“Jesus.” I take a closer look. “Who is it?”
“The head is Orpheus, of course. Calliope’s son, the man who ventured to hell to rescue his wife. He was ripped to shreds by Maenads. But in this depiction, he is still somehow giving prophecies.”
“Is it real?”
“You’re kidding. No, this is just a reproduction, but an ancient and expensive one.”
I stare at the image, unsure of what to say. “What does it mean?” I say, finally.
Grace flashes me a look of frustration and disappointment. I feel like I’ve failed a test. She commands me to finish my drink. “I’ll make you one that lives up to your outfit.”
I obey, then hand over the glass.
“Can you get me a small knife from the kitchen, please?” It’s phrased as a question, though I know it’s anything but.
I do what she asks, but when I return, Grace has already finished making the cocktail. It’s pink, and smells of citrus, and a glance down at the drinks trolley tells me why: Next to the bottles of booze is the corpse of a lemon, its juice wrung out.
“Tell me what you think,” she says, ignoring the fact that she sent me off for no reason. I take the glass from her and sip.
“It’s nice,” I say, even though the lemon is overpowering and there’s something rancid about the aftertaste.
“Don’t nurse it. You’re playing catch-up.”
She takes her own glass and clinks it unsteadily into mine. Though taking another sip is the last thing I want to do, I’m flattered by the attention—and excited by the possibilities. What if we got drunk together, just the two of us? What if she got to know me and even liked me? What if I became friends with a famous writer?
“Salud,” I say, and knock it back.
Grace watches, her lips curling like a snake in the grass.
“Salud indeed. You finally look the part.”
I put the glass down and ignore the roiling in my stomach.
“Are you OK?”
“Fine. I just don’t drink much. I never have, really.”
“That’s far too wise. You’re a young woman—you should be making mistakes while you can. It gets so much harder later in life.” She angles her head as if I were a painting in a museum. “You do look beautiful, dear. It’s much easier when you’re young, of course. Everything is easier, though the young never appreciate it, do you? Your energy. Your beauty. Trust me, it fades faster than you think.”
She takes my glass without asking and starts making another drink. I try to see the ingredients, but she’s in the way.
“What’s in it?” I ask when she hands the glass back.
“It’s a work of art. You might as well ask the ingredients of a Picasso.” She takes her glass and raises it. “To your health. Bottoms up.”
I raise the glass and, fighting every instinct of self-preservation, I begin to drink. Before I’ve even finished, the room starts to spin. I can’t be that much of a lightweight, can I? There’s the same lemon flavor as the first, and when I finish, the rancid aftertaste is overwhelming. I immediately feel my stomach roiling, as if buffeted by some fierce internal weather.
No.
No.
The restroom?—
Too late. The cocktails have begun their evacuation, and before I know it, I’m kneeling on the floor, emptying the contents of my stomach into Grace’s antique vase.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I hear talking, then yelling. The floorboards creak. I’m lying down now. My heart is racing, and my eyes are closed to keep the room from spinning. I don’t feel drunk, exactly—but what else could it be?
