Page 50
Calla: Define sucks.
Lila: Emily’s just…
I type. Stop. Delete. Rewrite.
Lila: It was just a heavy morning.
Calla: Ah. The grief monster strikes again.
Serena: It’s an asshole.
Calla: A relentless asshole.
Serena: You want us to fly up there and kidnap you?
Lila: Kidnapping is illegal.
Calla: It’s just one little felony, Lila.
Serena: In all seriousness, what do you need?
I think about it.
Lila: Just a distraction.
Calla: Oh, babe. I know exactly where you can find that.
Serena:
Lila: You two are so comforting. Truly.
8
PRIVILEGED INFORMATION
THEO
The request came through Giles, of course—delivered with that same grim precision that made everything sound vaguely judicial. “Mrs. Mayfair would like you to join her for tea in the morning room, sir. While the girls are out riding.”
Theo doubted there was much would like involved. Evelyn Mayfair didn’t request things; she issued summonses. Tea, in her hands, wasn’t a beverage—it was strategy.
Still, he didn’t really mind. Evelyn was entertaining. Sharp in a polite, smiling-while-drawing-blood kind of way. And after last night’s mess, her particular brand of order felt almost refreshing. Predictable, at least.
Besides, this wasn’t just tea to him either. He wanted to see what she’d say without anyone else in the room. What might slip through the cracks when the only audience they held was the murder of crows perched on the stone balustrade outside the morning room window.
He arrives at precisely eleven, because being late would be rude and being early would look eager. The morning room smells faintly of bergamot and polish, the air too warm for comfort. Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains, softening the sharp edges of furniture that predates the concept of ergonomics. Evelyn sits perfectly poised in a high-backed chair upholstered in a floral pattern that manages to look both delicate and slightly menacing.
Theo adjusts the cuff of his shirt as Giles pours the tea—delicate china, saucers so thin he can see light through them. There’s a silver tray of tea cookies and the low hum of classical music from an unseen source—Debussy’s Clair de Lune, if he’s not mistaken.
Evelyn gestures to the seat across from her, and he takes it. A picture of civility—two people sitting down to tea, both fully aware it’s a game.
Her expression carries the faint satisfaction of someone who’s just arranged every piece on the board exactly where she wants it. “Professor Grayson, I do hope you don’t mind being borrowed. It’s not often we have such stimulating company here. Everyone else tends to talk about horses or weather or the neighbor’s unfortunate lawn ornaments.”
Theo returns her smile, careful and mild. “I consider it an honor, Mrs. Mayfair. Though I can hold my own in a spirited debate about lawn ornaments, if that’s what the morning requires.”
Her laugh is soft, practiced over decades of polite conversation. “I’m sure you could. But I’d rather discuss something with a bit more substance.”
He leans back just enough to look at ease while keeping his attention trained on her. “Then by all means,” he says, gesturing airily toward the center of the table. “Set the agenda.”
