MORTAL COILS (29 page)

He
was still mad at her, too. Good.

This
was precisely what Fiona wanted, although she was unsure why. Maybe it was
because he had doubted Grandmother, the only constant thing in their lives.
Hadn’t she tried to protect them from Uncle Henry and the others for the last
fifteen years? Hadn’t she raised them after their mother and father died? Not
trusting Grandmother was like not believing the sun was going to rise.

Fiona
sat at the dining table and the angry thoughts in her head vanished.

She
smelled bacon.

Cee
entered with a tray of toast, juice glasses brimming, a coffeepot, sliced
fruit, and what must have been two pounds of crisp bacon. Beaming, she set it
on the table.

“Heroes
must start with a good breakfast,” she said.

The
toast was buttered and golden. There were grapefruit halves and tangerine
wedges, bunches of wine-red grapes and slivers of apple. Fiona picked up a
slice of bacon and greedily stuffed it into her mouth. It was smoky and crunchy
and decadently rich. She grabbed more with one hand, a stack of toast with the
other.

Miraculously,
nothing was burned. But the only thing she had ever seen her great-grandmother
make before without burning was tea. And bacon? When had they ever had that?

Cee
poured her a mug of coffee.

“Wow,
this is great, Cee,” she said, mouth half-full.

Cee
smiled and patted her hand. “Save some for Eliot. Both of you will need your
strengths today.”

Fiona
stopped chewing, recalling what Cee had said before they’d left for Uncle
Henry’s. Do no let them separate you. You are stronger together.

They
had been better together yesterday. When they had crossed that bridge holding
hands, and when they had answered the family’s questions. She couldn’t have
done those things without Eliot by her side.

Fiona
was mad at him for not trusting Grandmother, but wasn’t she doing the same
thing by not forgiving and trusting him? She wasn’t sure. They’d fought before,
but this felt different, as if something between them had broken.

How
was she going to cope with an entirely new family when she couldn’t even get a
handle on just her, Eliot, and Grandmother?

Eliot
appeared, hair still wet, and sat at the opposite side of the table, pretending
not to see her.

“This
is amazing, Cee,” he said, and started to eat.

Halfway
through his third piece of toast he looked up at Fiona, and she shrugged at the
bounty of food. He nodded, acknowledging the strangeness of the breakfast.

They
still had nonverbal communication at least.

The
door to Grandmother’s office slid open and she entered, holding a sheaf of
papers in one hand. She wore black combat boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt
buttoned all the way up. Her silver hair radiated from her head in tiny spikes.

“Good
morning, Grandmother,” Fiona and Eliot said.

“I
hope you slept well.” She set the papers on the table. “Bacon, Cecilia?” She
took a piece and experimentally nibbled. “It is bacon, isn’t it?”

“Of
course,” Cee replied. “What else would it be?”

Grandmother
reexamined the bacon and set it back down. She then tapped the papers on the
table. “There will be a grace period for yesterday’s assignments due to extreme
circumstances. But I expect you to complete today’s assignment as well.”

“But
the trials,” Fiona said. “We’re supposed to be tested today.”

“Or
the Council may take weeks to decide what form the trials may take,”
Grandmother replied.

Eliot
dropped his toast onto his plate.

The
iron determination Fiona had earlier felt liquefied and drained from her body.
They might have to wait weeks? That was like they’d been told a tidal wave was
coming . . . but then asking them to build sand castles as if nothing were
going to happen.

“Life
will go on,” Grandmother explained. “I will not let the family interfere with
your previous responsibilities.”

Certainly
Grandmother couldn’t mean what Fiona thought she meant. She glanced at the
front door and saw two paper bags. Cee had made them lunches. Fiona’s heart
sank and settled into her lower intestine.

They
were going to Ringo’s today. As if they didn’t have enough to worry

about
with three trials that would determine if they lived or died—she’d have to bus
tables and deal with greasy disasters in the kitchen, too.

Eliot
saw the paper bags as well. “It’s not fair,” he whispered.

Grandmother
raised an eyebrow. “Nothing is fair where this family is concerned. These
trials will test who you already are; there is nothing you can do to prepare.
You must simply be yourselves and live your lives.” She glanced at her watch,
and a second later the hallway clock chimed the quarter hour. “This includes
work.”

Fiona
sat and stewed, working up her courage to demand that Grandmother tell them
more about the family. Why did working at a pizzeria matter anymore?

Eliot
stood. “See you later,” he muttered. “Thanks for breakfast, Cee.” He marched to
the door.

Fiona
was dumbfounded for a moment—then raced after him, but not before he’d grabbed
the larger bag.

She
shouldered past him and tore down the stairs. It felt good to run (and to beat
her brother), but as she pushed through the steel security door and out into
the open, she saw that he wasn’t running behind her.

He
ambled outside and shuffled down the street without a word to her.

She
marched alongside him.

The
arguing she could take. Their insults were as much a part of their morning as
breathing, but this silence was something new for him. Fiona didn’t like it.

