Page 69 of Gifted & Talented

“So then what’s your advice?”

“My advice?” He leaned closer, brushing her hair over one shoulder. “Take Thayer’s money and run. Use it to deal with your own legal battles if Tyche makes you take the fall. You’re Meredith fucking Wren.” He rested his forehead against the side of her head, like a nuzzle between two cartoon lions or the drunk lean of a man who felt guilty, morose. “Meredith,” he murmured, “you deserve more than your father will ever give you. He wasn’t a good man, he was barely even a smart one, and you don’t need his approval in death any more than you did in life. You turned out the way you are in spite of him, not because of him.”

“Don’t,” whispered Meredith in a mortifying, wobbly voice.

“Okay,” said Jamie. Then he kissed her forehead, and then he left.)

“So?” said Cass. “What do you think?”

Meredith’s watch buzzed with a message from Jamie. She glanced at the screen.Drinks at 8?

K, she typed back.

“Sorry, Ward again. Yeah, okay,” said Meredith. “After the funeral. Maybe next—oh, no, never mind, I’ve got that thing,” she said, skimming her calendar. “The week after?”

“Sure. I’ll schedule something at City Hall and get it in your calendar,” said Cass.

She smiled gratefully at him. Groceries. Calendar invitations. Assuming she didn’t go to prison, life would be so easy. So sweet.

Then there was a knock at her door.

“Ah,” said Meredith, blown over by a tide of inexplicable relief. “The lawyers must be here.”

31

When Eilidh came into the kitchen, Gillian was staring blankly into space. She had one foot curled around her calf, one knee knocked casually to the side, and for the first time, it occurred to Eilidh that Gillian had probably done ballet for some substantial period in her youth. It was always a bit cruel, the realization that some people had simply stopped dancing instead of having dance robbed from them.

The thing living off to the side of Eilidh’s rib cage gave a small ruffle of indignation and there was an itch in the center of her palm, the place she might curl around a dagger. Her heart quickened with a rush of something, the primal hunt for something untrackable, adrenaline that could drive her to the ends of the earth. But the feeling was about Gillian, so it was too light to really be mean-spirited.

Then Gillian blinked herself to cognizance. “I feel nothing resembles my ethical failings more than a desiccated brie,” she commented aloud, angling over her shoulder for a fleeting glance at Eilidh before turning her attention back to the cheese plate she appeared to be preparing, presumably for the lawyers. Eilidh looked down and realized that yes, Gillian had been excavating cheese from well below the rind, leaving a gluttonous margin of edible scraps that would now likely go uneaten. She was snacking, apparently, on this and stray cuts of a sourdough baguette, which seemed somehow very odd. (Bears snacked, not Gillian.)

“Well, as symbolism goes, you could do worse,” said Eilidh, sidling up to her and stealing a grape. Gillian had selected a beautifully curated variety of textures and flavors, the sort of hospitality expertise that Eilidh assumed people didn’t naturally accumulate until they were much older, in their forties at least. “I feel like I need to take a class on adulting, or whatever skills you need to do things like this.”

“Oh, this isn’t skill, Eilidh, it’s just money,” replied Gillian, just as therewas an indication from the security system that someone was climbing the steps up to the front door.

Eilidh and Gillian both watched the little screen show an obviously laborious Dzhuliya, who was dressed that day in the trappings of magitech business casual (jeans and a half-zip performance fleece). The thing in Eilidh’s chest rose up on tiptoe at the sight of her, a lovely little relevé of carnal appetites, which Eilidh was forced to both tamp down and obscure when she sensed Gillian wryly observing her expression.

“I didn’t realize Dzhuliya would be coming for this,” Eilidh remarked, which was true. She’d taken away the understanding that she’d probably see Dzhuliya again shortly, albeit not this soon.

“I asked her to,” replied Gillian with a shrug. “I thought we could benefit from having all hands on deck, at least until the funeral.”

They continued watching in silence as Dzhuliya paused to catch her breath on the second stairway landing.

“Hm,” said Eilidh, unintentionally aloud, and Gillian nodded as if she’d perfectly understood.

“She seems different, doesn’t she?” commented Gillian. “Granted, I normally don’t speak with her more than once or twice a week—”

“Once or twicea week?”

“—and I see her in person far less frequently, but still, there’s something off.” Gillian began thoughtfully placing slivers of dried apricots beside a miniature tureen of honey. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.” A partial lie. Not that Eilidhdidknow, but nobody who worked for Wrenfare could be characterized these days as “on.” “Maybe stress? I mean, without my dad—” A small, temporarily forgettable lump in her throat. “She doesn’t really have a job, does she?”

Gillian made a sound of diplomatic disagreement. “Certainly she could be stressed, but to this degree? It’s not as if Wrenfare won’t still need administrative assistance. Besides, she’s very qualified. Whatever happens, she’ll land on her feet.” Then she turned to the fridge, withdrawing a selection of cured meats. “I think she’s pregnant.”

“What?” burst out of Eilidh with a suddenness that jarred the thing in her chest. It had curled tightly around her ribs, playing them like a cello.

“It’s just a hunch,” said Gillian, shrugging as she returned, meat-laden, to her culinary preparations. “It’s something about the fullness around her face, and look, she’s exhausted.” She pointed to Dzhuliya on thescreen. “She’s gone up about ten steps and she’s already fatigued. Which isn’t a judgment,” Gillian rushed to add, “but isn’t she some sort of rock climber?”

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