"I take it she’s ready for a fight?" I ask.
"A fight implies a chaotic brawl, O'Connell. Catherine does not brawl. She dissects," Alistair corrects smoothly. "She wasn't at the door to greet you because she is currently staging the dining room. She prefers to control the environment before she introduces the variable. It’s basic psychological warfare."
He looks at me, his eyes gleaming with a cold, sharp intelligence.
"She views this family as a sterile field. Maxwell is the instrument she keeps trying to autoclave. You..." He gestures to my suit, my scar, my boots. "You are the pathogen. A foreign body introduction."
"And the immune response?" I ask, playing along with the metaphor.
"Immediate and aggressive inflammation," Alistair says, looking delighted. "She intends to isolate you, categorize you as 'unsuitable,' and excise you before dessert. She feeds on asymmetry. She exerts pressure to find the fracture point. Maxwell usually crumples or retreats into that icy detachment of his. It’s a tedious, repetitive pathology."
He pushes off the desk, grabbing the lapels of his smoking jacket.
"But you... you have scar tissue. You don't fracture easily."
He walks to the library door and rests his hand on the brass handle. He looks back at me.
"Do not try to be the antiseptic tonight, Dr. O'Connell. You will never be clean enough for her standards. If she treats you like a virus..." Alistair smirks. "Then be the virus. Replicate. Disrupt the system. It’s the only thing she respects, because it’s the only thing she fears."
"Is that a medical opinion, sir?"
"It’s a strategic consult," Alistair says, opening the door. "Now, shall we? I believe the vivisection is scheduled for 7:00 PM sharp."
The dining room table is long enough to land an A380 on.
Maxwell is seated on the right. I am next to him. CatherineYork—the Ice Queen herself—is at the head. Alistair is at the foot. Preston is opposite us, looking bored and miserable.
The servers glide in, placing massive white plates in front of us. In the centre of each plate is a tiny, white, trembling blob.
I stare at it. It looks like someone sneezed on a coaster.
"Max," I whisper, leaning in close so only he can hear. "What is this? It looks like foam from a car wash."
Maxwell keeps his eyes forward, his posture rigid.
"It is a deconstructed scallop foam with truffle dust," he whispers back.
I squint at the plate. "Where’s the scallop?"
"The scallop is implied," Maxwell says.
"The scallop isimplied?" I hiss. "Max, I haven't eaten since 6:00 AM. I can't eat an implication."
"Eat the breadstick," Maxwell murmurs, sliding his bread plate slightly closer to me. "Discreetly. And do not dip it in the foam. Mother is watching."
"So," Catherine begins. She hasn't looked at me yet. She is staring at a nearby floral arrangement like it offended her. "Dr. O'Connell. Maxwell tells us so little about his... companions. Where are you from?"
"Chicago originally," I say, snapping a breadstick in half. It makes a loudcrackin the silent room.
"And your family?" Catherine asks. "Where do the O'Connells summer?"
I feel Maxwell tense beside me. His leg presses against mine under the table. A silent warning.Don't engage.
I ignore him.
"Well," I say, picking up my spoon and poking the foam. It jiggles. "I grew up in state care, Mrs. York. So I mostly 'summered' wherever the foster placement was that year. But I did spend a lovely summer in Kandahar avoiding mortar fire. The dry heat does wonders forthe pores."
Clink.
