Page 83 of Gifted & Talented

Meredith blinked. “What?”

“A chip,” Cass repeated. “Something to help with neurological disorders, schizophrenia, that kind of thing. About a month ago your dad was in talks to buy a start-up that was in direct competition with—”

“Chirp,” Meredith supplied, mainly so Cass didn’t have to.

Your product,Thayer said in her head,is unsound.

Your idea won’t work,a seventeen-year-old version of me reminded Meredith in her head.If you really want it to work it’s gotta be from—I don’t know, fuckinginsidethe brain or some shit, not subcutaneous. That shit won’t stick.

Cass looked at her with pity, like he was throwing dirt on her open grave.

“Mer,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She forced brightness into her voice. “Do you know the name of the start-up?”

Cass shook his head. “Some Berkeley technomancy grads were shopping the concept around for funding. It crossed Kip’s desk because they’d sold to Tyche in the past.” Something tore inside Meredith’s chest; a small thing, like an artery. “It’s proprietary, so we weren’t able to vet much. A generic name, probably a shell corporation.”

“Ah. Did the sale go through?”

“I don’t think it was finalized or we’d have heard about it, so either Thayer passed or it’s still on the table.”

“So then it’s Eilidh’s problem now,” Meredith murmured to herself, wondering what her sister would do with the opportunity to compete with her—or destroy her. Whatshewould do to Eilidh if the tables were turned.

Cass shrugged again, pulling on his sweatpants. “Maybe. Maybe not.” When he was dressed, he put a hand on the doorknob and then stopped, turning over his shoulder to face her. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just gonna call a lawyer, get stuff together.”

Cass nodded. “Okay. I love you.”

“Love you.” Meredith waited until he was gone, then she looked down at her phone screen. She selected my contact file and typed in a message.

You fucking bitch, she said. She thought about my yearbook quote, the fact that it was Dumas, from our favorite revenge story.How long did you plan this?

But like I said, I was in the woods, so I couldn’t respond.

42

Eilidh awoke to Dzhuliya trying to sneak out, but Eilidh knew every creak of every beam in the turret and Dzhuliya didn’t, so achieving the necessary degree of stealth was always going to be unlikely. Eilidh opened her eyes as Dzhuliya struggled to put one leg in her jeans, nearly toppling over as she attempted the other. She wrestled with the button, giving the air a pained look before she finally managed to fasten them. Then Dzhuliya exhaled and stared down at her stomach, looking at it with a slight foreignness, as if she’d never seen her own navel before.

“Good morning,” Eilidh remarked with amusement, watching Dzhuliya wince at her own surprise. “Love ’em and leave ’em, huh?”

“I have to… follow up on the arrangements we discussed,” Dzhuliya said, clearing her throat and fiddling with her hair, which had been hastily scraped back into a ponytail. “Funeral things.”

Eilidh felt the sinking reminder of her father’s loss, followed by the floating recollection that he wouldn’t waltz into the room that moment; that she would never have to see whatever expression might cross his face after she told him what she’d spent the night doing with his assistant. Former assistant. Whatever.

“What’s on the docket for today?” Eilidh asked, sitting upright. She realized only belatedly that she’d thrown on a white pointelle sleep set without a bra, looking like a small French child apart from the near-transparent material. Her nipples were paying rapt attention to the conversation at hand and she nearly covered them up until Dzhuliya’s eyes drifted longingly down.

Which was, in a word, interesting. (The thing in Eilidh’s chest bloodthirstily agreed.)

“We’re not going to tell anyone about this,” offered Dzhuliya tangentially, “are we?”

“You mean you don’t want to have breakfast with my entire family?” Eilidh replied. “Right now, this instant?”

Dzhuliya gave a long sigh, adjusting her jeans. There was the barest, slightest curve to her belly, which Eilidh had run her fingers down and slid her tongue over several times the previous night. If this was the gestational body, then from an outsider’s perspective, it was highly underrated. Dzhuliya’s breasts were full and sensitive, tender to the (frequent) touch. Eilidh had chosen not to ask questions, largely out of the hope that Dzhuliya would not ask any herself.

“I thought I’d take care of the ashes this morning. Save you a trip,” Dzhuliya said. “Although I’m not entirely sure what urn your father would have wanted.”

“Probably one of those red cups,” said Eilidh. “Or a genie lamp.”

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