The Last Will

Chapter One: The Gathering

Rain slicked the long drive to Montclair Hall, stripping the trees of their leaves and slapping them against the glass like hands trying to get in. Eleanor Montclair watched wipers carve steady arcs, the motion metronomic enough to calm her nerves. She had been away for months, busy with acquisitions, negotiations, and the kind of boardroom feints her father had taught her to love. Now Victor Montclair was dead. The lesson, perhaps, was over.

The house rose from the mist, a dark fortress of slate and stone. Lights glowed in tall windows. The gravel crunched under the tires as the car came to a stop beneath the portico.

Harold, their butler for three decades, opened the door and folded his tall frame into a half-bow. His hair, once black, had yielded to silver in sharp, dignified streaks. “Miss Eleanor.”

“Harold,” she said. “Thank you for… stretching the definition of family, tonight.”

He stepped aside. “Your father desired the reading to be private. Only the immediate family and… certain relatives were asked to attend. Mr. Lyle will conduct the proceedings in the library.” Harold’s voice wrapped itself around the words, soft as felt. He would have said the same if Victor had asked for a reading in the mausoleum.

She stripped off her gloves and took the hallway in. The scent of beeswax and old books filled the air. It had always smelled like this, formal and restrained. On the wall, a portrait of Victor in his campaigning years—jaw like an ax, eyes cold and merry—watched her with a sort of fond calculation.

She found Julian first. He had planted himself by the cart with the decanters, his smile loose, his tie looser, his hand hovering over a cut-glass stopper. “Ellie,” he said, turning. He had their mother’s eyes: laughing blue, even when he wasn’t laughing.

“Don’t,” Eleanor said. “Not yet.”

He sighed. “So bossy. I’ve barely had time to grieve. The least you could do, as my fierce and terrifying sister, is let me have one small mercy.”

“You’ve had several debt-laden mercies,” she said, sliding the stopper back into place. “Where’s Beatrice?”

“Preening, probably. Or composing a sonnet to herself in the mirror. Our stepmother is… somewhere.” His grin faded. “This whole thing is twisted, Ellie. He shouldn’t have just… I mean—”

“He was seventy-six and ate stress for breakfast.” She kept her eyes off the decanter. “He was always going to die like this. In motion.”

“Victor in motion,” Julian repeated, with a dry note.

Voices reached them. Beatrice arrived on a breath of perfume and expensive hair, a sapphire dress like a ripple of deep water undercut by the white of her throat. She was what Victor had taken up with after grief had stopped being a conversation starter and became a habit. Much younger. Perfect posture. A smile that could be warm when she intended it to be. Tonight it was not.

“Eleanor,” Beatrice said. They had met only twice, both times in rooms where Victor presided. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor said. She meant it and did not.

Clara came last, quiet and soaked at the edges. Distant cousin, vague aunt’s side. Her coat dripped onto the marble. She had the kind of forgettable prettiness that made her easy to overlook: fair hair pulled back, a mouth that was always on the edge of a word. Eleanor had heard she’d been away for years. Something in Cairo? Something in Madrid? The rumor changed depending on who told it.

They all filtered into the library.

Arthur Lyle, Victor’s lawyer, stood beside the fire. He was as precise as always: square glasses, starched collar, a briefcase in leather so dark it was nearly black. “Thank you for arriving on time,” he said, as if herding them into their own grief was part of the job. “Your father made certain stipulations. We’ll get to them.”

Harold brought in a silver tray with tea; a second tray with tumblers and a decanter slipped in behind it at Julian’s raised brow. The fire hissed, settling. Rain fretted the windows.

Lyle set the briefcase on the desk with a soft thud. “We’ll proceed.”