Black Dreams, Silver Linings: Black Dreams, #2

By Gretchen Hummel

Black Dreams, Silver Linings is the second book of this award-winning author's post-apocalyptic epic, The Black Dreams Series.

 

In a post-plague, baby-hungry world Waverly searches for her kidnapped daughter. She works as a tour guide on what mainlanders call Devil's Island--all that's left of a future San Francisco. The island is infamous for its high rate of plague survivors, its thriving arts community, and its suspect spirituality.

 

Islanders are fascinated by mysterious "plague gifts"--knowledge and skills acquired by surviving the plague and are covertly experimenting with the virus. Mainlanders abhor the mere mention of anything plague-related.

 

The island is quarantined, yet mainlanders Dr. Lourdes and his daughters insist on a visit. Their stated agenda is to shop the arts district and to adopt a child. But Dr. Lourdes' curiosity about rumored plague virus experiments has Waverly worried about the true purpose of their visit.

 

When the doctor's youngest daughter contracts the plague, Waverly must call on all her plague gifts to help her survive. The girl's fight for her life and Waverly's search for her own daughter dovetail in a startling conclusion that is beyond Waverly's wildest dreams.

 

"Gretchen Hummel has created a rich, complex world that is both beautiful and scary..."   Alison Baker, O'Henry Award Winner

 

"...from the beginning, I was gripped by Hummel's ability to pull together science and imagined technology with myth and spirituality, a winning combination..."  Jaclyn Dolomore, librarything.com

 

Gretchen Hummel is a 2011 Writer's Digest Award Finalist and a 2011 USA Best Books Award Finalist in two categories. She has and MFA Degree in Creative WRiting and a MS Degree in Psychiatric Nursing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gretchen Hummel
• Release date: Jul 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201194079

Gretchen Hummel

Gretchen Hummel is a 2011 Writer’s Digest Award finalist and a 2011 USA Best Books Award finalist in two categories. She has a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing as well as a Master of Science in Psychiatric Nursing.

Book preview

October 2070

1

Panorama

Waverly struggled to keep her attention on the tarot cards spread across Harper’s desk. The life-like mannequins scattered about were more distracting than usual. Over the years that Waverly had given the dressmaker tarot readings, the fiberglass figures had become more and more human, eerily so. They gave Waverly the creepy feeling that they were peering over her shoulder, eavesdropping. She drummed her fingers on the desktop as she waited for Harper to turn over and reveal the cards.

Relax, Harper said. Drink your tea. You’d think this was your first Entourage.

It is my first Entourage with the island under quarantine. Waverly reached for her cup of tea. She could smell the mint and tarragon in it, taste the bite of the scotch. She took a bracing mouthful. Everyone’s first Entourage while we’re under quarantine, for that matter.

I’m shocked, tell you the truth. Harper’s high-gloss lacquered nails glinted in the light as she turned over the cards. It’s so brazen, so foolhardy, even for the Vigilant.

Waverly nodded. And can you believe it? There’s a doctor with them. He, especially, should know better. And he’s bringing his family. I mean, even if they have all had the plague, to blatantly ignore the possibility of reinfection –— She shook her head. It makes no sense.

I bet they don’t even talk about reinfection on the mainland.

They don’t even talk about initial infections, from what I hear, Waverly said. "Every time a case breaks, it’s hushed up, denied, or renamed. Nobody wants to admit there’s plague in their family."

Poor devils, Harper muttered.

Poor devils? We’re the poor devils. Just ask them; they’ll tell you. Of course, they’d leave out the poor part. Waverly dashed her burgundy bangs out of her eyes. No, I can’t say I’ll ever feel sorry for them.

Hell’s bells, Waverly, I wouldn’t either if they’d kidnapped my daughter. It’s just that we’ve learned so much from the plague. All of which they miss—

Harper was interrupted midsentence by the low insistent moan of a foghorn. Waverly and Harper lifted their heads and stared at one another as they waited for it to sound again. After three blasts Waverly shoved herself away from the desk and jumped up. "Mon Dieu! The Entourage! They’re here! She swept up the cards and slid them into their velvet sleeve. They weren’t supposed to get in for at least another four hours. Damn! Do we still have time to dress me?"

As Harper’s eyes took in the state of Waverly’s attire, a corner of her mouth took an ill-concealed dive. Well, I’d strongly advise it.

Waverly glanced down. That bad? Okay, but we’ve got to hurry. She kicked her shoes off, one after another, yanked her shirttail from the waistband of her trousers, and swore as she fought with a knot in the drawstring.

