Today, though—Mateo needed to learn more about what was happening to him, and there was nobody else who could possibly know.

He walked up the Hill. If she didn’t hear the motorcycle’s engine, then she wouldn’t know he was coming, wouldn’t have time to tell the butler not to let him in. The neighborhood was weirdly hushed, as if the residents kept noise out along with the poor people. Jaguars and Mercedes gleamed in the driveways, and more than one person had hedges cut into weird shapes. Who paid someone to cut a bush into a cone shape? Mateo figured that even in a world where he had infinite money, he wouldn’t see the point.

On the step, in front of the enormous black door, Mateo took a deep breath before swinging the brass knocker heavily, twice, three times. After way too long, the door opened and the butler stood there, blinking. “Young Mr. Perez,” he said, his voice creaky. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Just wanted to drop by and see Grandma.” Mateo stepped inside without waiting to be told whether or not he could. The butler hesitated, but no doubt he didn’t want to offend the so-called Cabot heir.

“She is in the music room,” the butler said. “Follow me.”

It had to suck to be him, Mateo figured as he walked behind him. Musty suit, Grandma for a boss, almost nothing to actually do; he was less a butler and more somebody paid to stand around being stiff all day until Grandma finally died, when he’d be the one to phone the undertaker. Probably he was hoping to inherit something in the will. Mateo had half a mind to sign Cabot House over to the guy when the time came. That way, he’d never have to live here himself.

The music room was as dry and joyless as the rest of the house. Ceilings stretched up twenty feet, hung with chandeliers gone cloudy, layered with dust. The heavy black woodwork scrolled and curled along every wall and column, like some kind of mold run amok. An enormous grand piano was even dustier than the chandeliers, and a few brass music stands clustered together in one corner, forgotten. No music had been made in this room for a very long time.

Seated by the far window, staring out at her own back garden, was Grandma.

“Your grandson, Mrs. Cabot,” the butler said. Without turning her head, she glared in their direction, and the room seemed to become ten degrees colder instantly. Right away the butler backed out, leaving Mateo to face her alone. Maybe Mateo wouldn’t give him the house after all.

“Mateo.” Her voice was hoarse with disuse. “To what do I owe this visit? It can’t be your birthday again already. I don’t have a savings bond for you.”

“That’s not till January,” Mateo said. She usually inspected him once a year, on his birthday, and they left it at that. “I, um—I wanted to talk.”