Page 99 of At the Crossroads

“Maybe she needs a warm up before she tackles the proper heat.”

I swallow a giggle when Honor turns to me. “Whatever made you decide to write about Caterina Cornaro?”

Her condescension almost puts me off the oysters glistening before me. I turn to her with a smile. “I found her fascinating. Married off to the king of Cyprus, who was a Lusignan, after all. Reigning after his death, or murder. Being used as a Venetian pawn. Exiled to Asolo., where she held court. Why wouldn’t you want to write about?’

Honor’s smile is a narrow crescent. “Well, I suppose it was interesting enough to catch the eye of the judges, although frankly, it was a thin year. Except my book, of course.”

“No one would call your book thin.” Stuffed would be more like it, I think. Snark, snark.

There are six books nominated in our category. I’ve read two, one on Matilda of Tuscany and another on Charles the Bold and Margaret of York. Both were very interesting. In Margaret’s case, quite speculative, which is fine in a romance novel. The author made no bones about the bending of historical fact. We aren’t writing biography, after all.

James grabs the last slice of bread as Yavuz reaches for it. Rather than eat it, he rolls it into ammunition. As bread pellets fly around the table, Honor slaps James’ hand. “Stop it right now or I’ll have your father take you outside.”

I intercept a stealthy glance from James at his mother. He purses his mouth in defiance and I shiver, thinking about what he’ll do next.

Honor’s husband heaves a long-suffering sigh as he leaves the table to find a waiter for more wine. A long night is ahead of us.

I had thought my agent, Cal Blackburn, would sit with us, but he is a guest of honor of the president of the society, along with a few other notables in the publishing industry. Cal is a spry octogenarian who has shepherded my books ever since the first one. I wave at him. With a courtly nod, he registers where I am and gestures that he will talk to me later.

Max, Micki, JL, and Yavuz have been ignoring everyone else, comparing soccer teams, and leaving me to the not tender mercies of my colleague. Their bursts of laughter make me wish I could wriggle out of this trap.

“Americans are never true masters of literary expression,” Honor says to me.

“Why do you say that?”

“Everyone knows English writers are much more skilled. I remember one of my university lecturers denigrating the skills of American study-abroad students.”

My cheeks burn as my knuckles turn white. I had raised an oyster to my lips and my grasp has become deathlike. The oyster liquor slops onto my hand, droplets staining the white linen cloth as I force myself to return the shell to the plate.

Honor lightly puts two fingers on my wrist and I force myself not to flinch. Seriously? She insults me. Then she touches me. This woman doesn’t know the meaning of boundaries. I pull my hand away.

“I’m not lumping you into the category of American writers, of course.”

“What am I if not an American writer?”

“You’re Oxford-educated. Somerville, wasn’t it?”

I’m clenching my teeth so hard I’m worried they might crack.

“You went to Manchester, didn’t you?” It’s a great university, but I’m sure my snarky tone conveys disdain.

“Terrific school for history. Eileen Power taught there.”

True, but she didn’t teach you, I reflect. Many famous scholars are associated with Somerville, but I don’t brag about it. I want to slap her.

“Cress, let’s go to the ladies before the next course,” Micki insists. She stands and her chair falls backward. A waiter appears to set it right while Micki grabs my hand to pull me up. Honor looks affronted. Are her feelings hurt that she’s not included? Or is it disgust as what she decides are bad manners? Her upper lip curls, and she looks off into the distance as if the sight of us is more than she can bear.

As we walk out of the room toward the toilets, Max’s impeccably British voice says, “What is it again that you write, Honor?”

Micki snickers and whispers in my ear. “What a cow. I can’t imagine she could put together one interesting paragraph. Her droning is putting me to sleep. Good thing JL can be so amusing.”

I push back my chair and rush out. I hadn’t realized how desperately I needed the toilet. Micki follows and continues her monologue. Her voice bouncing off the tiled walls.

“You are so different from Honor. Is she typical of most historical novelists, or is she an exception?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “But I would venture to say Honor is in a class of her own.”

“What’s with her husband and kid? He’s lounging at the bar like he owns it and James is are acting like he’s seven or eight, not a teen. Except for the scowls.”

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