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Chapter 7
Elsa sat, rumpled beneath rumpled bedclothes, computer on her lap, work papers and breakfast crumbs strewn around, when her grandmother walked right in through the open bedroom door. She came to the middle of the room and struck a pose: shoulders back, hand on her hip, one foot forward. The old-fashioned gloves she favored, the kind that rose to her elbows and matched the material of her outfit, heightened the effect. Elsa loved how Granny never just entered a room, she arrived.
“Elsa,” said Granny. “We have visitors. Is this your doing?”
“What?” She glanced at the clock. Already 10:30. “Is what my doing?”
Granny gave her the once over then crossed to the tall windows that overlooked the drive and formal gardens that fronted the house. “Did you extend an invitation. I didn’t think so. Typical.” She glanced back at Elsa. “You’ll have to come down. It’s surely to do with you. Just be careful. A visit from a Morrison holds purpose, though never the purpose they claim.”
“A Morrison? You mean Lijah?” Granny knew who she worked for, with, whatever, but hadn’t met him as far as she knew. “He’s a colleague, Granny, not some sort of Mafia Don.”
“No?” said Granny vaguely, her focus out the window.
No, said Elsa to herself, although really, was Mafia Don any more outlandish than a 30-something centenarian outlaw who had superpowers, read minds, baked scones, and cultivated pot at his high-tech secret cottage. Who’d blindfolded her. Who found her breathtaking. Who’d seduced 30 women. God, she hated the contradictions, her uncertainty. Lijah was not a Mafia Don; he was not criminal. Well, not that kind of criminal. He wasn’t a danger to her. At least, not that kind of danger. Gagh! She took a deep breath.
It was Saturday, six days since she’d made her escape. She’d rushed back to her apartment in Lijah’s car, threw together an overnight bag and checked into a hotel. She turned off her phone, used an alias, paid with cash. All very cloak and dagger. And as far as she could tell, all for naught. No-one had pursued her. Or even called.
Lijah had texted her the next morning. She knew this because after a mere 12 hours of having her phone back in her possession she found it impossible not to turn it on. His message read, ‘I had a spare key and retrieved my car. Feel better, L’.
Feel better? Supremely annoyed, she’d turned her phone back off.
Twelve more hours and she’d calmed down enough to realize Lijah had helped her escape. He’d done so surreptitiously, pretending to help Peter keep her from leaving. Lijah must have realized what she up to when she took Peter’s coat and phone. He then ignored his own security system, gave her car keys, and fell over Peter to keep him at bay. Maybe Lijah thought a confrontation with Peter was a fight he couldn’t win – which, based on brawn alone, was true, no contest. More likely he had another, less obvious reason, a whole host of reasons, but damn if she knew what they were. Fucking Lijah, always the smartest one in the room.
She’d kept her phone off, mostly out of spite, until she admitted the only one who was inconvenienced was her. Of the scant few messages she’d received, all were ordinary and mundane. She checked out of the hotel. She thought to brazen it out, go back to work, pretend nothing had happened, but by the time she’d reached home, she’d moved on to Plan B; go to her grandmother’s, claim a family emergency, work remotely. In her head, she defied Lijah to track her down. He could, of that she had no doubt. And hoped he would. Unwilling to delve too deeply into that thought, she allowed only that she’d like to see him take on Granny. In a duel of wits, odds favored her grandmother.
“Isn’t Lijah the tall one? Definitely not him. No, it’s the grande dame herself and what’s his name? The stray? You know, the cousin?”
“Peter?”
“Yes, Peter. Too good looking by half, that one. Quite the reputation.”
How could Granny know about Peter? The stray? And who exactly was the grande dame? How odd that, although Lijah had been a daily fixture in her life, she knew next to nothing about his family, whereas her grandmother seemed to know enough to have an opinion. Odder still that Granny never before made mention of them.
“Ha. Larentia’s sporting a cane. Ridiculous.”
“Granny!”
Granny glanced over her shoulder. “Get up, Elsa. They’re taking their time getting to the door, but they will get there eventually.”
Elsa scrambled out of bed, started pulling on clothes, ran a brush through her hair. God. Peter. She was in no way ready for this. Her gloves a girlish flowery flannel pair that she’d found left in a drawer a decade or more previous. Hadn’t had a shower. Nary a clean article of clothing in sight. And why she cared how she looked for that sex-on-a-stick Casanova was another fact she refused to consider.
