“I see. If Viola, Then Niamh.”
“Apparently not.”
“She’s in—working on her extended essay titles.”
“Well! Good for her. I had her pegged as a last-minute sort of girl.”You had that right.“I assume yours are ready to go.”
“Nearly,” she says. She can do this now, she can focus. Shut out the bustle, think, again, about moral reasoning.Impress him!But she can’t stop herself from asking: “Did you go to the Orson Grey talk just now?”
“Yes, lovely man, really. Off being swamped by adoring fans, I presume. Had a funny story about penguins.”
“Really?”
“Yes, some trip to Antarctica. I’ve never seen any of his films, but now I think I just might.”
Snowdrop.She’s watched it three times, of course. Stark panoramas, tense, abrupt dialogue. He had been better outfitted for the cold than when they met. She glitters with secondhand stardust.
“Don’t tell him, though,” Maitland says. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass him.”
Viola laughs. “I’m sure he could handle it.”
Sebastian
Thx. Dad getting desperate.
Farewell sweet world.
“You changed.”
Orson Grey is sidling into the seat next to her, his face pink and half-lit by the wall sconces, angular cheekbones, full head of chestnut hair, green velvet jacket, hardly wearing the last fifteen years.
“Sorry?”
Surreal shift of the floor and ceiling. The bar has become a hologram of a bar, Orson Grey, his body in the seat next to her, his voice speaking only for her to hear. It’s his smell she wasn’t expecting to remember so viscerally, bitter and leafy like a tea.
“You were the runner earlier, weren’t you? Kind of stared for a minute?”
“No. I mean, yes.”
“Sorry, am I interrupting the two of you?” Orson gestures at Maitland. Is it possible for a celebrity to interrupt? To be unwanted?
“No, no,” Maitland says, chuckling at the insinuation.Dear God.
“I try not to presume,” says Orson. “Particularly with all these geniuses running around. Who knows what you get up to?”
The collective stare of a group of girls in black tights bores into the back of Viola’s head, and she is struck by the reality that this conversation is happening, that he has approached her of all the women in the bar. A sword hangs over her head. “Do you want a drink?” she asks.
“Wouldn’t say no.”
Double malt, she guesses, slowly absorbing the reality of him, his forgotten third dimension. His accent—his real accent—still Scottish after years of shape-shifting.
“It was the neon,” he says. “I thought you were going to a rave.”
“Just helping small children cross the street.”
“Ah,” he says, smiling.Funny, she’s funny!“A Samaritan.”
“The Samaritan,” Maitland says, leaning over the bar, nearly knocking Viola’s drink, “is all about ethics versus morals. Having a good character rather than following rules.”
