“And he needs our DNA why?”
Semele and Cabe had become friends with Mark almost a decade ago when they were all on fellowship at the Smithsonian in the Conservation of Museum Collections program. Semele had worked on conservation research and Cabe and Mark in scientific analytical studies and technical support.
Cabe typed in several commands. “I’m helping him troubleshoot a program glitch by running profiles using three different patches. You all get to be the lucky guinea pigs.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course we do.”
“Come on. It’s a cheek swab.” He opened the kit on the table. “You get your own ethnicity chart.”
“Lucky me.”
Cabe grew solemn. “Sorry, Sem. I’m an idiot.”
“No, it’s fine, really,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Swab away.”
Her family background had become a touchy subject lately, and Cabe was one of the only people who knew why. After her father passed away, she had spent days helping her mother locate important papers. In her search, she had unearthed adoption papers in an old file—her adoption papers.
She joined him at the table. While he swabbed her cheek, she noticed his bike in the corner. “You know you shouldn’t bike when it’s slick outside.”
“Already back and giving orders,” Cabe teased. He put the swab in a plastic capsule and labeled the sticker. “Wanna grab dinner tonight?”
“Can’t. It’s our anniversary.”
“How are you and Bren the Pen?”
“Good,” she said quickly. At least they were until yesterday.
She would have loved to tell Cabe what happened in Switzerland, but she owed that confession to Bren, and only to Bren.
The Emperor
Bren had gotten new glasses while she was gone, square tortoiseshells that had a distinctive professorial air. Semele kept staring at him during dinner, wondering how a pair of glasses could be throwing her off so much. The frames made his face, the angles, look completely different. She much preferred his oval wire-rimmed glasses; they had more character, looked antique.
His chestnut hair was officially longer than hers now after the month they’d been apart. He had tucked the unruly waves behind his ears. Tonight he was wearing a suit instead of faded jeans and one of his quirky T-shirts. She had never seen him wear the suit and wondered if he had bought it for tonight.
She had donned a silk 1960s cocktail dress, paired with ruby lipstick and a clutch from the 1940s that reminded her of Dorothy’s slippers inThe Wizard of Oz.They sat nestled in a back corner, hidden behind an enormous spray of orchids. So far she hadn’t found a way to confess what had happened. Her conscience and good intentions had left her when the salmon tartare and Veuve Clicquot arrived, but still she knew she had to tell him.
“You look far away.” He gave her hand a lingering kiss.
“Sorry, just thinking about work.”
“How was the trip? Did you have a chance to make it to any of the places I recommended?”
“You love to imagine that my trips are more glamorous than they are,” she teased. “I spend all my time in libraries and attics.”
“Please. You were holed up in a château in Switzerland. Nothing happened the whole month?”
Her conscience screamed at her to tell him, but a muddled sound emerged from her mouth instead.
“Did you listen to my poems? Or were you saving them?” he asked, seeming sure she’d done the latter. “The truth.”
“Saving them, mostly.”
“And that’s why you’ve been acting guilty all through dinner.” He looked slightly upset.
She hesitated. This was the perfect time to tell him—or the worst. There wouldn’t be a better opening.
The moment sailed by without her.