“That woman,” said Granny. “It’s unseemly.”
That woman. Larentia. An unusual name. Old, or old-world, as in mythic or from a fairytale. Larentia had to be Lijah’s grandmother, aka Nona, she of world domination, at least according to Lijah and Peter. They’d been joking of course, but if true to character, that might explain Granny’s pique. Her grandmother sat very comfortably in the matriarch’s chair; she wouldn’t want to share it.
“You’ve never mentioned a Larentia before. You met recently?” God, the thought creeped her out. No way could that be coincidental.
“Good heavens no, it’s been years.” Granny continued watching out the window. “Trust me. The visit, the cane, it’s a performance. A performance with purpose.”
Elsa did trust Granny, especially her assessments of people. For decades she’d been a diplomat, some sort of cultural attaché to the state department. In other words, a spy. Elsa didn’t know that for sure, but if not, then Granny had missed her calling. She could sus out subterfuge in a heartbeat. From a heartbeat. She was that shrewd. Reason enough for Elsa to steer clear of Granny now that she had a basket full of secrets that she didn’t know what to do with. Except, that same uncertainty had brought her to Granny’s; no-one was more formidable, not even Lijah.
Half-dressed, Elsa joined Granny at the window. Definitely Peter. More solid, somehow, and even better looking. His manner toward the woman, Granny’s age give-or-take, was attentively flirtatious; leaning in close, guiding her along, winking and laughing. The woman carried herself more formally, erect in posture despite the cane, her bearing proud, regal. She expected deference, clearly. Her smile, though, and their drawn-out procession gave away the vain, self-indulgent pleasure she took from Peter’s attentions. Elsa frowned. Wily Peter, tailoring his charm. With Elsa, he’d been lewd and predatory, and she’d been just as captivated.
They seemed unaware of being observed, or rather, indifferent. Like landed gentry. Granny was like that too, self-assured and entitled. Not Elsa. Not now. She felt like a bear in a tutu, hopping about as she pulled on wrinkled jeans and yesterday’s socks. How to explain this visit? She’d told Granny nothing about recent events. She hadn’t remotely considered this scenario: Peter here, without Lijah, but with a dowager in tow, a social visit.
God, the chutzpah of the man! He’d tackled her; she’d left him bleeding.
Bleeding, true, but not in any real distress. Something else she hadn’t processed at the time but could picture now, how he’d lain there on his back in the snow, resigned and amused in a ‘well, that happened’ sort of way. Had she misread and overreacted? For days she’d been rewinding the tape, trying to sort out whether making a run for it had anticipated or precipitated the chase. And each time she came to the same conclusion. Overreaction or not, Lijah had perceived a threat too. He’d gone on guard from the moment Peter arrived, placating him while protecting her, and he’d orchestrated her escape.
Elsa wondered what happened after she left. Had Lijah pretended to conspire further with Peter or tried to dispel his worries; was this visit a plan they’d hatched together, Lijah continuing the ruse, or was it meant to be conciliatory. It suddenly occurred to her that Lijah may have no idea Peter was here. She felt a hollowness – Lijah would know if he had bothered to check. She quashed the thought. Didn’t matter. She had herself and she had Granny.
Granny turned to Elsa, inspected her slap-dash state, and pursed her lips.
“Sorry,” said Elsa reflexively.
Granny shrugged. “Just as well. They’ll underestimate you. We’ll turn it to our advantage.”
“Our advantage? What sort of history do you have with these people?”
Granny frowned. “I’ve respected your privacy, Elsa. But I now have Morrisons storming the gate. Keep your little secrets if you must, but do not pretend this has nothing to do with you. I will not tolerate deceit.”
“Geezum, Granny. Two well-coiffed Morrisons hardly constitute a revolutionary mob.” She gathered up her ill-clad dignity. “I’ve met Peter exactly once, a few days ago. There was an incident, possibly a misunderstanding, that got out of hand. I have never met Larentia. You have. You seem to know quite a bit about the Morrisons. Curious that in all these years you’ve never cared to mention your history with them.”
Granny studied Elsa, then cocked an eyebrow. “You know, this might be fun.” She checked herself in the mirror, confirmed not a single hair or thread was out of place, and crossed the room. “I’ll get them settled in the library. And Elsa, when you join us, don’t be too clever.”
Elsa spluttered.
Granny paused at the doorway. “This is an opening gambit. A strategic move meant to discover what we know, or think we know, while also delivering a message. Don’t do the work for them. Being dull reveals less of yourself and requires them to be more explicit.”
