28. Lilly
CHAPTER 28
LILLY
“It’s his birthday?” I look at each woman in turn. “He hasn’t said a word about it.” Then again, why would he tell his humble employee such personal details, right? I’m lucky he?—
“Don’t feel bad,” Theodora says. “When it comes to holidays, Bruce is the family Grinch.”
“But we think he secretly likes us fussing over him,” Angela says. “When we don’t make him celebrate, he just works extra hours.” She wrinkles her perfect nose. “I don’t think he has ever treated himself to anything more than an extra-vigorous workout on his birthday.”
I can totally see that. “But don’t people eat at parties?” I ask, and feel silly doing so. “And drink?”
“Well, yeah,” Angela says. “And you’re right. That may be part of the reason for the Grinchness.”
“Part? Might be?” I can’t believe this. “Bruce has misophonia. The sounds of eating and drinking are triggers.”
Theodora clears her throat. “We can have tiny hors d’oeuvres at the party, something people can swallow whole.”
“And shots,” Angela says. “Tiny ones that people can down without making too much sound.”
Bruce wasn’t exaggerating when he said his family does not respect his condition.
“No one will be able to eat or drink in front of Bruce anymore,” I decree. When they look at me questioningly, I less confidently add, “I trained Colossus to stop anyone from trying.”
They both look at me like I’ve grown horns, but neither asks how a tiny Chihuahua is supposed to stop humans from eating or drinking.
“Having said that,” I add. “Why not set up two eating stations: one just for Bruce and another for everyone else, out of Bruce’s earshot? And two bars set up similarly.”
“That’s very smart,” Theodora says. “We’ll do it that way.”
“We can also blast the music loudly,” I say. “Or better yet, have a headphones party.”
“Let’s do the second idea,” Angela says. “Bruce wears headphones at most eating events anyway, and this way, he won’t look like he’s lacking social graces.”
Him wearing headphones doesn’t make him look like he lacks social graces. That honor belongs to whoever eats or drinks in front of him after learning about his condition.
“That’s settled then,” Theodora says. “I’ll invite his friends and hire a DJ who can set up the headphones thing.”
Angela claps her hands excitedly. The party is clearly more for her than for Bruce. “We also need a theme.”
“How about The Witcher ?” I blurt.
“The what?” they ask in unison.
How could they not know this? “That’s his favorite book series.”
Theodora looks at Angela meaningfully, then focuses on me. “He told you that?”
I blush. “I happen to like a video game based on said series, and we happened to talk about it.”
“Common interests,” Theodora says approvingly. “Then tell us, if we want that to be the party theme, what should we do?”
I shrug. “Can you find us some outfits that resemble those worn in medieval Eastern Europe?”
Angela gives me a “well, duh” look.
“We can have the men wear swords,” I say, getting into the spirit of things. “And the women can get extra dolled up to resemble the sorceresses of that world.” In The Witcher , the sorceresses use magic to look their best, not unlike this mother and daughter who use plastic surgery, so they will fit their roles well.
“What else?” Angela asks.
“Can you hire a bard?” I suggest.
Angela arches her as-yet-unRogained eyebrow. “A bard?”
“It’s like a minstrel,” I explain. “Think, a guy dressed in a dandy version of the clothing everyone will be wearing, while spouting poetry and playing a lute.”
“Ah, sure,” Angela says. “That should be easy.”
It should be? I guess rich people have access to bards—and probably get them at the same supermarket where they go to buy creepy masks and prostitutes for their Eyes Wide Shut -esque parties.
“The dog should have an outfit,” Theodora says. “Any ideas?”
I grin. “He can be a werewolf—Chihuahua by day, cursed beast by night.”
Theodora and Angela look down at the little ball of fluff dubiously. Are they wondering if werewolf powers are how he’ll keep people eating and drinking away from Bruce?
“Any other option?” Theodora asks.
“He can be a horse,” I say reluctantly. What I don’t add is that I used this idea with my dog for many a Halloween, or that my dog was named after the Witcher’s mount.
“That should be easier on such short notice,” Theodora says.
Oh? So there are limits to the Eyes Wide Shut supermarket. Good to know.
“All right,” Angela says. “We’ve got lots to do, so we’d better get started.”
“May I have your number?” Theodora asks me. “In case I have questions regarding the theme?”
I enter my phone number into her contacts, then take Colossus for another walk.
Outside, I spot Champ, who’s probably smoking his second carton of cigarettes at this point.
“Mad Max cosplay?” he asks with a smirk, pointing at my headgear. “You also need a bra with spikes.” With that, he ogles my boobs as if picturing said getup.
“So clever,” I say through gritted teeth. “I almost forgot how stupid Bruce makes me look on these walks.”
“Well, who can blame the guy.” Champ tosses his cigarette on the ground. “If you worked for me, I’d also have you wear special outfits.”
Ew. “Easy there, Champ. Your girlfriend is two feet away.”
“It was just a fucking joke.” Champ stomps on his cigarette, turns around, and skedaddles.
Wow. When Angela said that “like should be with like,” he is who she thinks is her equal?
Colossus walks over to sniff the cigarette butt, so I pull him away in case he decides to eat it.
After the walk, I train Colossus, all the while fighting the giddiness I feel whenever I picture Bruce’s Witcher-themed birthday party. From time to time, Theodora texts to ask me for more detailed suggestions about the theme, and at one point, she informs me of something that I obviously knew long ago—that The Witcher is also a TV show on Netflix, one that stars, and I quote, “the super-scrumptious, super-gorgeous Superman that is Henry Cavill.”
I haven’t seen it yet , I reply.
Maybe you can watch it with Bruce? Theodora suggests.
Who knows? I text back and wonder if she realizes she came very close to suggesting her son and I Netflix and chill.
An hour after lunch, I get one more text from Theodora:
Which of these outfits do you like?
Images flood my phone, and the choices are numerous, but I gravitate toward the black options because that is the color of choice of my favorite female character in the game, Yennefer of Vengerberg.
After a quick deliberation, I text Theodora my selections: tall boots, a cloak, a belt, a pair of long gloves, breeches, a fur collar, and last but not least, a girdle.
What size? she asks.
When I tell her, there’s a pause, and then she replies with:
We’re lucky this place tailors to both adults and kids.
Great. Are we back on the topic of my diminutive size?
To my relief, Theodora leaves me alone after that text, at least until she and Angela return and knock on my bedroom door. When I open it, Theodora thrusts a bunch of shopping bags into my hands.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Theodora says graciously.
Angela nods. “We love the theme idea so much we feel like we owe you .”
All I did was tell them something they should’ve known, but okay.
“The party will start in three hours, in the ballroom,” Angela says. “I hope that’s enough time for you to get ready.”
Was that a diss in the vein of, “You’re so ugly it will take you extra-long to cover it all up?”
“Just three hours?” Theodora looks at her watch with a horrified expression. “Is it too late to move everything back? There’s no way I’ll be ready in time.”
“No,” Angela says. “Dad has contrived some excuse to bring Bruce into that room at that exact time. If the time changes, Bruce could get suspicious.”
“I’ll have to hurry then,” Theodora says. “See you.”
As her mother rushes away, Angela stays behind for some reason.
Oh, no. Am I about to get another lecture on my unsuitability for her brother? Maybe this time I’ll be compared to a lowly donut hole and he to a champagne cake?
“I’d better run too. I take even longer to get ready than Mom,” Angela says but doesn’t move.
I sigh. “What is it now?”
She almost imperceptibly shifts from one high heel onto the other. “Thank you. I appreciate your help with this party.”
Leaving me gaping, she clickity-clacks away.
“What was that about?” I ask Colossus.
He cocks his head.
If I were that good at understanding humans, I’d get you all to hand me cookies every second of every day.
Dressed in my Yennefer outfit, I arrive at the ballroom a few minutes early. Colossus is with me, looking like the smallest pony in the history of equines.
Johnny greets us at the entrance, dressed like a bard.
I smile at him. “It’s like your mustache has waited its entire existence for this night.”
With a pleased blush, Johnny twirls said mustache expertly. “These are for you.” He hands me a pair of earbuds.
In order to expose my ears, I have to push back the jet-black locks of my wig. Once the buds are in, I hear soft lute music, just like I would in a tavern in Novigrad, my favorite city in the game.
Nice.
I look around.
The decorations are spot on; I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Theodora and Angela hired a set designer. The ballroom reminds me of Kaer Morhen, the ancient castle where all the Witchers train.
Spotting Bruce’s father at what must be a no-Bruce food station, I head over and check the selection.
Wow. Even the hors d'oeuvres are on theme, with labels like “mutton slider” and “wyvern tartar.” As I fix myself a plate of different cheeses and fruits, I grab some cucumber for Colossus—who gobbles it desperately despite the fact that he ate his dinner on the way here.
Ambrose accidentally bangs his scabbard on the side of the table. “You think Bruce will like all this?”
“I’m as big a fan of this world as he is,” I say. “And I love it.”
After quickly finishing my food in the designated area, I come out to check the gathering crowd.
Everyone is dressed in appropriate outfits, and I recognize Bob the chef, Prudence the housekeeper, the gardener whatever-his-name-is, and some security guards. Then a crowd of familiar folks walks in, also dressed up, and it takes me a second to remember that they’re from that nearby branch of Bruce’s bank—the very ones who helped in Colossus’s socialization.
Recognizing the smell of his human acquaintances, Colossus runs off to greet them—or check if they have treats.
Angela, Angela’s boyfriend, and Theodora walk in. Both women make excellent fellow sorceresses, while Champ looks like a Nilfgaardian court jester. They join Ambrose, who’s dressed as a king, most likely Radovid V the Stern.
“He’s coming,” Johnny says and nervously twirls his mustache. “Get ready.”
I watch the entrance curiously.
Bruce steps in, looking like an anachronism in his modern clothes.
“Surprise!” we all shout. “Happy birthday!”
Eye widening, Bruce looks around, a bit shell-shocked.
Ambrose strides over to his son and thrusts a bundle of clothing into his hands. “Please put this on and come back,” he says, sounding vaguely apologetic. “This party has a theme.”
Colossus runs over to Bruce and wags his tail.
Peering at the horse outfit, Bruce graces us all with one of his rare smiles. “Are you mini-Roach?”
The puppy wags his tail harder.
I don’t care what you call me, so long as there’s a cookie in it for me.
“Well, let’s go,” Bruce says to the dog, and they depart together.
I head over to the no-Bruce bar and order a shot of vodka. When I’m back on the dance floor, Bruce and Colossus return.
Holy Anubis. I should’ve guessed Angela and Theodora would end up doing this, yet I find myself unprepared and in need of new panties.
Already broad-shouldered by nature, Bruce looks huge with the signature armor shoulder plates of his costume. And given the gray wig, the two swords on his broad back, and the signature wolf pendant on his neck, there can be no doubt about who he is: Geralt of Rivia, or as everyone thinks of him, the Witcher.