"Come into the little kitchen, I'll fix you a hot glass of hot chocolate and milk," Miss Mckinsey orders as she leads me into a kitchen that seems anything but little.

The kitchen lights flicker on, revealing a cavernous space of a head chef's idea of what heaven might be. Even though Calloway Manor's interior decor is stuck in a medieval stage, the kitchen is surprisingly modern- it's a gleaming temple of marble sourced from Brazil, stainless-steel surfaces, and state-of-the-art appliances. There is a commercial-grade Viking stove filled with just-washed copper pots. At the far end is an alcove with an art deco diner-style banquette. Every part of the kitchen is fitted in bespoke lighting, and brass and leather accents.

Miss Mckinsey prepares a pot of dutch chocolate and cream from the Calloway's own cows as I take a seat on the island. "How have you been finding the trip?"

"It's been intense," I admit. After breakfast with Orson's female cousins and aunts, Orson decides a friendlier countenance is to take me fox-hunting with his uncles.

Fox-hunting is something so foreign, bizarre, and grotesque for someone like me- a born and raised New Yorker with democrat parents and artistic liberal education. For sure, New York Elites are privileged and part of the exclusive one percent. But still, we are the liberal privileged, the type that funds democratic campaigns or read the Wall Street Journal. Most New York private school girls are vegans, have raised money for endangered species, or spent most of their hours analyzing Bob Dylan after spending a month's salary at Bendel's (trust me, the irony is not lost on me).

I remember once the dogs were set upon a fox, they cornered it into a bush. I held out my rifle without a moment's notice and pulled the trigger; it hit the animal square in the head.

Daniel, Orson's uncle, and Callum's father, have been thoroughly impressed. "You're a sharpshooter, aren't ya?" he asks me, "Are you sure you've never held a gun before?"

"Never," an easy lie slips out of my mouth. "Honestly, I'm not even that into guns."

Orson is thinly amused. He looks at the merciless way I shoot, efficient and clean. I think he compares that to the way I take down my female opponents on the social hierarchy of Kensington. "Amory's just a natural, I guess," he smiles at me. The males of Orson's family have grown to like me, especially after that afternoon of fox-hunting, a sport so traditional it's older than America.

The women, however, seems to like me even less with every moment of my presence. Nothing too shocking there.

"You're not used to it," Miss Mckinsey says softly as she tilts the pot over to pour the mixture into two cups. She hands me one. I sip it.

"What do you mean?" I ask her sincerely.

"You're not used to the luxury. I can see it on your face. You look at everything with wonder."

I shrug, "I mean, I thought I knew money back in Kensington. But this is just a whole new level..."

Miss Mckinsey nods, "It is, isn't? The Calloways aren't just your run-of-the-mill rich family. They're practically an institution."

"Yeah, it's crazy," I remark. I stir my chocolate with the silver spoon, making a little mini hurricane in my mug.

"My family is really new money and my Granddad is pretty self-made so my dad never grew up spoiled. We always had money but my Dad never gave me an allowance or a credit card with no spending limit as a kid," I tell her.

"Sadly, credit cards with a limit are practically a foreign term to people here," Miss Mckinsey comments wryly, "Especially that Benetton brat, who is apparently too good for Perrier, and has flown in over three gallons of Swiss spring water from a mountain in the alps for her normal hydrating needs."

"What happens if you accidentally give her tap water?" I snort, almost choking on my hot chocolate.

"She might drop dead, who knows."

I cackle, for the first time feeling a little bit relaxed. Because I know I don't have to put on this pretense of being a blue-blooded, star-studded, merciless Elite. I can be from that Bay Ridge girl from Brooklyn once more- well just a little bit. It plucks inside of me, something deep and near-forgotten like this is what it's like to feel normal for once. But then again, my shield comes up the minute I remember where I am.

Enemy territories are still enemy territories.

"Other than the women giving me a hard time here, there's been a few weird things going on," I mention clearly to Miss Mckinsey, watching her face. There is a good chance she knows something. Working in the shadows means you can hear whispers from time to time.

"Like what?"

"Well, Orson's grandmother said holy shit when she first saw me. Which is not like a grandmother thing to do."

"True," Miss Mckinsey admits, piano-keying her fingers along her chin.

"And...and Orson took me to go see his grandfather in the library right before dinner," I explain to her, "And I know he has Alzheimer's but he...he confused me for Orson's mother. I think he called me-"

"Deidre," Miss Mckinsey finishes, a little bit sad. I blink, not expecting that kind of response. "To be fair, you do look a lot like her in some angles."

"Really?"