She gave Elsa one more head to toe scan, smiled as if holding an ace up her sleeve, and left the room.
For a moment, Elsa didn’t move. She felt as though she’d passed a test and begun her secret agent training. Except, in reality, that translated into facing Peter, here and now, under the watchful eye of her grandmother. Two grandmothers! And with a role to play. Don’t be too clever. Christ, no worry about that. While she’s wondering whether Peter came to threaten, or apologize or maybe ask her out, Granny’s in full conspiracy mode with gambits, tactics, and performance. Elsa had no idea what to expect or how to prepare herself. With a final discouraging look in the mirror, she descended to the library.
“Elsa, allow me to introduce you to Larentia Morrison. Lara, my granddaughter, Elsa Wright.”
“Please, call me Nona, everybody does.”
“Good heavens, really?” tittered Granny.
Elsa did a double take. Granny didn’t titter. Or howl. Or simper. Too overt, too ill-bred.
“Remind me,” continued Granny. “How many children is it? Nine? And grandchildren, litters by now, isn’t it.”
“Six children,” said Nona pleasantly, seemingly oblivious to Granny’s intended slights. “Five sons, one daughter, eleven grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. So far, that is. We’re flourishing.”
Touché, Nona.
“Well. Isn’t that the way,” said Granny.
An ironic remark considering Granny had exactly one husband, one child, two grandchildren and one great grandchild. Elsa called her Granny, but to everyone else, she was Constance or Dr. Wright.
Already sensed she wasn’t keeping up. She understood the two were sparring, but not why or, if points had been scored, in whose favor. She glanced at Peter, who, God, just winked at her from his seat. Not just winked. He’d rubbed lightly at his lip, now healed from her kick, as if the wound was a bit of foreplay shared between them.
“Elsa, you’re gawping,” said Granny. “Please come, have a seat.”
Elsa glared at Peter. “Why are you here?”
Granny frowned. Nona smiled. Peter looked down, barely hiding his amusement.
It was Nona who responded. “Peter mentioned he’d made your acquaintance, so I imposed upon him to bring me around.”
Elsa continued to stare at Peter.
He rubbed his tongue across his lip. “You made quite an impression.”
Impression was one word for it. Up close, Elsa could make out the remnants of the bruises she’d inflicted. Did Nona know how he came by them?
Nona rested a hand on Peter’s knee and continued speaking directly to Elsa. “There’s really no mystery. You’re a long-standing colleague of my eldest son. A visit was overdue, and opportunity availed.”
Elsa’s attention swerved to Nona. Son?! Not grandson. Nona, was Lijah’s mother. Elsa should have realized. Lijah had a hundred years. His mother would have at least 120. A lofty number but not unheard of. Lijah’s grandmother, though, would have closer to 150 years. To be still alive with that many years was possible, she supposed, but surly at the upper limit. Elsa realized that even at 120, the disconnect between Nona’s age and years was tremendous. She looked to be about 80, a hale 80 at that, cane notwithstanding. Meaning, a 40-year divide between age and years. Until Lijah, Elsa had thought the disparity impossible. It still felt grossly unnatural. Is that what Granny had found ‘unseemly’? Did she have any idea how many years Nona actually had?
Elsa hoped not. Granny withheld plenty: people, places, events, state secrets. She was a spy after all, or at least a high-level diplomat, secrets came with the territory. Elsa accepted this. They were just details, not unimportant per say, but of passing significance and ultimately none of her business. Nona’s true years versus the age she presented, was no mere detail; it spoke to an underlying truth in the same way falling objects revealed gravity. At least to someone as observant as Galileo. Elsa had never thought to ponder Lijah’s true years, why would she. She hadn’t thought to question how many toes he had either. All Lijah had to do to keep the secret was avoid drawing attention. Perhaps the same was true of Granny and Nona. Perhaps. She didn’t want to believe Granny would conceal something so fundamental to how the world worked. On the contrary, Granny was the one who encouraged her to think critically about the world around her. Her mother had resorted to quaint platitudes or pat truisms to every question of substance. Granny had been her refuge and soulmate; her teacher and mentor. Her grandmother and Lijah.
“Where IS Lijah?” asked Granny.