Moments later, Waverly emerged from Tailortown’s main warehouse. She rushed down the sidewalk headed for the hotel a few blocks away. In her hurry, she sidestepped a puddle of rainwater nearly twisting an ankle. The suede pumps Harper had fitted her with were turning out to be too big. But the suit fit her well enough. The short, flared jacket and matching skirt accentuated her legs, bust, and hips, which she considered her figure’s most salvageable assets. At the same time, it managed to play down the padding she was acquiring around her waist. She almost looked sleek, she thought—for a forty-year-old.

The triple blast of a foghorn, distinct from the single foghorn warnings for seafarers, had parents up and down the street drop what they were doing. They burst from their homes onto front porches and doorsteps calling out for their children in urgent, anxious voices. A woman on a balcony pushed back the mask of a welding hood before she searched the street. An intricate copper sculpture dangled, forgotten, in her hand. Another woman held up her arms slimed with gray clay to her elbows. She shouted to her children, Didn’t you hear the alarm? Get your tails inside, now! A boy dropped his scooter on the sidewalk; the girl abandoned her jump rope and ran for the door. Don’t leave your toys out there, either! Once the children were inside, window blinds were drawn. Doors were dead bolted. Shop owners hung out large, bold-lettered CLOSED signs. An Entourage of the Vigilant had arrived.

Waverly strode past townhouse after tall townhouse, each painted a different color. Peach, teal, rose, and dark violet, they leaned shoulder-to-shoulder down both sides of the roller coaster of a thoroughfare known as Main Street on Santa Belle Island. At least, that’s what islanders called it. Mainlanders, however, were more like than not to call it Devil’s Island, and go on to call it full of dreamers, a term to them which was a slur on the order of blasphemy. Ever since the Plague of Black Dreams swept the earth thirty years ago, the content and meaning of dreams had become a charged issue.

Though Waverly knew she’d have time to spare while the Entourage was shown to their hotel rooms to unpack their belongings, she preferred to be on the hotel premises the moment they arrived. You could tell a lot about a group simply in the way they made eye contact or not, in the way they shook your hand or not, and in the way they looked about them, shifty-eyed or terrified.

It had rained earlier in the day, yet another bank of clouds was approaching. Heavy fog was forecast. Gray clouds roiled overhead and to the west, yet the sun’s rays still managed to filter through, staining the town for a brief moment in an eerie crimson glow. The hospital, a white monolith on the hill, was awash in the ruddy, blood-red light. Neither did the light neglect the endless rows of otherwise white headstones that studded the hills behind the hospital. From a flagpole on the hospital roof, a huge quarantine flag flew. Heavy with rain, it flapped fitfully in the breeze off the bay. Waverly wondered if the Entourage would be making a visit to the hospital in the next few days.

She hurried by several art galleries, a grocer, and a shop called When the Lights Go Out that dealt in all manner of electrical generators.

The closer Waverly drew to the hotel, the more deserted the street scene in front of her. As a result, she was surprised to see the school-age girl sitting alone on a bench in front of a music shop. The child stared at her feet as she idly swung them back and forth, scuffling at the sidewalk. She raised her head at Waverly’s approach.

Waverly pulled a green scarf from around her neck that Harper had insisted the suit was unfinished without. Nonetheless, it was too flashy for your typical mainlander Vigilant she decided—at least this early in their visit. As she came up to the girl, she asked, May I? Once the child nodded, Waverly draped the scarf around her shoulders. It’s perfect. It brings out the green flecks in your eyes.

The child glanced down at it and back at Waverly. I can have it?

Waverly nodded. But you shouldn’t be out here. Where’s your mother, child?

Sliding nail-bitten fingers along one edge of the scarf, the girl glanced up at the hospital. After a pause, she said, The Entourage is here, isn’t it? But it’s all right. I’m a tenderfoot at the music shop.

Following the girl’s eyes to the hill, Waverly nodded. While the child was a tenderfoot or underling apprentice at the music shop, she actually lived at the orphanage, housed on hospital grounds.

What’s your name?

It’s Dulcie! You know me, Ms. Waverly.

Why, Dulcie, of course. I thought I knew all the hill children. I didn’t recognize you. Something’s different.

Dulcie reached up and ruffled her fingers through her chin-length hair. I got my hair cut. Maybe now someone will adopt me. The girl’s hopeful smile revealed an old scar from the repair of a cleft lip. Although the scar was only mildly disfiguring, it may have prevented her adoption.

