Sarah gestures to a small, awkwardly angled leather chair. I sit, trying not to be rattled or distracted as my eyes conjure what look like patches of black ice on a slush-grey strip of highway weaving all around her head, her shoulders, her chest. She pours a single cup of tea into a delicate china cup and takes a sip.

Her meticulously pencilled sapphire eyes shoot little spitball ice pellets at me when I smile and say, “Some tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

She dribbles some scalding, pallid liquid into another cup she has to leave the room to get, even though there are a half-dozen nice ones on the table right in front of her. From the first sip, it is clear that she can’t brew a cup of tea worth a pinch of shit. But that’s all right. I didn’t come here for the tea. I came here for stories. For truth. I won’t try to break the ice. I’ll melt it instead.

“So, how are your sons?” I say, remembering the two boys I awkwardly had hot chocolate and cookies with here once upon a time.

“Stepsons. Ex-stepsons. Their father received a sizable settlement in the divorce, so I imagine they are fine.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” I say, feeling sheepish. The Spensers have always been adept at keeping their stories out of the mouths of the chattering class, and God knows Mama can’t even say their name without spitting venom, but still. Somebody should have tipped me off that Sarah got divorced and Rosalind died. It’s hard to talk with a foot in your mouth.

“That’s the essence of why I’m here, I guess.” My smile is soft and warm, even as she glares at me. “I don’t know much about my father, or you, or this family. I’ve been diagnosed with brain tumours and I might not have a whole lot of time, so I thought —”

“Thought what? We owe you something?” she sneers. “Money? A history lesson? The time of day?”

“A cup of tea and an honest conversation would suffice.” I give my head what looks like a friendly tilt, but I’m really just trying to keep a lifetime of cynical questions from leaping out.

“Here’s all you need to know.” Her nails tap the edge of her teacup. “Your mother was a slut, my brother was an idiot, and this whole island is full of lazy, self-righteous have-nots like you who think that my family owes them something. It has been forever thus, from the day my great-grandfather invested in his first mine here.”

“Oh. That the mine where two of my slut mother’s lazy brothers were killed, or the one where they hired goons to beat the self-righteous miners, their wives, and their children for wanting water and electricity?” I say, unable to tilt my head further or bite my tongue hard enough. “Maybe you’re the one who needs a history lesson.”

She stands up and gestures toward the foyer. “I’ll see you to the door. I trust you’ve had your fill of tea and honest con­versation.”