
Heirs
Nothing in this family is given. The seal goes out at dinner and comes back by morning.
Wrenmouth is a harbor city where it rains most of the year, and the family that owns the port also owns the paper that reports on it. Ambrose Merrick is eighty-two and still sits at the head of the table. He built all four of his children's names out of the old word for an inheritance, and never let one of them inherit anything. The company seal is lent, not given: hold it and you sign in his name, and you put it back before dawn. Dinner is the first Sunday of every month, and if you don't come they lay your place anyway. You left sixteen years ago. This year he calls you home without saying why, and at your first dinner he moves your older brother down a chair so you can sit at his right hand. Who you were out there is yours to write. In this house you are only ever Four, the number he gave you — and you came back owing somebody something, which is the one problem this table can solve. Settle one thing here and another lands on the table. No coronation, no last chapter, just the next dinner.