The Shadow Sister: Book Three (Volume 3) (The Seven Sisters) - Softcover

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Lucinda Riley was the New York Times bestselling author of over twenty novels, including The Orchid House, The Girl on the Cliff, and the Seven Sisters series. Her books have sold twenty million copies in thirty-five languages globally. She was born in Ireland and divided her time between England and West Cork with her husband and four children. Visit her website at LucindaRiley.com.

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The Shadow Sister

1

I will always remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard that my father had died . . .”

With my pen still suspended above the sheet of paper, I looked up at the July sun—or, at least, the small ray of it that had managed to trickle between the window and the red-brick wall a few yards in front of me. All of the windows in our tiny apartment looked onto its blandness, and despite today’s beautiful weather, it was dark inside. So very different from my childhood home, Atlantis, on the shores of Lake Geneva.

I realized I had been seated exactly where I was now when CeCe had come into our miserable little sitting room to tell me that Pa Salt was dead.

I put down the pen and went to pour myself a glass of water from the tap. It was clammy and airless in the sticky heat and I drank thirstily as I contemplated the fact that I didn’t need to do this—to put myself through the pain of remembering. It was Tiggy, my younger sister, who, when I’d seen her at Atlantis just after Pa died, had suggested the idea.

“Darling Star,” she’d said, when some of us sisters had gone out onto the lake to sail, simply trying to distract ourselves from our grief, “I know you find it hard to speak about how you feel. I also know you’re full of pain. Why don’t you write your thoughts down?”

On the plane home from Atlantis two weeks ago, I’d thought about what Tiggy had said. And this morning, that’s what I had endeavored to do.

I stared at the brick wall, thinking wryly that it was a perfect metaphor for my life just now, which at least made me smile. And the smile carried me back to the scarred wooden table that our shady landlord must have picked up for nothing in a junk shop. I sat back down and again picked up the elegant ink pen Pa Salt had given me for my twenty-first birthday.

“I will not start with Pa’s death,” I said out loud. “I will start when we arrived here in London—”

The crash of the front door closing startled me and I knew it was my sister CeCe. Everything she did was loud. It seemed beyond her to put a cup of coffee down without banging it onto the surface and slopping its contents everywhere. She had also never grasped the concept of an “indoor voice” and shouted her words to the point where, when we were small, Ma was once worried enough to get her hearing tested. Of course, there was nothing wrong with it. In fact, it was the opposite—CeCe’s hearing was overdeveloped. There was nothing wrong with me either when a year later Ma took me to a speech therapist, concerned at my lack of chatter.

“She has words there, she just prefers not to use them,” the therapist had explained. “She will when she’s ready.”

At home, in an attempt to communicate with me, Ma had taught me the basics of French sign language.

“So whenever you want or need something,” she’d said to me, “you can use it to tell me how you feel. And this is how I feel about you right now.” She’d pointed at herself, crossed her palms over her heart, then pointed at me. “I—love—you.”

CeCe had learned it quickly too, and the two of us had adopted and expanded what had begun as a means of communication with Ma to form our own private language—a mixture of signs and made-up words—using it when people were around and we needed to talk. We’d both enjoyed the baffled looks on our sisters’ faces as I’d sign a sly comment across the breakfast table and we’d both dissolve into helpless giggles.

Looking back, I could see that CeCe and I became the antithesis of each other as we were growing up: the less I spoke, the louder and more often she talked for me. And the more she did, the less I needed to. Our personalities had simply become exaggerated. It hadn’t seemed to matter when we were children, squashed into the middle of our six-sister family—we’d had each other to turn to.

The problem was, it mattered now . . .

“Guess what? I’ve found it!” CeCe burst into the sitting room. “And in a few weeks’ time we can move in. The developer’s still got some finishing off to do, but it’ll be incredible when it’s done. God, it’s hot in here. I can’t wait to leave this place.”

CeCe went to the kitchen and I heard the whoosh of the tap being turned on full blast, knowing that the water had most likely spattered all over the worktops I had painstakingly wiped down earlier.

“Want some water, Sia?”

“No thanks.” Although CeCe only used it when we were alone, I mentally chided myself for being irritated by the pet name she had coined for me when we were little. It came from a book Pa Salt had given me for Christmas, The Story of Anastasia, about a young girl who lived in the woods in Russia and discovered she was a princess.

“She looks like you, Star,” five-year-old CeCe had said as we’d stared at the pictures in the storybook. “Perhaps you’re a princess too—you’re pretty enough to be one, with your golden hair and blue eyes. So, I will call you ‘Sia.’ And it goes perfectly with ‘Cee’! Cee and Sia—the twins!” She’d clapped her hands in delight.

It was only later, when I’d learned the real history of the Russian royal family, that I understood what had happened to Anastasia Romanova and her siblings. It hadn’t been a fairy tale at all.

And nor was I a child any longer, but a grown woman of twenty-seven.

“I just know you’re going to love the apartment.” CeCe reappeared in the sitting room and flopped onto the scuffed leather sofa. “I’ve booked an appointment for us to see it tomorrow morning. It’s a shedload of money, but I can afford it now, especially as the agent told me the City is in turmoil. The usual suspects aren’t queuing up to buy right now, so we agreed on a knockdown price. It’s time we got ourselves a proper home.”

It’s time I got myself a proper life, I thought.

“You’re buying it?” I said.

“Yes. Or at least, I will if you like it.”

I was so astonished, I didn’t know what to say.

“You all right, Sia? You look tired. Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

“No.” Despite my best efforts, tears came to my eyes as I thought of the long, sleepless hours bleeding toward dawn, when I’d mourned my beloved father, still unable to believe he was gone.

“You’re still in shock, that’s the problem. It only happened a couple of weeks ago, after all. You will feel better, I swear, especially when you’ve seen our new apartment tomorrow. It’s this crap place that’s depressing you. It sure as hell depresses me,” she added. “Have you e-mailed the guy about the cookery course yet?”

“Yes.”

“And when does it start?”

“Next week.”

“Good. That gives us time to start choosing some furniture for our new home.” CeCe came over to me and gave me a spontaneous hug. “I can’t wait to show it to you.”



“Isn’t it incredible?”
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