Maybe they’ll like me with my new haircut. Maybe they’ll take me this time. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?

If only her own daughter had had a cleft lip or a clubbed foot, Waverly mused, maybe she’d still be here today, too. Even though Waverly’s hopes of finding her daughter, kidnapped eight years ago, had dimmed over time, she hadn’t given up. She’d done all she could do, including place herself in the dangerous position of tour guide for Entourages of the Vigilant that visited the island. Her thinking was that she might get lucky and overhear something, anything, about her daughter. Yet nothing had panned out—until recently. The break for her, when it did come, was from a completely unexpected direction. It was the arrival of an exile, a young man whom she believed she recognized and whom she also believed may know something of her daughter’s whereabouts. That the shred of a possibility of seeing her daughter again even existed made Waverly reach out and give Dulcie a spontaneous hug.

That would be lovely, dear, Waverly said, with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. Her smile faded, however, as she turned away and covered the remaining distance to the hotel.

2

The Agenda

The black boxy vehicle that Entourages of the Vigilant preferred was parked under the porte-cochere of the hotel. It was polished to a high shine and was efficient looking in a militaristic manner, function being its one and only design concern. There weren’t many automobiles on the island. But the ones the islanders did have at least had pleasing lines and a little color, Waverly thought, as she climbed the front stairs of the hotel.

Squaring her shoulders and straightening her fitted jacket, she entered the hotel lobby.

Grayson, manning the registration desk, was cadaver thin. Even with the slight stoop in his shoulders, he was startlingly tall. When Waverly walked in the door, his mouth flattened into one long thin line. Without a word, he pointed a gloved finger toward the dining room.

She was glad to see he'd kept the gloves on she’d insisted he wear. Without them, he'd be scratching his face and hands nonstop. His psoriasis always flared up when an Entourage was in town. 

Waverly pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room. The Entourage consisted of the doctor and his two daughters. They were seated in the dining room with a view of Grayson’s garden behind the hotel.

Nijel, the hotel tenderfoot, was refilling glasses and serving dinner.

The doctor’s daughters couldn’t keep their eyes off Nijel. They covertly eyed his checkered waistcoat, the ornate Celtic buckles on his boots, the jade pendant around his neck and his charcoal-dark hair that was tied in a cord and hung down his back to his shoulder blades.

The doctor, in turn, kept a watchful eye on his daughters.

All three picked at the unfamiliar dish Sophie placed before them. But after tasting it and finding it more than palatable, they quickly forked it in.

Waverly observed with pride the broadening in Nijel’s shoulders and his newfound height. While the Vigilant had denied Waverly the privilege of raising her daughter, at least she’d had a hand in raising Nijel. Though he was helping them out with this Entourage, she really couldn’t call him a hotel tenderfoot any longer. He’d come of age. He was now, officially, an apprentice.

Waverly approached the table and held out her hand in greeting. Hello, Dr. Lourdes. I'm Waverly, hotel concierge, and your guide while you're here on the island.

The doctor stared at her for a brief moment. He blinked several times. She thought he acted almost disoriented. But he shook himself loose from whatever it was that had captured his thoughts and rose to shake her hand. He introduced himself as Lincoln Lourdes, and his daughters’ names were Leigh and Molly. He was tall and slender, almost gaunt looking. He had a dark, closely trimmed beard and soft blue eyes behind small rectangular lenses.

Please, sit down. Finish your dinner, Waverly said. I’m terribly sorry for being late, but I—

Dr. Lourdes dismissed her apology with the wave of a hand. No, no. You’re not late; we’re early. Besides the hotel staff has taken very good care of us.

Perhaps this would be a congenial group. Waverly could hope.

The girls were eager to be off this morning. Dr. Lourdes gazed fondly at his daughters. In fact, they dragged me out of bed at four-thirty this morning to get on the road.

When Waverly got a good look at the older daughter, introduced as Leigh, she inwardly gasped. The girl reminded her so much of her own daughter. Or of what her daughter might have looked like had Waverly been allowed to see her grow up. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she held her breath, as she searched the girl's features. But the color of the girl's hair was too dark, the shape of her face seemed too round, and the color of her eyes was green, not the midnight blue of her daughter's. Waverly sighed. She managed to carry on with the Entourage as if nothing had happened. She'd had a lot of practice. But her gaze kept straying to Leigh's face, until, that is, she really looked at the younger sister, Molly.