Good question. The more she considered it, the less sense his absence made. She couldn’t help the gnaw at her belly, that feeling she’d been deserted, but fear wasn’t evidence and she tried to come up with alternative explanations. Death, for example. Or he was testing her like he did sometimes, in which case she’d kill him. Also possible, he trusted her. Or at least accepted her right to agency. Actually, she believed both – he trusted and respected her – but in light of everything he’d already done to protect her from Peter, it defied logic that he’d knowingly stay away now.
Reconsidering the possibility, could Peter have found her without Lijah and his hi-tech knowhow. Easy enough. Michael her admin would be putty to Peter’s Divinci of manipulation. The better question was why. Sex, spite, conspiracy, contrition? Maybe, if opportunity availed. But Peter considered himself ‘God’s gift’ and coming here smacked of too much effort. Besides, she’d seen Peter touch Lijah’s face barehanded, she’d seen the love and loyalty between them. Which left Nona, Lijah’s mother, as the instigator. She’d admitted as much and Peter had admitted to doing her bidding. Elsa drew another blank. Whatever agenda Nona had was far more likely to do with Granny. Except Granny didn’t think so, and the timing too coincidental, and why involve herself and Peter if this was between Nona and Granny.
God, this whole train of thought was utterly pointless. They were here, Lijah was not. Beyond that she knew absolutely nothing.
“Such a pity,” said Nona.
“I’m sorry?”
“Lijah,” said Nona. “He planned on joining us but a work issue came up. Something about Paris and a nomination for an award.”
“You’re shitting me?” said Elsa. A Montreiul? It was an incredibly prestigious award. Just getting nominated guaranteed funding for life. Even so, he wouldn’t accept in person. She knew why now. Too many secrets, not the least of which his habit of never aging. But a Montreiul…
“You didn’t know,” said Nona, eyes gleaming. “How interesting. I assumed some of the laurels belonged to you. Given your long collaboration. Or, have you two parted ways.”
“We. I.” Elsa felt like a guppy facing a piranha; she wasn’t supposed to be interesting.
“I should think he’s respecting boundaries,” said Granny. “Elsa’s on a long overdue vacation. If this award is relevant to her, no doubt appropriate accolades will be waiting upon her return. Elsa, dear, go help Martha assemble tea.”
Martha didn’t need Elsa’s help. She could assemble a formal tea in the time it took to bring a kettle to boil. Defied comprehension. Granny wanted her to go to Martha, so go to Martha she would.
Peter rose with Elsa. God, she’d almost forgotten him.
“Peter,” said Granny. “Do stay and help in here. We need to rearrange to accommodate Nona’s infirmity.”
Elsa beat her retreat as Granny gave Peter increasingly precise instructions on which items to move where while regaling the visitors about the fascinating provenance of this Quin dynasty vase and that Biedermeier table. Elsa had seen her in action before. She could go on forever. Elsa slumped against the door she’d closed behind her. In front of her stood a trolley fully loaded with tea service for four: mini popovers, butter, jam, fresh strawberries, and an assortment of dainty sweets.
“Martha, Granny sent me to help with tea.”
Martha snorted, wiping at a spotless counter.
“Exactly. So quick, what can you tell me of our visitors.”
“It’s not my place. And there’s no time.”
Elsa waited. Martha groaned.
“There’s not much I can tell you. The two families, they’re as friendly as the Hatfields and McCoys. Some sort of land dispute back when your grandmother first obtained this property and started building.”
“A land dispute? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Martha pointed a finger at her. “Your grandmother is the most sensible person I’ve ever met. If she takes issue, there’s good reason. You know, she was beside herself when that Morrison boy took a chairmanship at the university – in the very department from which she graduated, and you eventually matriculated.”
“Granny doesn’t do ‘beside herself’.”
“You’re wrong there. That day, I distinctly remember the rattle. She jostled her teacup.”
Elsa smiled. “Granny would be appalled you noticed.”
“She was appalled at the asp in the garden.” As if reminded she looked to the door. “We should go in.”
“Wait,” said Elsa. “Can’t you tell me anything, I don’t know… helpful? What should I do?”
Martha looked annoyed. “Look, the Wrights and Morrisons are as compatible as order and chaos. That family, they are wild, lawless and amoral; they pose a danger to all that’s natural, normal and correct. Your grandmother has dedicated a lifetime to protecting you, the family, and society at large against just that sort of threat. Enlightenment must be defended; it’s time you take a stand.”
“A stand? As in, serve tea, guns blazing? And here I forgot my six-shooter.”
