MORTAL COILS (32 page)

A
Secret Admirer

Lovely?
Her? She felt dizzy. Was this right? She read it again.

She
then checked the name on the delivery label: Miss Fiona Post c/o Ringo’s All
American Pizza Palace.

Was
it from Uncle Henry? That would account for the international stamps. Or maybe
it was from his driver, Robert?

She
smelled the card. There was a faint scent of men’s cologne. Her heart skipped a
beat.

Robert
had barely looked at her the entire drive. Then again, she hadn’t dared look at
him, either, and here she was thinking about him.

Still,
a real secret admirer, any admirer—Fiona took a moment to catch her breath—just
as her mother had.

She
opened the package. Inside was molded Styrofoam, with a red satin heart-shaped
box nestled in its center. She pulled it out. It was much heavier than she
thought it would be. She rapped the side: solid wood, not cardboard, under the
fabric.

She
ran her finger over the luxuriant pleats on the lid, then curled over the lid’s
edge to pull it off . . . and froze.

What
if this was the first heroic trial?

She
imagined the box full of venomous centipedes. The way Fiona’s life worked, that
would be more likely than getting a gift box from a secret admirer.

She
lifted the box and sniffed. The scents of peppermint, almond, ginger, and
chocolate curled through her nostrils.

Fiona’s
hands seemed to move on their own, opening the lid and tearing off a layer of
tissue paper. Her breath caught in her throat.

A
dozen chocolates sat in frilled silk cups: fat truffles, solid medallions,
foiled balls, creamy white stars, and puckered heart shapes. Not one was the
same. Her fingertips hovered over them.

She
again considered the possibility of these being poisoned, some sort of test,
but that was silly. She wasn’t going to ruin her first secret-admirer gift with
paranoia.

Her
mouth watered. It was no longer a question of if she should eat one—but which
one to eat first.

She
closed her eyes and pointed to the exact center: a milky oval with dark tracery
that looked like a piece of abstract art. She plucked it up and the smell of
rich chocolate tickled her nose. She salivated so suddenly that she had to wipe
her mouth.

Fiona
then lifted the confection to her lips: a tiny bite. It felt like a kiss. And
not like a good-night kiss on Grandmother’s cheek, either. This was long and
deep and touched her center, the way she imagined kissing Robert would be.

Butter-smooth
citrus and smoke-tinged cocoa spread over her tongue and down her throat. She
took another bite, and honeyed apricots coursed over her palate . . . along
with a surprising sharpness of brandy.

Fiona’s
heart squeezed blood into every capillary, flushing her skin to crimson.

She’d
never felt so warm, inside and out—never felt so alive.

She
devoured the rest of it. There was no need to nibble when she had so many.

The
intensity of the chocolate overwhelmed her; she sat, and every square inch of
her flesh pebbled with chills and fire.

Fiona
swallowed the last of it. She rested, caught her breath.

Her
mind flew over clouds, racing ahead of her thrumming body at the speed of
sound. Sparks and aurora flashes filled her thoughts.

She
figured it out then—understood what she had to do to get everything done
tonight.

Fiona
set the lid back and stuffed the box of chocolates into a plastic take-out bag.
This she slid down her shirt. She inhaled and crossed her arms over her chest.
If she kept moving, there was a good chance no one would see it.

She
marched out of the changing room—

—and
straight into Eliot.

“I’m
finished.” He seemed exhausted as he peeled off his soggy apron and unplastered
his hair from his face. “So . . . I thought we’d talk on the way home.”

“Then
let’s go home. Stop dawdling.” Fiona sidled past him and without looking back
went out the back door.

She
power-walked out of the alley to the sidewalk. Eliot jogged behind her to keep
up.

“So
where do we start?” he asked. “Hey—can you slow down already?”

“No.
We’ve gotten a slow enough start today. We start by looking at the
Machiavelli’s Discourses on Villainy. I have a hunch that those medieval
Italian princes were a lot like our mother’s and father’s families.” The
plastic under her crossed arms made a slight rustling sound as she increased
her stride.

“What
do I do? I can’t read Italian or whatever that thing is written in.”

“You
have your talents,” Fiona whispered. “I have mine.”

“What’s
that mean?”

They
arrived at Oakwood Apartments and Fiona entered the stairwell and sprinted
ahead of her brother, easily leaving him and his silly questions behind.

Inside
Cee waited with tea and mangled homemade cookies. Fiona blew past her, saying,
“Homework—no time to chat.” She breezed into her room.

She
closed her bedroom door and twisted the tiny lock under the knob.

She
had made it.

Her
finger lingered on the lock, though. She’d never really shut her brother out
like this before. But Eliot’s head after that music wasn’t in the right place
to help. He meant well, but she’d work faster, and probably better, alone. It
was for the best.