Miss Mckinsey nods. "Deidre...Deidre used to work with me twenty-five years ago. She was originally a handmaiden for Mrs. Calloway. Here, I can show you a staff photo." Miss Mckinsey reaches into one of the pockets of her maid costume, pulls out a wallet, and reveals an old folded photograph of the Calloway manor staff's group photo. The date scrawled in the corner on a sharpie announces Oct 25 1994. She points to a girl with blonde hair and a familiar face.

I stifle a gasp by biting down my tongue.

Orson's mom is a dead ringer for Georgina and me combined in one person. I know I have my face reasonably altered- my naturally crooked nose sloped to perfection, my thin lips pumped up to a fuller, juicer pout, my brows lifted and cheeks hollowed out-but I come to realize that I have unwittingly shaped my face to resemble Orson's mother. My old face looks nothing like Orson's mom but my new face and bleached blonde hair makes me become almost a doppelganger for his mother.

It sends an uneasy feeling in my stomach, especially since the girl in the photo, standing in the same classic black silk Chanel dress worn by the handmaidens of Delia Calloway, also bears an uncanny resemblance to Georgina. While she shares my face, Orson's mother is so similar to Georgina in terms of elegance, aura, and stature. Slim and slender, exuding ethereal posedness, Orson's mother, Deidre, has a quiet prettiness to her that Georgina had. I get flashes of baby pink silk ribbon, delicate fingers pulling on double-stranded ropes of mothers-of-pearls, gold clasps, and white brocade when I look at Orson's mother, which is the same vibe I've gathered from Georgina as well.

"Georgina also kind of looked like her," I mutter to myself, feeling a little creeped out. Does Orson have some kind of unresolved Oedipus complex that leads him to constantly fall for women who look like his mother?

"The girl Orson used to bring over?"

I nod. Miss Mckinsey chews her lip as she examines Deidre's face. "I see it now. Especially in the eyes. And the way they hold themselves."

"Yeah, it's striking," I comment, feeling like I'm sinking further into a well of secrets from the Calloway family. "Orson never really told me about his mother. I didn't know she worked for Orson's grandmother." Is that how she met Orson's father? My mind briefly wonders.

A darkened expression crosses Miss Mckinsey's face. "Yes, she was one of Mrs. Calloway's handmaidens."

An ocean of silence. I could hear wind blowings outside the Manor, the horses in the stables huffing.

"She must have met Orson's father when working here," I quip sweetly as a way of getting more information. "That's really romantic, that he fell for one of his mom's handmaids. Like a story out of a fairytale."

"Or a tragedy," Miss Mckinsey corrects quietly.

I blink innocently, clutching the cup of my hot cocoa tight. "What happened to her?" I ask in a way that's sympathetic, instead of pressing. So she'll gladly tell me the information without feeling like being grilled.

Miss Mckinsey stares at the kitchen doorway like she's half-expecting Grandma Calloway to materialize like a ghost from a jump scare. "It's a long story," she says finally. "But...Deidre...Deidre never ever had affection for Elijah." Elijah is Orson's father. You know, that strapping man who constantly hurls abuse at anyone and everyone that crosses paths with him.

"What do you mean?" I lose the pitying effect on my voice, shaking off the sweet, sombre note to my tones and becomes more of an aggressing, pressing tone.

Miss Mckinsey shakes her head and takes my hot cocoa cup from me. She places it in the sink. "I've already told you too much, Miss Scout. Please let me escort you back into your room. I hope you can now have a pleasant sleep."

-

Sunday is the last day left in the weekend at Surrey in Orson's grandparents' house. I spend it walking through the halls, admiring oil portraits of his family, arm looped around Orson's. He shows me the multiple playrooms he and Carmen would have as a kid and he jealously confessed how his grandmother has always favoured Carmen more than him, a trait a little strange for me to hear since Carmen isn't even a natural-born relative. She's Orson's stepsister, from Maral's liaison with another man before Orson. To be fair, I'm not even really sure of the real patronage of Carmen's father.

Orson shows me the enchanted emporium Delia Calloway has crafted for Carmen as a child, commissioning whimsical hand-carved furniture from Italy and walls painted with scenes from her favourite fairy tale, "The Twelve Dancing Princesses." Even now, I'm struck by how well-preserved the room is, still cosseting the space with French dolls, stuffed animals and grand tea-sets.

"Carmen was always your grandmother's favourite?" I ask, looking at the family portrait of Orson, Carmen, Maral and Elijah together. One of the paradigms of the most influential families in the world. Carmen is a beautiful, slender kid sitting demurely by her mother's lap with a black leather Coach headband perched neatly atop her long luxurious chocolate hair and a poised, polite smile. Even then, you could tell she is textbook WASP perfection, the ultimate Queen of Kensington, the scion of Upper East Side private school girls. Her word is Bible to the echelons of the Elite. Undisputed. Parker could only take her crown when she has been sent to rehab for an eating disorder.

