![]() He heard Macaulay’s voice on the stairs, the man speaking to someone who wasn’t answering. Sinclair poured a measure of whiskey into a heavy glass and drank it in one go, trying to enjoy the sensation on his tongue. The last time Andrew had been down here, he’d tried to climb onto the table, and had smashed the whiskey decanter to the floor, sending shards of lead crystal and the best Mackenzie malt all over the carpet. The table had an inlaid checkerboard pattern, and Andrew always begged his father to play chess or checkers with him on it. Sinclair gave up on his papers and moved to a little table near the window and the decanter of Scots whiskey on it that was always kept full for him. “Right.” Macaulay hurried off, looking relieved, slamming the door behind him. “If the children are tucked up and sleeping, send her down.” “I agree.” Sinclair shoved the last stack of his papers into some kind of order. “I think you’d better talk to her yourself.” ![]()
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