Martha sighed. “You know, you’re more like your grandmother than you realize. She knew from the moment you crossed paths with a Morrison that this confrontation was coming. On some level you understand this, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.”
Evidently the conversation was over. Martha advanced with the tea-trolley forcing Elsa to step aside and hold the door. Peter stood off to the side looking amused, objets d’arte in either hand, awaiting instructions. Nona remained seated, a table repositioned at her elbow, composed but for the two handed death grip on the cane in her lap. Granny chattered along, as carefree as Pearl at a picnic. God she loved that woman; she was toying mercilessly with them and everyone knew it.
“Peter, the paperweight should be fine there by the window but we wouldn’t want to risk the Brönte in the sunlight. Best to put it back where you found it. Elsa, do help Nona with her selections.”
Martha and Elsa went about the business of placing napkins, pouring tea, and offering comestibles. Elsa served herself last and took the seat alongside Granny, a small table between them. Martha excused herself to the kitchen. Silence reigned long enough for everyone to bite and swallow several times over. Elsa had learned her lesson; she’d wet herself before uttering a word, even if only to excuse herself to the bathroom. The matriarchs were treating the silence like some sort of staring contest. Which left Peter. He’d stretched an arm across the seat back, crossed his legs ankle to knee and exuded boredom. Elsa smirked; he’d be the first to speak. Peter noticed. Eventually he rose and crossed to the set of tall paned windows that faced a bucolic expanse of lawn then meadow to a distant treeline.
“I haven’t been to the Eastlands since childhood,” said Peter.
“The ‘Eastlands’?” said Granny. “What an archaic reference. It sounds so untamed.”
“I hardly recognize it. Those few hardwoods that remain, they’re familiar, but I could have sworn the Honey Brook ran right through that stretch to the left.
“Culfer Brook, you mean,” said Granny. “One of our first improvements was to divert it for the crops.”
“We knew it as the Honey Brook,” said Peter and smacked his lips. “Because the water tasted that sweet. She flowed strong all summer long. Cascading over long, smooth, sculpted slabs. Plunging into deep, clear, sweet-scented pools. She was…,” He spoke quietly, staring into the distance, his hands caressing the air like a woman’s body. “…, swollen, silky…” His silence carried like a note in a ballad, held achingly long.
Granny cleared her throat.
Peter turned from the window and laughed. “She was… perfect for skinny dipping.”
“She was reliable,” said Granny, brushing away the non-existent crumbs in her lap. “Which made the Culfer perfect for irrigation. The farm’s no longer active of course, but we maintain the culverts and sluiceways…”
“In anticipation of Armageddon?” asked Nona.
“It’s prudent to be prepared. Nature is unpredictable.”
“Unpredictability is nature in her glory,” said Nona.
“Less glorious when the flood waters recede. Fields mired in muck, dead fish rotting in the sun.”
“Oh, but the flood. The torrent. The magnificence of nature’s power unleashed.”
“Destructive,” said Granny.
“Cleansing. Renewing,” said Nona. “Muck and dead fish keep the land vital.”
“Nature unleashed; people suffer.”
Nona shrugged. “Some people suffer. Others benefit.”
“Taming nature’s cycle means no-one need suffer. The canals are a testament to our family’s legacy of responsible stewardship.”
“Stewardship, you say,” said Nona, reaching for the teapot. “Well, not of the wood. That’s been decimated. You must mean the farm. It appears in good repair. Defunct, as you said. But neat and tidy.”
Wow. Bad enough to farm, even worse, fake farming. As backhanded compliments went, Nona scored a double. Elsa felt the color rise in her cheeks on her grandmother’s behalf. Granny, though, looked perfectly composed. These two, they’d be lethal at poker.
“Tell me,” said Nona, turning to Elsa. “How are the canals for skinny dipping?”
“Um…” said Elsa, distracted by Peter, who suddenly perked to attention. “I, um, don’t…”
“Skinny dip? Never?” asked Peter. Clearly he was ready to teach her.
“There’s a pool for swimming,” said Granny.
“And the pool water, is it honey sweet?” asked Nona of Elsa.
“It’s chlorinated,” said Granny. “And therefore clean. Making it a far more suitable than an irrigation ditch for swimming.”
“A pity. Don’t you think, Elsa?”
God, the woman was relentless. “It’s hard to miss something I’ve never known”.
“Ah. But easy to want something once you learn of its existence. Now that you know of the Honey Brook, are you eager to taste it?”
