The House of Lesslie

I turned away from him. It wasn't that he wasn't easy on the eyes, in that proper and pedantic way the purely bred Englishmen can be, with their slicked back hair and the slight growth of stubble on chins and cheeks that showed a long day's journey.

It was the news he would indubitably deliver to me, any moment now.

"Do you have the letter?" I asked him.

"Yes, Lady Lesslie."

I drew a long drag from my cigar and stopped before it filled my heart, letting it instead seep from my lips and against the office's window, rising up and curling in the air, like long-lost memories.

"Read it to me."

IV.

My mother's office was nothing like mine. Or anybody else's, for that matter. I had grown to prefer simplicity over the years, an art deco style that decorated the life of someone who had been on the road so long that there never had been too much time to accumulate possessions that could clutter up rooms.

But mother's office had always a miniaturized reflection of what the entire mansion was. Memories, caught in memorabilia, relics and reminders of generations that had sitting been on the throne still dominating the room.

It had been my mother's favorite. A monster made from darkened, polished wood and soft burgundy cushions that could let you drop your bottom into them, while your clawed fingers rested comfortably to each side on aged armrests that were shaped once again like our family's crest symbol, fiery dragon faces that growled silently at those who stood or knelt before you.

The rest of the office furniture was no match for the throne, and whether it was book shelves or guest chairs, all aged just as well as the throne itself, were like dwarves in comparison, almost shamefully hiding or hugging the room's walls.

It was still easy to see mother sitting here, my memories of her bigger than life and not so easily to bring to an end. It had been a car accident. Considering that mother had loved cars that were fast and furious, like she loved her lovers, that came hardly as a surprise.