The thing is even though Carmen is the stepsister and Maral is the second-wife; I can't help but think Elijah and Maral look like they belong together. I can see the Carmen in Maral or rather the Maral in Carmen. Fuck, I can even see a little bit of Elijah in Carmen's features, especially in the way her nose slopes, her tall cheekbones. If anything, Orson looks more like the outsider in the family portraits. The way he pouts in front of the camera as a kid, as if the moment was captured right after he had got a yelling from his father. Though he and his father share the same eyes, I kind of realize- after looking at it for a little longer- the similarities end there.

I wonder...

"Yeah, Carmen was always the favorite," Orson confirms for me. "Grandma likes her more. Even Dad likes her more."

"The prodigal daughter, I imagine. Queen of the Elites, Queen of the world," I laugh lightly, squeezing his arm. An unfathomable expression twists his face, changing it into a slight grimace.

"Yeah, that's Carmen."

"Hey," I ooze sympathy as I look deep into his eyes, "What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, let's sit down," I suggest, gesturing towards a chaise lounge. We lie on it, my head on his lap, him braiding my hair. It's a cute moment, if you discount the murders, the fact that I hate his guts, and is trying to ruin his life.

Famous tactics journalists always use to pry for information is to tell personal stories of their own. It doesn't have to actually be personal stories- but it could be fabricated nuggets of intimacy and connection utilised to pry more hidden knowledge. It makes the person feel like we're both sharing personal details we've suppressed for a long time.

"You know when I was younger, my mom was never really...happy with how I turned out." What's more important is somewhat using a version of the truth to make your lie more sellable. "She...didn't like how I was like this."

"What do you mean?" Orson asks, big blue eyes wide and blinking. He looks down as me, combing my hair with his fingers.

"You know, what I mean. If you think what I did to Georgina was bad, you should've seen me in LA. I was," I pause momentarily judging his face, "a bit of a nightmare. That's what my mother would say. A nightmare."

I tease out a little bit of disappointment I feel when I've overheard my mother discussing me to my father; the clandestine whispers exchanged about my quiet nature, limited conversation and moody personality.

I momentarily flashback to a memory of a day in preschool. Atticus has been bullied by this girl in his class. He came to me in fifth grade, crying at lunch. Apparently, she had accused him of picking his nose during nap time. In a fit of blinding rage, I confronted the girl outside of Kensington's courtyard and pushed her so hard she fell back and hit her head, causing a concussion. That night, my mother and my father had the biggest fight. My mom had said, "She's a nightmare. We need to get her some help."

My father had reasoned I was just being an overprotective older sister over Atticus- a thing my mom should be glad about- and me pushing the girl was just me overreacting. "She's a kid, Kathy," my father reasoned, "She didn't mean to push the girl. And she said she was sorry. I'm not gonna send my ten-year-old to a shrink because she was standing up for her brother."

"No ten year old causes another eight year old to have a concussion," my mother had argued back, "Your daughter is scary."

Orson's fingers deftly move from my hair strands to stroking my face, thumbing my cheeks in the stretch of silence that follows me. Finally, he speaks up, "My grandmother always loves to tell Carmen and me the story of Romulus and Remus and the founding of Rome. You know how it goes, right?"

"Of course."

"My grandmother always said I was Remus," He bitterly recounts, "And Carmen is Romulus; she's meant to be for great things."

"And now she's in rehab," I remind him.

"That's just because she's the kind of girl who loves control," he explains to me. "Look, even though I resent Carmen for all the favoritism, she's been a really great step-sister to me. She always stood up for me, and looked out for me. She was kind of like the mom I never had."

After the tour of Orson's grandparents' mansion, he joins his grandparents and male cousins for a game of polo. I join his grandmother and the rest of the female entourage by watching the men play by the terrace.

"Polo Sundays are such a quintessential Calloway affair," Maral advises me, pouring steamed milk into her English breakfast tea. Maral reminds me so much of Carmen, it's disconcerting. While Georgina has been the elegant, patrician princess of the East Coast elite that is reminiscent of Grace Kelly, Carmen's poise sophistication are pure Audrey Hepburn. From her commanding presence to her sharp mind, Georgina lacks the edge that Carmen has.

I think that's why Carmen beat out the role of the Odile/Odette in Swan Lake in the sea of hard-working ballerinas. She can be sweet and pure like Georgina but she can also be wicked, sensual, and naughty at the same time. She has a duality in her that cannot be replicated. Not ever can you find a girl of such an echelon that can play both sides (and play both sides well)- Sunday School girl leading the procession of her Catholic schoolmates with beads and a rosary hanging off her neck and little Miss Wild-Child of the Manhattan teen club scene, dancing in loud, throbbing nightclubs, taking Snapchats with her gang as they're smoking on balconies and posing near private jets.