Nona studied her intently. And finally, finally, Elsa understood what this whole conversation was about. Enlightenment. Just as Martha had warned her. Wild versus tame, nature versus society, self-interest over the good of the many. It was about powers, Lijah’s secrets, what Elsa knew of them and what she intended to do about it.
Play dumb, play dumb, play dumb, thought Elsa. “It’s winter.”
“When there’s a will, there’s a way,” said Nona, like teasing a puppy.
“What will?” said Granny. “There’s no will without temptation. And with a safe, clean, temperature-controlled pool right at the doorstep, where’s the temptation. Isn’t that right Elsa? Summering with us, we always knew right where to find you.”
“It’s true. On a hot summer day, I can tell you, the pool’s pretty perfect.”
“Temptation is not about what we already have, but about desire and possibility. No matter how satisfying the meal, dessert still beckons.”
“Only the gluttonous eat to excess,” said Granny.
Peter’s gaze drifted.
Even to Elsa, the comment sounded sanctimonious, along the lines of ‘curiosity killed the cat’ or ‘waste not, want not’. In other words, something far more likely to hear from her mother than Granny.
“Yes, yes,” said Nona. “The gluttonous and covetous, the lustful and lazy, the prideful, envious, and resentful. All seven sins, all variations of a single human trait: selfishness. Of course, equating sin with selfishness, equates virtue with self-denial. It’s a compelling ethos to be sure: morally uncomplicated, easy to grasp and useful as an ideology for a compliant populous. But not, I think, for us.”
Peter’s head snapped up and Granny jerked, spilling tea into the saucer.
Elsa darted looks between them. Us? Who us? What just happened?
Nona looked pointedly at Granny, then slid her gaze to Elsa. “Only the incurious are selfless. Stewards, especially, protect their interests.”
“Personally, I’m in favor of all seven sins,” said Peter.
Granny harrumphed. “We do not share the same moral compass.”
“Peter has no need of compasses,” said Nona. “He’s a bon vivant, happy only to be sated.”
“Precisely,” said Granny.
“Yes, precisely,” said Nona. “It’s his prerogative, and he shall have it. Shouldn’t we all?”
“Absolutely not,” said Granny.
“What’s your opinion, Elsa,” asked Nona. “His parents were killed. Should more be asked of him?”
“Um.” Were they really psychoanalyzing Peter’s philandering? “Wouldn’t Peter be a better person to ask?”
“My point exactly. Self-determination. I’m glad you agree.”
“You’ve put words in her mouth,” said Granny. “She knows nothing of which you speak.”
“And that was your prerogative, Constance, not to tell her. Pure self-interest on your part. Commendable, in its way. But foolish. Did you really think to contain her with a chlorinated pool? Anyone can see she’s curious. Her wild will out.”
“Oh, let’s hope so,” said Peter.
Granny sat in rigid silence.
“Look, Granny’s right, you put words in my mouth. I didn’t agree. I’m not even following.”
“It’s obvious, dear. And yet these boys circle you like carrion. Quite the mystery. Lijah, anyway, I thought pickier.” Nona rapped Peter on the knee with her cane. “Peter, it’s time.”
And suddenly they were gathering themselves up. Peter attended to Nona: a steadying hand as she rose, assisting with her coat, handing back her cane. Elsa agreed with Granny, that cane was totally unnecessary, entirely for show. Donning his own long coat, he returned to the window and used it like a mirror to tug the coat taut and adjust his collar, getting the look just right. He slid a sidelong look at Elsa, letting his gaze rove up her body until he caught and held her eye. Elsa flushed, then flushed again, angry at how her body betrayed her, and for an instant Peter scorched in response, devouring her without moving a muscle. Just as quickly it ended as the commotions of departure made themselves known. He winked and shrugged, an wistful acknowledgement, he still had a role to play.
With a final check at his reflection, Peter turned and strode after Nona who had nearly reached the front door. Granny was there too, along with Martha, sending them off according to script. Elsa hadn’t the wherewithal to join them. She went instead to the window. And there she saw him, Lijah, not in France, but at the tree line some 30 yards distant. She heard the front door open. Still he stood facing the house, like a sentinel, waiting, she thought, to the very last moment. She felt a draft of outside air, heard Peter call out to the driver and the exchange of final farewells. Lijah turned and walked away. He vanished so abruptly into the thicket, Elsa half wondered whether she’d seen him at all.