famous artists in every branch of the family. But Ian never understood how they didn’t all dress in a manner befitting their status. His eyes traveled over to the Starling triplets who, despite being genius inventors, couldn’t seem to think beyond khakis and argyle.
Sinead, Ned, and Ted Starling were all sixteen, and from what Ian’s mother had told him, formidable opponents.
“Hello, Natalie. Ian,” Sinead said, grinning as she walked up to them. “I see your jet didn’t crash while crossing the Atlantic.”
“Was it supposed to?” Ian asked.
“Not this time,” Sinead responded sweetly. “Though I hope you have your designer life vest ready for the return trip.” The triplets shared an oddly diabolical laugh between themselves, and strode off in their matching khakis and loafers.
Turning back to the grave site, Ian noticed Alistair Oh, a distant Korean uncle of theirs. Some might call his diamond-tipped walking stick bling. Ian called it
tacky
.
Natalie was looking around for someone to talk to. She had already eliminated their immediate choices: an old woman wearing a tiara who was standing near them with a monkey on one shoulder and an iguana on the other, and
a toddler sitting on the ground attempting to eat handfuls of grass.
“Let’s go chat with the minister,” Natalie suggested. “He might actually know something useful.” As Ian and Natalie trudged off, the hearse carrying Grace’s casket made its way down all one hundred yards from the house to the cemetery. Ian watched it glide along the gravel drive, the reflection of the trees skimming over its glossy rooftop.
Ian felt a sense of finality rise within him, but it was joined with something else.
Sadness? Excitement?
Could it even be . . . fear?
Ian wasn’t sure, which was a new feeling to him, too. With his handsomeness, wealth, and social dominance, Ian had never felt unsure about anything. Ever. His mother had guaranteed that. Over the years, he’d felt the pressure of his duty, his parents’ strong-handed guidance, the weight of his family legacy, but never insecurity.
“Hey!” Ian suddenly heard someone yell from the procession line. He looked over just in time to see Dan Cahill get flipped upside down by the Holt sisters, Madison and Reagan. The child bodybuilders had grabbed hold of one leg each, and Dan was swinging like a blond-haired bat in store-bought funeral clothes.
“Look, guys,” eleven-year-old Madison said. “We caught a rat!” Dan was wriggling and throwing punches into the air, trying to get free, but his tie kept flapping in his face.
And
this
is my competition?
Ian laughed.
The rest of the Holt family — Hamilton and their parents, Eisenhower and Mary-Todd — jogged up in formation, wearing matching purple tracksuits. Ian wondered how they could possibly manage to don uniforms every day, looking like the waitstaff of that horrid excuse for a restaurant, McDonald’s. More important, he wondered where Amy was. That mangy bookworm was always with her little brother. It was rather sweet, like the runt of the litter protecting the deranged one.
Then he saw her. Amy’s face had gone pale, and she appeared to be stammering, as usual. The Holts were laughing at her. Ian’s mum, Isabel Kabra, said weakness should
always
be laughed at. Well, the Holt family was doing a fine job.
The girls finally dropped Dan, and Ian turned his attention back to the minister. Natalie must have been employing her interrogation training, since he looked a little frightened of her. Indeed, he looked scared of everyone. He kept wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief and looking anxiously back and forth. Ian knew he should probably call her off. It was unlikely the poor fellow knew anything useful.
Ian looked back to Amy and Dan. Ian’s mother said they posed the greatest threat, though Ian still couldn’t believe it. The two siblings could barely dress themselves. How could
they
ever become the most influential people
Sinead, Ned, and Ted Starling were all sixteen, and from what Ian’s mother had told him, formidable opponents.
“Hello, Natalie. Ian,” Sinead said, grinning as she walked up to them. “I see your jet didn’t crash while crossing the Atlantic.”
“Was it supposed to?” Ian asked.
“Not this time,” Sinead responded sweetly. “Though I hope you have your designer life vest ready for the return trip.” The triplets shared an oddly diabolical laugh between themselves, and strode off in their matching khakis and loafers.
Turning back to the grave site, Ian noticed Alistair Oh, a distant Korean uncle of theirs. Some might call his diamond-tipped walking stick bling. Ian called it
tacky
.
Natalie was looking around for someone to talk to. She had already eliminated their immediate choices: an old woman wearing a tiara who was standing near them with a monkey on one shoulder and an iguana on the other, and
a toddler sitting on the ground attempting to eat handfuls of grass.
“Let’s go chat with the minister,” Natalie suggested. “He might actually know something useful.” As Ian and Natalie trudged off, the hearse carrying Grace’s casket made its way down all one hundred yards from the house to the cemetery. Ian watched it glide along the gravel drive, the reflection of the trees skimming over its glossy rooftop.
Ian felt a sense of finality rise within him, but it was joined with something else.
Sadness? Excitement?
Could it even be . . . fear?
Ian wasn’t sure, which was a new feeling to him, too. With his handsomeness, wealth, and social dominance, Ian had never felt unsure about anything. Ever. His mother had guaranteed that. Over the years, he’d felt the pressure of his duty, his parents’ strong-handed guidance, the weight of his family legacy, but never insecurity.
“Hey!” Ian suddenly heard someone yell from the procession line. He looked over just in time to see Dan Cahill get flipped upside down by the Holt sisters, Madison and Reagan. The child bodybuilders had grabbed hold of one leg each, and Dan was swinging like a blond-haired bat in store-bought funeral clothes.
“Look, guys,” eleven-year-old Madison said. “We caught a rat!” Dan was wriggling and throwing punches into the air, trying to get free, but his tie kept flapping in his face.
And
this
is my competition?
Ian laughed.
The rest of the Holt family — Hamilton and their parents, Eisenhower and Mary-Todd — jogged up in formation, wearing matching purple tracksuits. Ian wondered how they could possibly manage to don uniforms every day, looking like the waitstaff of that horrid excuse for a restaurant, McDonald’s. More important, he wondered where Amy was. That mangy bookworm was always with her little brother. It was rather sweet, like the runt of the litter protecting the deranged one.
Then he saw her. Amy’s face had gone pale, and she appeared to be stammering, as usual. The Holts were laughing at her. Ian’s mum, Isabel Kabra, said weakness should
always
be laughed at. Well, the Holt family was doing a fine job.
The girls finally dropped Dan, and Ian turned his attention back to the minister. Natalie must have been employing her interrogation training, since he looked a little frightened of her. Indeed, he looked scared of everyone. He kept wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief and looking anxiously back and forth. Ian knew he should probably call her off. It was unlikely the poor fellow knew anything useful.
Ian looked back to Amy and Dan. Ian’s mother said they posed the greatest threat, though Ian still couldn’t believe it. The two siblings could barely dress themselves. How could
they
ever become the most influential people
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