Chapter 8: Nothing Is Billable

At breakfast Constance set a cup of coffee down in front of me, black, with two ice cubes.

It was the third time that week.

"How did you know I take it like this?" I asked.

She lifted the pot and poured her own, and she didn't look up.

"Godfrey mentioned it."

I nodded and drank it.

I found Mason in the hall afterward with a clipboard.

I told him what I had heard in the greenhouse.

He listened to the whole thing without moving.

"That was inside a day," I said. "It's my half of the deal."

"The gala is Saturday week," he said. "The Founders' Gala. Mrs. Prescott has been planning it since spring."

"And what is she hiding until it's over?"

"I don't know." His voice was careful. "I'll find out."

That was his half.

Dinner that night was Constance's chicken, and a toast to the gala.

"Emme will be presented to everyone," she said. "As our daughter. In front of two hundred people."

I put down my fork.

[Emotional pressure detected. Expected response: gratitude, then a fear of crowds.]

"Is there a seating chart?" I asked.

Lydia's eyes came up.

"There will be a chart," Constance said. "A lovely one."

"I'll bring my own."

Everyone laughed, because they thought it was a joke.

Mason came along my side of the table with the water pitcher.

His hand shook a little as he poured, and some of it went on the cloth.

I reported that exactly, in my head, and then I explained it away. The pitcher was heavy.

He bent to dab the water with a napkin, so that his mouth was an inch from my ear.

He said it very low, so that no one at the long table could hear.

"When you stop counting, I'm going to put you on the sideboard in the dark and take my time."

My whole body went still.

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