Molly was disagreeing with her father, saying he'd been as eager to leave as they were. Here again, the girl's features, a younger version of her sister's, if anything looked even more like what Waverly pictured her daughter might look like. Her hair was a lighter shade, but as with her sister, she had green eyes. Waverly shivered and imperceptibly shook her head. Everyone lately reminded her of her daughter. 

As Molly reached for her water glass, Waverly thought she glimpsed a red lace strap of an undergarment on the girl. Other than the fleeting shoulder strap, Molly was dressed all in black, as was her sister. Waverly had a hard time believing teenage girls could be content with such somber colors day in, day out.

While Waverly studied the girls, they seemed to be staring back at her, or at least at her hair. Waverly reached up and patted the pulled-up do Harper had so deftly executed. Her fingers grazed the green, glittery bobble Harper had stuck in Waverly’s hair at the last moment and which Waverly had meant to take out after she’d left.

Molly, seeing her movement, said, That is so, so ... flashy. We could never wear anything like that.

Except maybe on All Hallows’ Eve, Leigh said. And even that’s a big maybe. She glanced at her father.

A very big maybe, indeed, he said, with a frown.

Waverly managed to extricate the clip from her hair without too much damage. She slipped it in her pocket. It’s too flashy for my taste, too. I didn’t dress my own hair and unfortunately didn’t look in the mirror before I came.

Molly said, I didn’t mean for you to take it out—

Waverly smiled at her. So I understand you’re in the market for All Hallows Eve costumes?

They are, their father said. But nothing garish, mind you. I want them to have fun with it certainly, but within proper Vigilant bounds.

We do get to see a fashion show, don't we? You said we could. Molly looked from her father to Waverly and back again.

I suppose, he said, glancing at Waverly. If that can be arranged.

Certainly. Waverly turned toward the girls. I saw some of Tailortown’s newest creations today, and you two are in for a treat. The designers have completely outdone themselves this season, all within proper limits, of course.

She’d better send Nijel ASAP to Tailortown to have them whip up a show geared for the teenage set. Harper would be delighted to arrange this, especially for teenagers. This was Harper’s bliss, to turn the staid expressions of the Vigilant into smiles in spite of valiant efforts to suppress them.

Turning to Dr. Lourdes, she said, I usually give a general tour of Santa Belle to start off your visit and then spend more time at your areas of interest, unless you had other plans. Waverly watched Dr. Lourdes closely for a reaction.

That sounds satisfactory enough. The girls, as you’ve heard, are interested in amending their wardrobes, he said. We would also like to visit the orphanage. Maybe spend the second day there. The girls believe they need a companion.

A companion, Waverly thought, bitterly. More like a play toy for them to dress up and parade around like a living paper doll. The Vigilant couldn’t alter their own dress, but they could that of an adoptee. Adoptees were, after all, Devil’s Island children. The Vigilant were both repelled and fascinated by the islanders though they’d never admit it.

I’d also like to speak to some of your physicians, particularly a Dr. Rorie about brain wave experiments I hear he’s working on.

Brain wave experiments? she said, nonplussed. Is Uncle Rush, or rather is Dr. Rorie expecting you?

He’s your uncle?

Biologically, no. Though he did help raise me. Is he expecting you?

He nodded. We’ve been in communication this past year. I mentioned I might drop in with the girls for a shopping trip.

And you’re fully aware we’re under quarantine? Waverly glanced at his daughters. The orphanage is on hospital grounds.

Yes, but I’m not worried about the quarantine.

Why the hell not? Waverly wanted to say. You’ve had no preparation whatsoever. Instead, she said, Sir, I’ll have to ask you to sign a waiver of liability for yourself and your daughters. I hope you were told this would be required. As you know, when the quarantine flag is raised, someone at the hospital is ill with the plague.

It’s odd that Santa Belle still has such frequent outbreaks. They’re much less common for the Vigilant. I’ve even heard rumors you’re experimenting with the plague virus? he said, cocking an eyebrow.

Waverly was careful with her response. Experimenting? With the plague virus? That would be rather irresponsible, wouldn’t it? But you’ll have to ask Dr. Rorie about this. He’s better equipped to answer those questions for you, sir. Now, let me get that waiver.

As she went through the doors to the lobby, Waverly wondered what he meant by experiments. He couldn’t have heard they kept the plague virus on hand, could he? Waverly panicked. This Entourage may not be as benign as she’d hoped.

Grayson, registrar and hotel butler, met her outside the door. He held the waiver forms and pen in his hand.

How can he know? Grayson said, trying to scratch his face with his gloved hand.

