Author's Note: this story is a sequel to "The Neglected Son, Ch. 01-05," set eighteen years later. Feedback is always appreciated.
Swan luxuriated in the bath, chin deep in scented bubbles while the light strains of Vivaldi wafted through the air. Her long fawn-brown hair was pinned up in a bun and the only other part of her that could be seen, besides her head, was one foot resting on the edge of the deep, roomy tub.
It was a dancer's foot, a ballerina's foot, not really all that attractive unless it was encased in a pink satin slipper with little ribbons that tied in criss-crosses up to mid-calf. The toes were knotted, the bottoms bruised and callused.
Someone tapped on the door. "Swan? Are you in there?"
"Yes, Kit," she called back, dipping her foot back into the water. "Come in."
"Are you decent?"
She looked down at herself and saw not a bit of skin peeping out anywhere. "Yes."
The door opened and Kit's dark, tousled head stuck around the edge. His vivid turquoise eyes widened when he saw her. A scarlet blush climbed into his cheeks.
"You're in the tub!" he said.
"I'm covered. We used to take baths together all the time, when we were little."
"When we were like three." Kit, still red, looked everywhere but at her.
The bathroom, palatial with its double-sink vanity, separate shower stall, seating area with long white couch, and private curtained-off alcove for the toilet, gave him plenty to look at. It was all done in white marble, gilded chrome, and rich magenta. Roses covered the wallpaper and the oval rug on the white tile floor. The deep pink curtains were tied back from the frosted windows with hanks of gold braided cord.
It was one of Swan's favorite rooms in all of Pinewood. Only her bedroom, and the detached dance studio that used to be her mother's, gave her more pleasure.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Goodness' sake, Kit ... we're cousins and we've lived together all our lives."
"I know," he said. "But we're not kids anymore, Swan. We're, you know, grown up."
She eyed him with impatience. "Come in or go out, but either way shut the door. You're letting in a draft."
He edged in. "Um, so, how was school?"
Swan reached for a loofah sponge on a long stick. "I'll be so glad when it's over. Only a few more weeks and then I'll be free. You're the lucky one."
"I don't know about lucky," Kit said as he sat on the far end of the couch. "It's no fun being sick all the time, missing out on everything, and having to put up with one tutor after another."
Uncle Chet said Kit had been born with a "weak constitution." Even now, at eighteen, he could still turn what would be a three-day cold to an ordinary person into six weeks' worth of walking pneumonia. Because he'd spent most of his life indoors, either coming down with something, sick with something, or recovering from something, he had a pale, lean sort of face.
Those eyes, though ... the color of tropical shallows off some exotic beach ... wow. Swan envied him those eyes. Hers were nice enough – large and limpid and as soulfully brown as those of a doe, fringed with sooty lashes – but his were really amazing.
He was smart, too. The tutors never lasted long. Uncle Chet always fired them as soon as he realized Kit knew more than they did. Even if he had been well enough to go to school, the other kids would have hated him for his good grades and picked on him for his lack of athletic ability.
Swan herself had almost been turned out of school more than once. The teachers said she didn't have the temperament or the attention span for hours of classroom lessons. She was a month and a half younger than Kit but she had learned to read almost a full year later, and never cared for spending so much time in Pinewood's library.
"Why would you want to go to school, anyway?" she asked, extending one leg to scrub it with the loofah. She might have been self-conscious about her feet, which bore the brunt of long effortful hours of ballet practice, but she was awfully pleased with her long, sculpted legs. Water and foam ran tickling down her thigh.
Kit, staring as if transfixed at her leg, didn't answer.
"You don't need to go to college, and you don't need to get a job," she added.
That much was certainly true. A host of family tragedies around the time they were born had left them with massive trust funds. Those same tragedies had also left them without a relative in the world except Uncle Chet and each other ... unless you counted Uncle Chet's mother. But she was strange, and had only visited twice that Swan could remember, so Swan didn't count her as part of the family.
"There's more to it than that," Kit said. "At least you've been able to get out and meet people."
"You mean obnoxious boys who only care about sports and cars? Or girls who are so spiteful and mean that you wouldn't believe it?" She switched legs.
He was bright red again, and shifting around on the couch like he was uncomfortable.
"If you need to pee, it's all right," Swan said.
"What?"
"You're squirming. All flushed and shaky, too. You're not getting sick again, are you?"
"I don't need to pee and I'm not getting sick!" He wiped his hand over his brow. "Never mind. I should go and let you finish your bath."
She leaned forward, bubbles popping in soft crispy little kisses on her chest. Water sloshed back and forth, lapping at the sides of the tub. "Wash my back first?"
"Come on, Swan! I'm not even supposed to be in your room, let alone your bathroom. Mrs. Reilly would have a fit."
"Mrs. Reilly is an old frump," Swan said. "She's always telling me to put on more clothes." She mimicked the housekeeper's voice. "'Swan, a young lady your age should
never
go without a brassiere.' 'Swan, that skirt is much too short.' "
"She says it's not right, us spending so much time together. Especially now that we're not kids anymore. That it's ... inappropriate."
"She's not my mother, or yours. Now, are you going to wash my back, or not?"
"Okay." Kit got up and took the loofah-stick. He knelt at the edge of the bathtub and rubbed its soapy, scratchy surface against her back.
"Mm, that's nice," Swan said. "Harder. Anyway, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Yeah. Do you know Marianne Devereaux?" His voice sounded odd, almost strained.
"I do, but why?"
"Well ... Uncle Chet thinks I should ask her to the spring dance at the country club."
"What?" Swan sat up straight. The sudden movement knocked the loofah out of Kit's hand and it splashed into the water. She spun to face him, her rump squeaking on the tub's slick bottom. "Marianne? She's horrible. She's the most horrible girl I know."
