I spread my fingers a little, to let a few drops trickle through.
Bianca’s eyes were bright.
There was more prattle below, then a boy’s voice drifted up.
“Guys. Is it, like, raining in here?”
“I felt a drop.”
“Um, it’swarm.”
I leaned back, so when the ordinaries shone their lights up, all they’d see was a ghostly pale hand floating above the hole.
“Shit! That looks like blood!”
“No way.”
“Dude, look. It’s red!”
I tipped my cupped hand, letting more spill.
“It’s on thefucking sandwiches.”
A scramble then, the clatter of bottles kicked and rolling, a coat dragged across the floor. One of the boys shouting, “Leave it! Just get out!” The thump of the picnic hamper overturned. Someone stumbling as they ran.
I pulled out my flask, loosened the top with sticky fingers. Equal parts rum, bourbon, and Amaro Meletti, with mole bitters. An angry chocolate bar. I swished it around, then pressed my tongue to the cut. The alcohol lit bright fire along the crescent wound.
The ordinaries clamored across the porch, through the trees, their shouts fading into the night’s open mouth.
Sebastian handed me his handkerchief, took the flask, and swigged.
As I bound my wound, I turned to the Lindqvists.
“On this blood, I promise not to reveal your secrets.”
Bianca bowed. “The little accountant solves an equation. Maybe there’s some Peter in you after all.”
16
Xavier took the floor in typical Lindqvist fashion, striding into the circle of candles, unfastening the brass buttons of his tweed riding jacket.
“In centuries past,” he declaimed, “the mors curae was a nightlong frenzy. People branded their own arms, set trees on fire, came home the next morning with a stranger’s head—and always,alwayswound up covered in blood. But these days, certain families frown upon the conspicuous killing of a rabbit.”
“Like with a stick of dynamite?” I asked.
Bianca’s eyes lit up. “So Peter wasn’t kidding.”
“It was only a quarter stick.”
She leaned back, her laughter filling the darkness. “I met Mister Fluffernutter at Aunt Ingrid’s wedding. I’m glad he went out like a fluffy little hero.”
I didn’t laugh. It had been the first of Peter’s many demerits.
“The world is different now,” Xavier picked up his thread. “More police, more surveillance, better forensics. Our families demand restraint. But restraint brings its own dangers.”
“Such as?” I asked, hoping this wasn’t going to take all night.
“A cold heart,” Xavier said. “We cut away care without putting anything in its place.”