Get to Uncle Rush, Waverly whispered. Tell him what the man wants to know so he can have some time to compose his answers. The sooner, the better.

Grayson nodded. His shaggy eyebrows knitted together in perplexity. There’s something familiar about that Lourdes fellow, but I can’t quite put my finger on it, he said, as he tapped a gloved fingertip on his skeletal cheekbone.

3

Deck of Lost Souls

The moment Waverly entered the front door of her house, Ajax landed on her shoulder, his big green wings batting her hair about. She soothed his neck feathers only to have him nip none-too-gently at her ear.

She glanced at his cage, the door wide open, and spotted the empty dish. Uh oh, I forgot to feed you this morning, didn’t I?

‘Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,’ the bird mimicked. ‘Green figs and mulberries.’

Apricots, not apricocks—

‘Apricocks and dewberries.’ You question the bard’s bird?

Heaven forbid, she said, as she stroked the parrot’s head.

Ajax had belonged to Waverly's late husband, Sebastian. A Shakespearean actor and amateur playwright, Sebastian had practically lived at the theater, Ajax his loyal companion. From a fluffy, gray innocent, if ugly, nestling, Ajax had grown into a handsome, opinionated, Shakespeare-spewing provocateur. The parrot soon became the theater mascot. During intermission, Ajax reigned over the crowd in a giant gilded cage that hung from a chandelier above Will Call. A brass sign bolted to the cage read, Speak to the Bard's Bird—at your own peril.

Waverly shrugged out of her wrap, simultaneously launching Ajax into the air. He flew into his cage and pecked at the empty dish until she poured in pellets and sunflower seed. "Bon appetit."

Waverly frowned at the meager contents of her kitchen cupboards. From a carton of eggs and a greenish wedge of cheese she found in her cooler, he made herself an anemic-looking omelet. As her eggs cooked, she glanced over at Ajax occupied with his dinner. She could only imagine the bird’s horror, his sense of betrayal, at the sight of an egg of one of his distant cousins cracked open and dumped into a sizzling pan.

Through the kitchen window, beyond her autumn-darkened garden, Waverly could see fog rolling in. She hoped the weather would clear before she took the Entourage on tour tomorrow.

On her walk home from the hotel, Waverly thought about what Grayson had said about Dr. Lourdes looking familiar. There was something disconcerting about the man’s face, but it was the girls’ faces she couldn’t stop thinking about. Even though she knew neither of the girls from the Entourage could be her daughter, it was their resemblance to Hayley she couldn’t quit thinking about. Or, at least, their resemblance to a painting she’d done of her daughter, as she’d imagined she might look fully grown. Waverly had included it in a tarot deck she’d painted years ago.

Tarot decks, with their beautiful artwork and enigmatic archetypes fascinated Waverly from a young age. She used to watch her Aunt Belle, the true tarot aficionado of the family, give readings. While Waverly considered herself a fair tarot card reader, her passion with the cards lay more in the creation of them.

She consumed her omelet standing and went into the parlor, where she opened a black trunk that doubled as a coffee table. She knelt in front of it and sorted through dozens of tarot decks, the Marseilles, Thoth, Visconti, Golden, and Fornier. The deck she was looking for she’d painted during an especially bleak point in her life. At that time, loss was all she could see. Painting was a welcome solace.

She found the deck near the bottom of the trunk. She sat down with it at her tarot table, lit a lantern, and slid the deck from its satin sleeve. She fanned the cards in her hands. The backs of the cards she’d block printed with the design of a famous optical illusion. Depending on which way you looked at the image, it could be either two profiles facing one another, or a single urn. The deck used to be one of Waverly’s favorites to use for readings, but it had been years since she’d even looked at it.

Shuffling through the deck, she stopped at the King of Cups card. The face for the King of Cups she’d modeled after Sebastian’s face. Sebastian had been killed eight years ago when he’d tried to stop the Entourage that had wrenched their daughter out of their lives. She glanced at a group of photos on a shelf above her tarot table. There was one of her and Sebastian with their daughter, Hayley, riding on his shoulders. The photo of Sebastian was the one she’d copied from for the King of Cups tarot card. There was also a photo of Hayley and her cousin, Melody. facing one another in profile and an older yellowing photo of herself and her brother.

She continued flipping through the cards and passed a card with her father’s face, another with her mother’s face, and yet another with her brother’s until she finally found the Princess of Hearts card modeled after her daughter. All these people that she’d lost from her life, either dead or missing, she’d tried to memorialize in the deck. Her Deck of Lost Souls, she called it.

