XOXO
Poppy
Poppy makes her way back to the table, feeling spooked. Her wrist and knee hurt, her face is hot, and blood thumps in her ears.
After following Arrabella, she found her with the Tan Man in front of the mural. Poppy had instantly backed away, fearing discovery. She detoured instead via another exit and looped back up the corridor, planning to eavesdrop. But the route took longer than expected. She arrived too late to hear anything and was bowled over by a terrified child.
Poppy wonders if the boy heard anything, and why he seemed so frightened of the Tan Man. She’s relieved the kid didn’t reveal her hiding spot. Perhaps she can find him again, ask indirectly what he saw or heard. She did see the title on the book he dropped:List of Suspicious Happenings to Be Investigated by Carter J. Frost. She deduces his name is Carter. Perhaps Roshaan can help locate him.
As she nears their table, she sees Patrick sitting solo. Surprise ripples through her.
He looks bent, broken. He holds a fresh drink, and the plates of food have barely been touched. Lillith’s Bangkok Sling cocktail glass is still full. Everything on the upper deck feels quieter now. Almost sinister. The brighter lights have been dimmed in favor of lanterns and fairy twinkles. Music is softer, the singer more croony as the evening wears into night.
“Where’s Lillith?” she asks as she reseats herself at the table.
Patrick tilts his chin toward the railing. “Found herself a friend.” He drinks deeply from what appears to be a whiskey or cognac. “Can I pour you some wine? Get you another cocktail?”
She doesn’t answer. Her gaze is fixed on Lillith at the railing. She looks ethereal in her white palazzo suit, strands of her white hair blowing loose in the ocean breeze. She stands rather close to a man not much taller than her. He has a straight spine, squared shoulders, a shock of silver hair streaked with pepper. As he leans forward to say something to Lillith, moonlight glints on his glasses. Lillith stiffens at what he says. Poppy frowns.
Her mind flicks back to the gift left beside Lillith’s bed—the serpent necklace. Could he beA.G.? The same “gentleman” who sent the Bangkok Slings—the drinks that appeared to deeply unsettle Lillith?
“Who’s she with?” Poppy asks Patrick.
He shrugs, finishes his drink, and hails a server.
“Another cognac, please.” He faces Poppy, eyes bleary. “One for the lady?”
Lady.
No one calls herlady.
“I—ah—yes.” She leans forward earnestly. “Patrick, listen to me. Did that man just come up to the table and approach Lillith? How did it happen, exactly? Did he introduce himself? And then ask her to go to the railing with him? Why hasn’t she finished her food? Did he interrupt her?”
His gaze drifts toward the couple. “It’s rather sweet, I suppose.” His words come out slurred, slow. “Romantic interest at her age.” He pauses. His eyes go even more distant. “My father hasn’t been in his grave a year, but ...” He shrugs. “Angus was a tough bastard. Everyone admits that. He took up far too much space for anyone’s good. Lillith must feel some measure of relief that he’s gone.”
“From what she’s told me—and from our work on her memoir—she loved him, Patrick. She really did love him.”
He snorts. “Love’s a joke. It’s a convenient narrative around the mating urge, that’s all.” The drinks arrive. He reaches for his, swirls the ice, and takes a quick sip.
“There are different kinds of love,” Poppy says.
He raises a brow, smiles. “Really?”
“Well, yes. Like friendship love. Love for animals. Love that transcends the reproductive years and changes into something special with old age.”
“And you know all about this love, do you then, Poppy?”
Her chest tightens. Poppy might not know it, but she believes it. Even if just not for her.
He nods, as though to say,Yep, I can see you’ve failed in the romance department, someone who looks like you. And at your age.
“One thing I can tell you about Lillith and Angus,” he says, pointing his glass at her, “they werebothmasters at controlling narratives. Their own. And everyone else’s.” He meets her gaze, his eyes cloudy. “Whatever Lillith chooses to say in her memoir, or her autobiography, or whatever she calls it—it’s simply another narrative. Shaped by her. Something she wants the world to believe about her after she’s gone.” He pauses again and sits silent for so long that Poppy wonders if he’s forgotten what he was saying.
“And another thing, Poppy,” he says quietly, “even villains are heroes in their own eyes. Everyone is either a hero or a victim in their own story.”
She frowns. “Patrick, I’d like to know, how did Lillith react when that man approached her?”
“You’re very interested in specifics.”