Maral has that same sense of merciless, deadly ambition as Carmen. I can see this as she asks me to sit beside her on the ornate eighteenth-century French pavilion overlooking the manicured green lawn.

Today Maral is wearing a pale lilac dress with a low-waisted sash and delicate knife pleats all along with the skirt. Her long dark hair is gathered into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and the delicate locks on the side frame her face like Botticelli's Venus.

"Do you always come back to Surrey to visit?" I ask carefully. I've chosen my garments for the polo match with plenty of consideration, with help from Miss Mckinsey. In the end, we've settled upon a puffy oyster-colored satin tea-length Bonpoint dress, new navy blue kitten-heel Louboutin slingbacks, and a pearl headband. My blonde hair has been flat-ironed so it hangs longer behind my head, like an enchanting waterfall of gold.

"Not always, but we do try," Maral says as she pours me a cup of chai from the silver art deco teapot. It's sensibly sweetened and spiced with brown sugar, cinnamon, anise, and cardamom, expanding warmly down my gullet. "You might as well get used to this view, Amory. I imagine you'll be making more visits here soon."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you and Orson are getting quite serious, aren't you?" Maral's lips have been painted a deep cherry red, making it look like she just finished eating a bloody corpse.

"It's only been a few months," I rectify her, "I wouldn't say we're that serious yet."

"Oh, Amory. Come on, you've seen the way he looks at you. He's in love with you, even if he hasn't admitted it." She removes a pair of D&G glasses to push it up her birdlike nose but even then I know her eyes are glinting behind them as she looks at me, "Don't look like that. You've just won the golden ticket into the world's most powerful family; make sure you relinquish it."

I'm speechless because she makes me sound like a complete gold-digger. Like I'm some nobody who manages to crawl her way to the top. Past the gleaming tiaras of silver spoon heiresses like Georgina. Through the years-long establishments of friendships like Lucian,

She leans towards me, and drops her tone to a whisper, "From outsider to outsider, I think you have a really good shot of making sure your visits here are permanent." She turns her back to the polo match with a curl of her lips, "And with Orson, you damn sure hit the jackpot."

Maral's words dance around my head as I excuse myself from the match to the library, making some dumb lie about not understanding European customs and wanting to call my aunt.

With Orson, you damn sure hit the jackpot.

It sounded sarcastic but also not. What does it mean? That Orson is a sole heir to a fortune so immeasurably vast it's richer than God, or that he actually has no claim to the Calloway empire?

Blood pounds inside of my veins as I flee up the stairs; I catch Chiara, Ava, and Naomi skulling a bottle of Grand Marnier between them as they play cards. Chiara gives me her customary bitchy greeting look as I move past them and up the second corridor towards the library.

Is it all just getting a little too much?

My mind is swimming with information from my conversation with Miss Mckinsey, the papers I found in Delia's office, and Orson's birth certificate. Everybody mistaken me for Orson's mother. Kai Hong calling me about Aidan's father being a fucking pedophile.

I feel like my head is about to explode.

I get a sense of relief when I escape to the library, feeling a little more calmed down once I'm finally left alone. I put my face into my hands, drop down into one of the red cushions, and try to reorganize my thoughts.

I think about how Miss Mckinsey clarifies how Orson's mother, Deidre, never loved Orson's father, Elijah. I think about how Orson's birth seems to be clouded in a shroud of mystery because his birth certificate announces he's born in England but on his American passport, which I've caught a glimpse of so many times on the occasion of us traveling, it says he was born in Manhattan. I think about the strange paper I've found in Mrs. Calloway's study and the name E.M CALLOWAY. I think about Orson's strange affinity towards women who bears a resemblance to his mother- pretty white women with blonde hair and almond-shaped eyes. I think about Orson and Maral and what she could possibly mean about hitting the jackpot.

"What am I missing?" I ask myself; feeling as if the answer is staring me right in the face. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Deidre?" A croaky voice asks from the shelves. A wheelchair rolls into sight and Grandpa Calloway comes into my direction. He looks frailer than ever; hiding in thick plaid coats and a pair of slacks. He peers at me through his wiry frame glasses with a lovestruck look.

"Um, I'm not-"

"Deidre, my love, you look beautiful," he pronounces, eyes unfocused, completely ignoring what I just said. I blink as if I've been smacked. Of course, I'm so stupid. It's obvious.

Miss Mckinsley's words echo darkly in my head. Deidre never ever had affection for Elijah.

That's because, this whole time, Orson's mother had been in love with his grandfather.

-

VERY long chapter but established a little bit of information; everything IS COMING OUT!