She nursed a glass of wine she’d brought with her from the kitchen as she gazed at Hayley’s face. Her hand was unsteady as she set the glass down and sloshed dark red liquid over the rim of the glass. The lantern on the table lit up the cut crystal of the glass, scattering prisms of light over the cards and the pictures on the shelf above them.

Ajax had long since finished his dinner and flown in from the kitchen to settle on her shoulder. He nuzzled his head against her cheek, cooing, ‘Sigh no more, lady. Sigh no more.’

He bowed low to accommodate her as she stroked his neck.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Ajax flew from her shoulder to the top of the curtain rod, a favored vantage point for receiving visitors. ‘Whence is that knocking? How is’t with me, when every noise appalls me?’ he squawked, his feathers a-ruffle.

When Waverly opened the door and saw who was standing there, she took an involuntary step back. Her mouth fell open in disbelief. Out of the fog, which had since thickened to a frothy soup, stepped her cousin, Madeleine. She wondered how long it had been since she’d had an actual conversation with her cousin. Seven years? Eight? Not since both of their daughters had been kidnapped. And especially not since Madeleine had decided Waverly was partly responsible.

Madeleine wore her signature green jeans, work boots and raingear, but had left off the coolie hat that Waverly, in a gray mood one day, had decided made her look like a witch.

I need to talk to you, Madeleine said, no preliminaries. I’ve heard a rumor and I want to know the truth. You owe me that much, at least. She gave Waverly a pointed look. Well, may I come in?

Of course. Waverly stood aside for her. "Here, let me take your manteau."

Take my what?

Coat, I mean your coat.

Madeleine gave her a doubtful look. She put her knapsack down and shrugged off her mist covered wrap.

Hi-ya, chickie, Ajax commented from the curtain rod.

What? Madeleine craned her neck in the direction of the bird’s voice. Oh, you still have that obnoxious bird, I see.

Give me a kiss, Ajax quipped, hopping from one foot to the other.

Madeleine waved off Ajax’s comment. He always was a nasty rascal.

Ajax flew to another of his favorite perches, atop the plaster head and bust of William Shakespeare. ‘This rascal, I could brain him with a lady’s fan,’ he mimicked.

Waverly was gratified to see Ajax’s comment bring at least a hint of a smile to Madeleine’s face.

She invited her in and offered her a chair. May I get you anything? Cup of tea? Glass of wine?

Ajax intoned with, ‘Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly: and in women outparamoured the Turk.’

Ajax! Waverly scolded. You’re asking for the cage. I’ll wire the door shut, mind you.

Not the cage. Murder! Murder!

Madeleine sank down onto the sofa, unamused. This isn't a social call, but I could do with a cup of tea since you're offering.

Waverly gave Ajax a stern look as she went to the kitchen for Madeleine’s tea.

The bird answered her with, Zip it, Ajax.

When Waverly returned with the tea, Madeleine was standing, looking down into Waverly’s open trunk. I recognize many of those. She nodded at the collection of tarot decks inside. But you’ve added to my mother’s collection.

Two hundred and twelve decks in there last I counted, most of which I did inherit from your mother, some I painted, some collected over the years. After an awkward pause, Waverly added. Well, since you didn’t want them—

Father thought it was all hogwash.

‘Hogwashed, boil-brained, harpy,’ Ajax echoed.

Until the plague came along, and Aunt Belle researched the archetypes, you mean, Waverly said.

Madeleine took the cup of tea that Waverly held, turned away, and returned to the couch. That bird has quite a tongue in its head.

‘A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours,’ Ajax quoted.

I’m amazed he’s retained such a repertoire, after so many years. What’s that quote from, anyway?

"Much Ado About Nothing, I believe," Waverly said.

Ajax piped up with, ‘To an ass were nothing: she is both ass and ox.’

Madeleine smiled briefly. Yes, I remember Sebastian made sure Ajax got his insults down pat.

Unfortunate, but true. Waverly was glad Madeleine wasn't taking Ajax's comments personally.

So, tell me, Madeleine put her cup down on the end table with emphasis. Who is this Ed Spade you’re so anxious to interrogate?

Ed Spade? Waverly shook her head, confused. Ed Spade? I don’t know any Ed Spade.

You know exactly who I’m talking about. That new exile in town.

Exile ... Oh! You mean—

"Don't play coy. I overheard Dad and your boyfriend, Danny, talking about it at McPherson's. The