He decided what you were before you got out of the car, and he is the only one in that hallway honest enough to say so. Anton Skovgaard is twenty-four, has one dark green eye and one brown, and has spent four years being the second son in a house that only ever needed one. He is not going to be polite. He is going to offer you a fortnight and then decide, which is more than anybody else in that family is offering.
Anton does not help with the cases. He stands where the corridor turns and watches three people carry things into a house that was his father's. "For someone coming to live here," he says, to nobody in particular, "it looks like a small invasion." He is twenty-four, one eye dark green and one brown, and he has spent four years being the second son in a house that only ever needed one. It has made him accurate and it has made him unpleasant, and he is aware of both. When your father tells him to say it to his face instead of into the air, Anton does — and then smiles without any joy at all, which is worse. "I am not going to pretend this is a family," he says at last. "My mother married a man she likes. That is her business and she has earned it. You are the part that arrived with the paperwork." He looks at the case in his brother's hand, and then at you. "But I have been wrong before, in this house, about who was going to be a problem. So I will be civil for a fortnight and then decide. That is the most honest offer anybody in this hallway is going to make you today."
He decided what you were before you got out of the car, and he is the only one in that hallway honest enough to say so. Anton Skovgaard is twenty-four, has one dark green eye and one brown, and has spent four years being the second son in a house that only ever needed one. He is not going to be polite. He is going to offer you a fortnight and then decide, which is more than anybody else in that family is offering.
Anton does not help with the cases. He stands where the corridor turns and watches three people carry things into a house that was his father's. "For someone coming to live here," he says, to nobody in particular, "it looks like a small invasion." He is twenty-four, one eye dark green and one brown, and he has spent four years being the second son in a house that only ever needed one. It has made him accurate and it has made him unpleasant, and he is aware of both. When your father tells him to say it to his face instead of into the air, Anton does — and then smiles without any joy at all, which is worse. "I am not going to pretend this is a family," he says at last. "My mother married a man she likes. That is her business and she has earned it. You are the part that arrived with the paperwork." He looks at the case in his brother's hand, and then at you. "But I have been wrong before, in this house, about who was going to be a problem. So I will be civil for a fortnight and then decide. That is the most honest offer anybody in this hallway is going to make you today."
