Malcolm shoots her a look, but Sienna seems immune.
“You must be Cate,” she says. “I’m Sienna. The lapsed Scot is Malcolm.”
“Just you wait,” he mutters. “A few days in Skelbrae, Scottish air in my lungs, and Fletch by my side, the old brogue will come right back.”
No one points out that Arthur Fletch is in fact American. Born in the Midwest—Nebraska, she thinks—he’s one of those men who always points out that they have a grandfather on their mother’s side from somewhere more interesting, who dreams of being from older, wilder places and has the money to make it happen.
Priscilla hears the faint rattle of porcelain, and frowns when she realizes it’s coming from the cup and saucer in Cate’s hands. She’s actuallytrembling.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I suppose I’m a bit nervous.”
Sienna gives her a comforting smile. “Kenzo tells us you write crime?”
Cate’s hands disappear into her sleeves. “Not really. I mean. Yeah, kind of, but...” She trails off, and Jaxon huffs out a breath, clearly impatient.
“Is this all of us then?”
“All but Arty, I’d wager,” says Malcolm. “Given that Sisi and I were late.” He glances around. “Dropping the ball on the hosting gig, isn’t he? Has he made an appearance yet?”
Everyone shakes their head.
“Pretty rude, if you ask me,” says Jaxon, “not even being here to greet us.”
“Maybe he’s writing,” says Millie. “It was in one of those profiles, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yeah,” Cate adds, brightening. “TheNew Yorkerone from last year? I was just rereading it.” She flushes as the words come out.
“You totally have it bookmarked,” says Jaxon.
Cate’s flush deepens. “I mean, it’s kind of inspiring, isn’t it? Coming from nothing. Building all of this. It’s nice to know it can be done.”
“Totally,” says Millie with an encouraging nod. “I loved the part about his discipline. How he writes every single morning, rain or shine, from ten to noon.”
Half a dozen heads turn toward the clock on the wall. It’s almost noon.
“He does it religiously,” says Cate. “Even at Christmas.”
“Notthatreligious, then.” Jaxon laughs at his own joke.
“But he totally is,” counters Millie. “He’s like a monk! Even locks his phone away, to avoid any distractions.” Even though she sounds awestruck, she’s also clutching her own phone against her chest in sympathetic horror.
The minute hand on the clock twitches, hitting twelve. It chimes softly, and everyone holds their breath. But nothing happens.
“Hmm,” says Priscilla, breaking the silence. “Maybe he’s planning to make a dramatic entrance?”
Sienna offers up a nervous laugh. “The trip here was dramatic enough.”
“But that would be just like Arty, wouldn’t it?” says Malcolm.
Jaxon shrugs. “Wouldn’t know.”
“But surely you’ve met him before?” He looks around, expecting everyone to join in. Cate shakes her head. Kenzo looks nonplussed. Millie chews her lip. Priscilla resists the urge to fidget.
Malcolm chuckles. “Hmm... interesting. I wonder what he’s playing at.”
The clock tick-tocks, the seconds passing, each more awkward than the last.
At some point, Malcolm and Jaxon and Kenzo gather next to the cold fireplace, as if drawn to it by some primal urge. Sienna, Priscilla, Cate, and Millie have settled in the mismatched furniture.
