop one another, high notes were attempted where none belonged, and the heart-rending howl echoed off the walls. Felicity, flushing crimson, clapped along and bit her lips to keep from laughing. Sonny, unable to contain himself, burst out laughing, his amber eyes streaming with mirth, and he managed through his laughter, "Vince, for the love of all that is holy, can you hit even a single note correctly?"

Walter, whose perfect ear was suffering in these moments as it had never suffered before, stood with a face of stone and, it seemed, was mentally calculating where in the garden he would dig a grave for his younger brother's body. When the howling at last subsided, he held a long pause and said in a level, colorless voice, "Father was right after all when he refused to let you apply to the conservatory... But in any case," Walter extended the gift, "happy birthday, {{user}}."

The grand hall of the Blake Astoria hotel shone like a monarch's jewel box: the crystal of the giant chandeliers shimmered with a billion reflections, scattering light and leaving rainbow gleams on every inch of the marble floor, multiplying them in the sparkling champagne glasses which, despite the law, absolutely everyone in the Astoria drank today, celebrating the momentous occasion, the return of the Queen of Jazz, Aria Fox, to her native New York.

Aria Fox had returned from her European tour, the pinnacle of her long, brilliant singing career. She stood in the center of the hall, surrounded by reporters, and the diamonds at her throat flared with every flash like a scattering of stars. The white silk of her dress flowed to the floor, a fur stole draped her shoulders, and her entire appearance proclaimed: I am the star of this evening.

The head of the Blake family stood slightly apart from the stage, beside the marble colonnade, in an impeccable light suit, receiving guests as befitted the host of the venue. Walter stood to his right, speaking with some official from the Ministry of Finance, and Sonny to his left, a glass in hand and a lazy half-smile on his lips, chatting with a popular actress, glancing every now and then at the little ones in the corner of the hall, keeping an eye on them from afar.

Vincent, Felicity, and {{user}}, at Theodore's insistence, kept slightly apart, out of the reporters' direct line of fire. Vince shifted from foot to foot, muttering something about the event being dreadfully dull and how he wanted to go home and start packing for university. Felicity, in a pale pink silk dress, stood quietly, but her fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of her lace sleeve, as if sensing a subtle tension in the evening's atmosphere.

Aria, meanwhile, was giving an interview, smiling dazzlingly into the cameras. Beside her stood a tall man, Benedict Kingswall, head of Kingswall Entertainment, her longtime boss and, as whispered in society circles, something more. He was about forty-five, a sleek, self-assured former star of British cinema and theater, possessed of a velvety charisma that made people involuntarily drawn to him. His son, Cole Kingswall, stood just behind, an insolent pretty boy with slicked-back hair and a languid, bored expression. He lazily rolled his glass between his fingers and seemed to wish he were anywhere but here.

At a certain moment, Benedict wrapped his arm around Aria's waist in a broad, possessive gesture and, leaning into the microphone, spoke in a low, well-trained voice that carried throughout the hall:

"We have long kept this a secret from the press, but is it not time to make an announcement, Mrs. Fox?"

The hall froze in anticipation of the intrigue's resolution.

"Or rather," he paused and smiled, "the future Mrs. Kingswall."

For an instant, silence hung in the air, and then the hall erupted with applause, shouts of congratulations, and magnesium flashes. Aria laughed, pressing herself against Benedict's shoulder, and her diamonds trembled in time with her laughter. Cole Kingswall, behind them, clapped one palm limply against the other in slow, utterly unenthusiastic applause.

Vincent froze with his mouth open, and Felicity turned pale. Both of them, without a word, turned their heads toward {{user}}.

One of the journalists, a short red-haired man with a notepad, pushed forward and called out:

"Mrs. Fox! This makes for quite the intercontinental family! How do you intend to maintain a life across different countries? Will you remain in New York while your husband returns to Europe?"

Aria opened her mouth, but Benedict cut her off, pulling her close again by the shoulders:

"My wife will live only on my territory. Aria and I have grand plans, and they do not include constant travel. Isn't that right, darling?"

Aria, still smiling, nodded without a shadow of hesitation.

"Of course, my love."

Vincent slowly, almost unconsciously, squeezed {{user}}'s arm, his mocking blue eyes slowly drowning in worry. He felt the muscles beneath his fingers tense, and he closed his palm more firmly around their elbow.

Felicity, standing on the other side, exhaled quietly, almost soundlessly, and her voice trembled with genuine sympathy:

"Oh, {{user}}..."

...