Of
course, if push came to shove, she could be quiet, too—and for much longer than
Eliot. She could be silent the rest of her life if she had to.

“You’re
just so stubborn,” she muttered.

He
shrugged and kept walking.

“But
maybe you’re right,” she said. “This new family does feel a little
Machiavellian. Hey, there’s that folio in my room, Discorsi su villainy. We
should read that tonight and see if there’s any advice that applies to us.”25

25.
Among the more curious surviving artifacts from the Post apartment are three
unburned pages of Discorsi su villainy (Discourses on Villainy). This is a
collection of notes predating the writing of Niccoló Machiavelli’s Il principe
(The Prince). Contained therein are unflattering references to the Medici and
other rulers of the age. Handwriting experts agree that most of the notes are
not Machiavelli’s—indicating either the folio is a fraud, or, more
intriguingly, someone gave these notes to Machiavelli and inspired his later,
famous work. Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 11: The Post
Family Mythology, 8th ed. (Zypheron Press Ltd.).

“Sure,”
Eliot said noncommittally. He finally looked at her. “You think the other side
of the family, our father’s side, will show up? Like Uncle Henry did?”

Fiona
glanced down Midway Avenue, half expecting to see another limousine, half
hoping it would be Uncle Henry to come get them. Maybe this time she’d have the
nerve to say more than “Thank you” to his driver, Robert. She bet he could tell
her a few things about Henry and the others.

“I
don’t think so,” she said. “I think Grandmother’s stopped them.” Fiona halted
and looked around, imagining that some magnetic field emanated from their
apartment building, repelling all danger. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing to
get out of the apartment. It’ll give us a chance to think a little.”

“So
you’re not completely trusting Grandmother anymore?”

Fiona
glared at him. “I still believe she has our best interests in mind, but it
might be smart to do a little digging on our own, I guess, on both families.”

She
wasn’t prepared to entirely concede the point from last night. Eliot would be
impossible to live with if she did.

“While
we’re at it,” she told him, “we better have you checked for rhinotillexomania.”
She’d found that one in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry. Habitual
nose-picking.

“No
thanks. I use a handkerchief.” He reached for his back pocket. “Want to see?”

She
crinkled her face in disgust. So he figured out the root rhin for “nose”—that
was too easy.

“I
think you better stop indulging in omphaloskepsis,” he said.

Fiona
didn’t know the word, but she could work it out. The skepsis part meant an
inquiry or the act of looking. The omphalos was Greek for “boss” or
“center”—no, it also meant “navel.” So omphaloskepsis meant “contemplating
one’s navel.” Clever.

This
was good. Good insults. Good stretching of their vocabularies. Things were
falling back into their normal routine.

But
Fiona found her thoughts sluggish now and failed to form an appropriately nasty
reply.

Instead
her feet stepped forward . . . on their own, little skipping steps. Vibrations
ran through her body, rhythmic, as if her pulse pounded through her blood—only
this was different, melodic, happy and sad at the same time.

Her
ears finally heard what her body felt. Half a block ahead in an alley stood the
old man who had stolen pizza out of the Dumpster yesterday . . . playing his
violin

20

YOUNG
MAESTRO

Eliot
wanted to run to the music.

The
old man now had a bow for his violin, and he drew it back and forth over the
strings, weaving the sweetest tones, which could have been the centerpiece of a
classical symphony.

It
thrummed along every nerve of Eliot’s body. But he couldn’t run; his feet
insisted on keeping measure with the beat.

The
old man stood tall, his head not crooked over his instrument, but rather, the
violin lay loosely on his shoulder as his fingers ran over frets like river
water over stones. His tangles of ivory hair had been combed back, revealing a
widow’s peak and streaks of black. His eyes smoldered like two blue coals. He
smiled as he played.

Eliot
smiled, too, and practically skipped toward him.

Midway
Avenue, the buildings, Ringo’s, even Fiona by his side, tunneled to a distant
point, and there was only the man and the violin, and the strings . . . and
then just the music.

Eliot
wanted to dance and sing, which would have been the most mortifying thing he
had ever done, so he checked his mounting excitement, but kept moving
nonetheless forward.

He
recognized his music. He had almost missed it because it had so many layers. It
was the same song the old man had plunked out yesterday. What had he called it?
“Mortal’s Coil”?

Eliot
thought it a nursery rhyme, so infectious was the melody, like “Twinkle,
Twinkle, Little Star” or “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” Only this felt older.
Eliot thought that he’d heard it before; that someone might have sung it to him
when he was a baby.

His
hand moved, trying to plunk out the notes for themselves—as if he held his own
violin. But that was stupid. He couldn’t play. He’d never even touched a real
instrument, thanks to Grandmother’s RULE 34.

Eliot
imagined he could play, however. He would have composed it differently, a
little slower, a different variation here and there. He dreamed he saw a crowd
of children prancing about him, a maypole woven with a rainbow of ribbons,
heard laughter, and a choir singing along: