Chapter 52 The Fixer
THE FIXER
“What happened?”
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Was that a gunshot?” another asked.
“We have to call for Alina!”
“With what telephone in her possession?” I snapped at the girl.
“Watch it,” Phoebe snapped at me, smacking her coat to rid it of snow.
“You answer the questions, then,” I nearly snarled, pushing past the crowd steadily forming at the door. My body was heavy as it finally sank into one of the parlor chairs. All I could do was rub my temples, to imagine this was the last problem I’d have to deal with tonight.
“Do you think there will be more tonight?”
I glanced up at the new voice.
Mary stood next to my chair, staring at the hearth, at the crackling fire. This wasn’t a question of panic, but a tone of proactiveness I had only seen in a few, aside from Alina so far. She seemed stoic, focused.
“Yes,” I said honestly. “I think tonight will be long.”
A few more filed into the parlor area. Some filled in the seats of the couch, some sat on cushions on the floor by the fire.
“We should stay together tonight,” Rebecca, standing by the arm of the sofa, suggested.
“Should we sleep in shifts?” one seated on the sofa asked.
“I’ll stay awake,” I said.
“So will I,” Mary decided, looking at the others. “Anyone else?”
Rebecca raised her hand, and a couple more hands as well.
I glanced over my shoulder. Phoebe was leaning against the wall, looming in the shadows. A red flickering of her eyes gave her away. Not that she was hiding, but she seemed to have retreated in thought.
“We can trade off sleeping,” I said.
Phoebe’s eyes flicked to me in the dark.
It isn’t easy to distract yourself during a crisis. Most aren’t very good at it. It’s a tricky thing to master. But there is one thing that is nearly foolproof.
Food.
To my surprise, Phoebe said my suggestion would be wasteful. Though Phoebe never had to learn how to make simple pleasures out of nothing.
Two pots on the stove, one with foraged berries for the Hosts, and the other for the Vipera. It wouldn’t be easy to mix up.
I hadn’t had Kissel in a long time. A very long time. It was like a jelly, a cheap treat of berries and potato flour. Two ingredients that were plentiful for Alina’s Nest. Though I was curious about the berries used for the Vipera.
“What are you using?” Mary spoke from beside me.
She was staring into the pot as I steadily cooked down the berries.
“Blackberry for the Hosts, rosehip for Vipera.”
“May I help?”
“Of course, just stir them both steadily,” I instructed, stepping aside to hand it over.
She took the spoons, a bit stiff and awkward as she stirred.
I mixed some warmed water and the potato flour. “Just keep stirring,” I said, slowly pouring the mixture into the pots.
“Do you think Alina found where they’re coming from?” she asked, scraping the sides of the pots as she stirred.
“She could have,” I said truthfully.
“Would you lie to us even if you knew she wasn’t going to?”
The question made me pause, and I thought on it for a minute. “Would you blame me if I did?”
She shook her head solemnly, “If we go to New York City with you and . . . Mr. Forbes,” she began, shifting the pots off the hot burners, “don’t lie to us.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” She looked up at me.
There was a stark tension in her brow, a determined spark.
“My sister is dead because we were left in the dark about how real this threat was. I don’t blame them entirely.
I understand keeping calm. But promise me that you won’t lie.
That you will let us know if we can prepare better, be stronger. ”
“Where is this coming from?”
“They’re too distracted with their own workings to realize that the Nest is a tool. I overheard Mr. Forbes talking about the Nests out there being as fierce as chicken coops, to be protected and helpless.”
I nodded slowly.
She took in a frustrated breath. “Promise that you will help us make sure we are never waiting docilely for slaughter.”
“Well, I think that would be up to each of you.”
“If we never know how to help ourselves, we may never get the choice.” She held up her hand, pinky out. “I want your word.”
“Why mine?”
“Because despite being starved out, tortured, berated, and despised, you are still here.” Her dark brows furrowed, grabbing my hand and forcing it in hers, pinkies locking. “You believe in this just as much as we do. Help us make it work.”
I was hesitant to accept, but I did, anyway. The eagerness is all I needed to see to make me believe that maybe this would work. Maybe this mess was temporary.
“You have my word then.” My pinky squeezed hers.
“I didn’t take you as a baker,” Phoebe muttered as her spoon scratched against the bottom of her cup.
“Not all of us grew up with a full support staff,” I teased.
“I feel bad for Edith; she’s missing out.” Rebecca nudged Phoebe.
“I can make more. I’ll be awake when her shift ends.” I checked my timepiece. “She’s usually off at about two in the morning, right?”
