Page 67 of Holly & Hemlock
Lane answers for me. “She could leave. She could burn it down. That’s a choice.”
Larkin shakes his head, slow, deliberate. “It’s never that easy. Not here.”
I listen to them and realize that what I thought was a decision is more like a sentence already delivered. The house has already decided, and we are only here to act it out.
The next course comes: fish, white and glistening, the flesh splayed open with tiny, surgical incisions. Whitby plates it herself, laying a thin slice of lemon atop each portion as if crowning a corpse.
I eat, because not eating would be an insult, and because the heat of the food anchors me to the moment. The wine is sweet, the kind that lulls the tongue, dulls the sharpest words.
Larkin asks, “Have you seen the library tonight?”
“No.”
He lifts his glass, swirling the wine until it blushes at the rim. “You should,” he says. “Whitby’s outdone herself.”
Lane snorts. “Every room looks nice, but decorations don’t serve a purpose.”
“Some of us prefer to appreciate effort,” Larkin says, but his voice is almost affectionate.
I study them, these two men who have defined the edges of my exile. I think of what Whitby said, the house is a hunger, a need that never lets up. I wonder if either of them has ever known what it is to be full.
Whitby removes the plates with a sweep, returns with the main course: lamb, bloody and tender, the sauce dark as ink. She sets it before us without comment, but her eyes flick from me to Larkin, from Larkin to Lane, as if she is marking a ledger.
I cut the lamb, watching the juice run out in thin, red lines. The taste is perfect, almost narcotic, but I find I have no appetite.
“The holly and hemlock are a nice touch.” I say to Whitby, who stands in the corner, hands folded in front of her.
She tilts her head, the candlelight catching in her eyes. “Holly to protect,” she says, looking at Lane. “Hemlock to warn.” Her eyes drift over to Larkin. “The old ways are never wrong, Miss Vale.”
Larkin looks at the centerpiece as if seeing it for the first time.
Lane pushes back from the table, the chair skidding on the hardwood. “I’m going to the kitchen,” he says, already halfway to the door.
Whitby watches him go, then turns her attention to Larkin, who seems suddenly very young, the mask of confidence slipping. “You should try the lamb,” she says. “In case it’s the last you’ll have from this kitchen.”
Larkin nods, cuts a piece, and chews it down with the focus of someone determined not to waste anything, not even a final meal.
I wait for Whitby to leave, but she remains, her eyes on me, her presence as palpable as a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you afraid?” she asks, voice so low it might not exist at all.
I nod.
“Good,” she says. “The house does not respect the fearless. It chews them up.”
Larkin looks at me, his gaze hollowed out, but not empty. “It doesn’t matter what you choose. The house will have its due.”
Whitby steps forward, her shoes soundless on the rug. She bends to my ear and says, “The only thing that breaks the chain is hunger. Choose what to starve, and what to feed.”
The candles flicker, the flames bending toward each other, stretching to bridge the gap.
Lane returns, without any explanation of his absence. I think that maybe he is just as nervous as I am.
The feast continues, the room burning with anticipation, the air thick with the knowledge that when the last plate is cleared, nothing will ever be as it was.
Whitby pours the next wine, and for a moment, the three of us are united: hands on stemware, eyes fixed on the centerpiece, the world outside the dining room erased by the pressure of this single, fragile moment.
We eat in silence, but it’s no longer the hush of anticipation, but the lull that follows a storm, the stunned calm of survivors.
