Broken Mirror Read Online Free PDF

fine patina that they shone even in the weak, fog-blighted sunlight of a February morning.
    “Damn press!” said Victor’s cousin Robbie. He looked slim and fashionable in his navy funeral wear. Robbie was all polish — round head, slicked hair, and shaved face — compared to Victor’s frumpy clothes, wayward curls, and two-day scruff.
    Robbie pointed across the lawn to a red and white van with the MeshNews honeycomb logo. A few reporters loitered around the van and fussed with equipment for a site feedcast. Their presence was no surprise. The Eastmore patriarch had a distinguished legacy, and his recent actions were noteworthy as well. The closing of Oak Knoll, the reduction of Holistic Healing Network staff around the world, and the withdrawal of charitable support from a slew of worthy causes had bewildered and disappointed many people. At least, with Granfa Jeff’s death, there were no further opportunities for letting people down.
    Petite Auntie Circe lay a hand on her ma’s shoulder and said, “You don’t have to speak with them.”
    Victor wished he had his auntie’s skin tone, like paprika-dusted chocolate. Once upon a time, as with all the Eastmores, she would have been called “mixed-race.” Nowadays, people said skin is skin and left it at that. But Victor secretly wanted darker skin like hers; he had more than a touch of his ma’s paleness.
    Granma Cynthia sniffed. “I don’t plan to.” She wore a midnight-blue dress with long vertical lines of onyx beadwork.
    Auntie Circe primped the black collar poking out of her navy blazer. “They expect a statement. I’ll talk to them.”
    Robbie crept close to Victor and whispered, “Don’t you go talking to them.”
    Victor ignored him. A wooden sign planted in the lawn read “Civic Mausoleum” in a tight curlicue script that had probably been considered stylish when Victor was a boy.
    Granma Cynthia turned toward Auntie Circe. “If they ask about his illness . . .” Her lips clamped shut, and she looked at the ground.
    Auntie Circe nodded. “Just because heart failure is rare doesn’t mean it never happens. We’re not infallible. But the irony of Jefferson Eastmore succumbing to a usually treatable condition must be irresistible to them.”
    Victor’s fa, Linus, took a step toward the van, glowering. “They better watch their words. If Father had been less secretive about his illness, they wouldn’t be so interested,” he said.
    “You can’t blame him for protecting his privacy,” Auntie Circe said. “It’s bad enough to lose one’s health. To also lose one’s mental faculties to dementia — ”
    Granma Cynthia whipped her head up. “If you so much as whisper that word . . .” The unspecified threat hung in the air as sure as if she’d pointed a stunstick at her daughter.
    Dementia? Victor was surprised. But then he hadn’t seen much of Granfa Jeff over the past few months.
    Auntie Circe sighed. “If I deny the rumors, it increases their influence. Don’t worry. I’ll deflect them somehow.”
    A group of mourners walked down the flagstone path and filed through the doorway of the mausoleum. The building’s four pillars and covered porch — made of white marble or a synthetic impostor — reminded Victor of the Southern, Reconstruction-style homes in Carmichael. He shivered.
    “It’s time to go in,” Victor’s ma, Linda, said, pointing toward the last of the crowd slipping through the open doors of the civic mausoleum.
    Granma Cynthia fiddled with a pair of navy gloves with black piping. Victor’s parents hugged each other. His auntie brushed the shoulder of his cousin’s suit. We’re not mammals, Victor thought, we’re a family of ducks; we all preen and then go waddling forward.
    Auntie Circe held up an overstuffed bouquet of violets and white roses, lifted her chin, and said, “All right, everyone, line up, youngest to oldest. Victor, you’re in front. Then Robbie. Linda, Linus, follow behind them. Mother,