She
withdrew her box of chocolates from under her shirt and set it on her bed.

She’d
eat a few of these, recapture that feeling of being able to see the horizons,
and dive into her homework and that folio—figure out their plan of action.

She
opened the box and plucked out another chocolate: an explosion of mint, ginger,
and dark chocolate boosted her senses and made her tongue curl with ecstasy.

Everything
was so clear.

She
reached up and got a collection of rubber-band-bound parchments from the
bookcase. She blew off the dust and saw script lettering: DISCORSI SU VILLAINY,
Niccoló Machiavelli.

There
was a knock on the door.

“Let
me in,” Eliot said, muffled, on the other side. “I can help.”

“Go
away!” she shouted through the door. “I need to concentrate.”

“We
should talk.”

“Later.”

She
felt a little satisfaction at throwing the same careless refusal at Eliot that
he had used on her earlier today.

Eliot
said more, but she tuned him out, focusing instead on which chocolate to eat
next. She picked a triangle of red-and-black chocolate. Inside was a cinnamon
ganache that smothered her with spice, velvet warmth, and amber shadows.

Then
to the folio.

She
transcribed Machiavelli’s handwritten notes onto three-by-five cards—taking
care not to smudge the original document.

Italian
was easy for Fiona; it had so many Latin roots. Medieval Italian, however,
should have been entirely another story. The meaning of the cramped
handwriting, though, was as illuminated to her as stained glass lit by a
noontime sun. It had never been like this before.

She
read what Machiavelli really thought of the princes of old Italy. Foremost he
was terrified that he wouldn’t be flattering and he’d be tortured (again) or
killed.

There
were anecdotal notes that the princes’ parlor-room wars often turned inward.
The children of these royal families fared the worst in politics. Many failed
to live long enough to compete with their elders for power. He called them an
“army of pawns” that were used and sacrificed . . . but never, ever allowed to
completely cross the board.

Fiona
didn’t even know which side of the board she and Eliot were supposed to be on:
their mother’s or their father’s side. But that wasn’t what their trials were
about. Or was it? She wondered if there was more to Uncle Aaron’s
chess-permutation riddle than she’d first imagined.

She
rubbed her eyes and saw her alarm clock blink: 8:30 p.m. Time flew when you
were reading about medieval mayhem and murder.

She
reached for another chocolate. Her hand cast among discarded silk cups, feeling
nothing but paper.

Her
stomach sank.

She
grabbed the box and brushed out the wrappers.

Gone—all
the chocolates. She’d eaten them all and not even realized it.

A
cold, drowning sensation filled her.

Besides
Grandmother’s and Cee’s weird gifts, this had been the one thing someone had
given her because he or she liked her. She should have savored them. Saved at
least one for tomorrow.

She
squeezed her eyes. She would have given anything to have more. She’d been so
stupid—eating while she worked.

She
picked up the box to throw it across her room. Something inside shifted.

Fiona
halted and returned the heart shape safely to her lap. She held her breath. Her
body trembled.

Inside
there was a layer of waxy rice paper . . . which she gingerly lifted.

It
was as if the sun had risen again in her world. Relief flooded back into her
and she smiled.

Within
the box was a second layer of chocolates

23

KILL
NOT THE MESSENGER

After
Eliot had woken up, he waited fifteen minutes in the hallway for Fiona. He’d
even tried knocking once, but she hadn’t answered.

She’d
never been so late.

From
the dining room there were hushed voices. Grandmother and Cee were probably
waiting, too. Eliot made sure they couldn’t see him. He didn’t want to face
them alone. He’d done a horrible job on last night’s homework: an essay on
Napoléon at Waterloo.

Why
had Fiona shut him out? Sure he’d been a jerk at Ringo’s—totally distracted in
his music—but that was no reason to lock her door. Last night he’d called to
her as loud as he dared through the heater vent, but she either hadn’t heard
him or had ignored him.

Maybe
she’d gotten caught up in the translation of the Machiavelli folio.

But
it didn’t change that Eliot was angry at her, too—for being angry at him.

They
were supposed to stick together when things got tough, and for the first time
the opposite seemed to be happening.

He
rolled his essay into a tube and nervously tapped his thigh. Tinkling music
pranced at the edge of his mind: that stupid nursery rhyme again.

He
stopped his hand and forced his thoughts to be still.

Where
the morning light cut the shadows in the hall, dust swirled. These motes looked
like tiny birds on thermals and then notes of printed music . . . that he could
almost understand.

Eliot
looked away.

He
would stay in control of the song today—not the other way around. He’d had his
doubts after yesterday: almost blacking out while washing dishes. But he’d
practiced last night, stopping the music every time it crept into his head.