The Heiress Priestess

I was halfway through telling a parishioner that grief did not follow a calendar when a black car rolled through the gates of St. Oran's. The parishioner, Mrs. Bell, stopped twisting the strap of her handbag. "Are you expecting someone?" "No." I saw my name on the car's rear window before the driver got out. Mara Vane, printed on a white card beneath the family crest. The name I'd carried since I was born. The name my mother had asked me not to use until she was gone. I finished the conversation with Mrs. Bell, walked her to the vestry, and accepted the envelope the driver offered me. "Mr. Vane asked me to bring you to Tideglass House," he said. "He said it was important." "Did he say why?" "He said he'd explain in person." I looked past him to the car. My reflection in the tinted window showed a tired woman in a clerical collar, not a lost daughter from one of the family stories the tabloids liked to tell. "I'll drive myself." The driver glanced at the church. "Mr. Vane was expecting you." "I'm sure he was." I made him leave the invitation and waited until the car disappeared down the lane. Then I put the envelope in my office drawer without opening it. I'd spent ten years learning how to be called to a place without mistaking the call for an order. Still, by the time I locked the church, I knew I would go. My mother was gone. My father had sent for me. Whatever I thought about the timing, I had to hear what he wanted. Tideglass House stood on a bluff above Bellwether Bay, its slate roof dark against a low October sky. I hadn't seen it since I was a child. I remembered the long drive, my mother's tight grip on my hand, and a woman in a cream coat watching from the front steps. The woman who opened the door now was that same girl grown into a poised woman in her thirties. "Mara," she said. "I'm Celia." I knew her face. Almost everyone knew her face. Celia Vane's guided meditations were streamed from retreat rooms and hotel suites across the country. Her name appeared on book jackets and charity invitations. She wore plain clothes, no jewelry except a wooden bead bracelet, and her dark hair was clipped neatly at her nape. "I know," I said. She held the door wider. "My father's in the library. He asked me to bring you in." "Your father?" "Adrian's my father," she said. "I've called him that since I was five." There was no challenge in her voice. I'd expected one anyway. Celia led me through a bright hall hung with paintings of the coastline. I noticed a framed photograph of her at a retreat, seated before a group of students. She had the patient, open expression of someone who knew a camera was pointed at her. My father stood when I entered the library. Adrian Vane had silver at his temples and a cane he didn't use. He studied my face as if searching for my mother's features. "Mara," he said. "Mr. Vane." He flinched at that. Celia took a place by the bookcase, hands folded over her bracelet. "I'm grateful you came," Adrian said. "You haven't told me why." He gestured toward a chair. "The family is facing a difficult decision. The Tideglass Foundation can't continue as it is. We need to sell the lower grounds and the old retreat buildings." I didn't sit. "The retreat buildings belong to the foundation." "Technically, yes." "And you want me here because?" "Your return changes the conversation. The board wants to see the family united." Celia's mouth tightened. "The board wants her to stand beside me at the press event." I turned to her. "You knew?" "I knew they wanted a photograph. I didn't know they'd sent a car to fetch you without telling you the point of it." Adrian tapped his cane against the rug. "I hoped we could keep the announcement simple." "You want to sell a retreat and use the daughter you just found as proof that the family has a clear future," I said. "What does that have to do with me being here?" He looked at me for a long moment. "You're my daughter." The words should have been an answer. Instead, they opened another question. I sat at last, not because I forgave him, but because standing made it too easy to leave. "What are you asking me to do?" I said. Adrian placed a thin folder on the table. "Meet the board. Listen to the proposal. Then, if you're willing, join Celia in representing the family." Celia looked at me, and for the first time I saw the strain beneath her calm expression. I left the folder closed. "I'll listen," I said. "I won't be anyone's proof."