MEDICAL ALERT: Severe anaphylaxis. TRIGGER: Lilium (true lilies). Airborne sensitivity. Immediate intubation required.
I drop the phone. It hits the duvet with a muffled thump.
Lilies.
I put a vase of twenty Asiatic Lilies in a twelve-by-twelve room with no fresh air.
Asiatic Lilies are notorious. When they open, the anthers burst, releasing a sticky, rust-colored pollen. It stains everything. It travels in the air.
If the Senator walks into that room...
I picture it vividly. His throat closing. The gasping for air. The EpiPen failing. The ambulance sirens wailing over the string quartet while my father watches his Supreme Court nomination die on a stretcher.
Senator Dead at Hale Gala.
“No,” I whisper, scrambling out of bed. “No, no, no.”
The flowers were tight buds at four o’clock. But in the trapped heat of the study, they will have opened by now. If Marcus skipped the anthers to go on break, the air in that room is already toxic.
I dial Marcus.
Ring... Ring... Ring...
“You have reached the voicemail of?—”
I hang up and dial again. My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the phone.
Pick up. Please, pick up.
Voicemail again.
I pace the bedroom floor. Can I wait? The morning cleaning crew arrives at 6:00 a.m.
No. By 6:00 a.m, the pollen will have settled on the mahogany table, on the velvet armchairs. It’s oily. If the cleaners try to wipe it, it smears into an indelible yellow stain. And the air—the air will be toxic to him.
If I wait, I risk everything. I risk the nomination. I risk my father’s wrath.
Do not let a wilted petal embarrass this family.
I cannot be the reason he fails. I cannot be the disappointment.
I strip off my silk pajamas and scramble into black leggings and a thick cashmere sweater. Without bothering to wear a bra, I shove my feet into sneakers and snatch my keys, sliding my driver’s license into my waistband pocket just in case security asks for ID. On my way to the door, I sweep up the vase of white Hydrangeas from the dining table—a safe, pollen-free replacement.
And then I run.
The city is surreal at 2:30 a.m.
It’s raining—a light, miserable drizzle that smears the streetlights across my windshield. The roads are empty. I drive too fast, running a yellow light on 5th Avenue, my hands clamped onto the steering wheel with a bruising grip.
The radio is off. The only sound is the scrape of the wipers pushing rain off the glass.
You’re stupid,a voice in my head whispers.You should have checked the list again. How could you be so careless?
As I pull up to the rear of the Waldorf Museum, the building looms out of the mist like a fortress. High above, the stone gargoyles sit judging me.
Skirting the building toward the service lane, I park beside the dumpsters and kill the ignition. The engine dies, leaving only the sound of the rain hitting the metal roof.
I grab the vase of hydrangeas from the passenger seat, clutching it to my chest as I step out into the rain, the cold drops stinging my face.