“Yes,” Phoebe confirmed, an irritated chime of her spoon in her cup before getting up and collecting a couple empty dishes from the coffee table.
Many sat around, temporarily pleased by the small treat.
“At least we got to enjoy it before she tells us it’s unhealthy,” one joked.
“Or perhaps rambling about medical anomalies while we are attempting to keep our appetites,” another said.
“My appetite is as good as gone just looking at her,” Phoebe mumbled, followed by a chorus of laughter.
“Phoebe,” Mary warned, her jaw clenching as she poked at her dessert.
“What?” The way Phoebe’s eyes snapped to her reminded me all too well how much she resembled her brother. “Is something the matter?” The question was a challenge.
“I don’t know, is there an issue, Phoebe?”
“It’s just a bit of fun, take a moment to gather your emotions,” Phoebe laughed, surveying the others for approval.
“It is fun when it is a harmless poke here and there, diluted across all members of the group.” Mary placed her cup on the table. “But you seem to use Edith as the wick for every burn. Butter upon bacon. Excessive.”
“I apologize for not being as sensitive as your nature, sweet Mary.”
“My sensibilities are perfectly fine; yours have lost their polish.”
“It is not too late to take those words back.” Phoebe placed the tray of cups down, her jaw tense. “Before you choke on them.”
“Is that all you do?” I spoke up.
The girls quieted, dread in their stares. The conversation was already like cold water on tallow.
Phoebe straightened her back, her chin in the air. “And what is it that I do?”
“I feel like I’ve heard this before. Stories about a young, fire-haired socialite who threw fits when she didn’t get what she wanted.” I laughed. “Your father didn’t mind a brat, but unfortunately, they get on my nerves after a while.”
She scoffed, a slight snort of pure amusement. “Don’t pretend to know me.”
“But I do.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “When you meet enough people, you’ve met them all. And I’ve had my fair share of the likes of you, dear Phoebe.”
“You think you do, which is your mistake,” she snapped. “You thought you knew Alina too.”
“I was wrong,” I said steadily. “We aren’t perfect.”
“And it cost you an eye.” Her hands clenched. “Watch yourself before you lose the other.”
“What kind of leader bullies one of the most useful members of their Nest?” I rose from my chair, and some of the girls seated on the floor made room in case I stepped forward.
“She’s a nurse, she earns more than any singular job any of you have, and has real, useful knowledge that benefits everyone. ”
“I have no room for incompetence. None of us do.”
“Do you really believe that? Or do you just crave Alina’s approval?”
She laughed, glancing down. “Is that really a question?”
“Is her friendship not enough for you that you must sabotage any of her other relationships?” I stepped forward, and the girls moved away, like our presence was lined with needles, quick to move so as not to be pricked.
Phoebe stepped back. “Nothing comes close to our bond.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Excuse me?”
“Being the only one who hasn’t had her heart?”
She stepped back again, and I matched in pace.
“Does it hurt knowing that you will always be the last choice?”
Her back hit the wall, her foot knocking against the umbrella holder.
“How does it feel to know she fell for my mirage before she ever thought of you as more than a rug?”
A prominent click, then a long, hard barrel shoved at my chest, the sawed-off shotgun retrieved from the umbrella holder.
“Keep going; I’ve been itching for a reason to kill you,” Phoebe spoke low, her eyes filling with blood, though in the dark her eyes were nearly a void.
“Phoebe!” Rebecca shouted from behind me.
Shuffling from the girls behind us as they scrambled, not wanting to be in the line of fire.
“Who is this?” A smirk pulled at my lip, and a drop of blood from my eye landed on the barrel. “I don’t believe I’ve met the woman before me.”
If it weren’t for her breathing, I’d easily mistake this stillness for a statue. Even with quick breaths, her weapon and eyes were steady. I fully believed that if it weren’t for the others in the room, I would have had a hole in me.
I put my hands up, taking a few steps back. “I recognize you now.” I chose my words carefully. “That’s your father in you. You look like him more and more every day.”
“You confuse me with my brother, old man.”
“Am I, though?”
She pulled the trigger pointed at my foot, and I jumped back.
“You missed.”
“I don’t miss,” she said sternly, “that was a warning.” She shoved past me, smelling of gunpowder and peonies, and headed for the stairs with her smoking gun in hand.
I followed her with my eyes, noticing Mary and Rebecca standing by, unsure of what had happened. Rebecca gave Mary a look before following Phoebe up the stairs. Mary looked back at me and gave what I swore was a small flick of the corner of her lip, before she followed suit.
“Girls,” I muttered, settling down into the parlor seat again, now alone to watch the fire and wait.