City of Night

persistent fear, disproportionate to the cause, had the character of a superstitious response. She, of course, was free of all superstition.
    The instinctive nature of her reaction led her to suspect that subconsciously she knew what was imprisoned in the amber substance within that glass case, and that her fear arose from this deeply buried knowledge.
    When she reached the end of the initial passage, where she had originally entered through a pivoting section of bookcases, she found a button that opened that secret door from here behind the wall.
    Immediately that she returned to the library, she felt much safer, in spite of being surrounded by so many books filled with so much potentially corrupting material.
    In one corner was a wet bar stocked with heavy crystal glassware and the finest adult beverages. As a superbly programmed hostess, she knew how to mix any cocktail that might be requested, though as yet she had not been in a social situation requiring this skill.
    Erika was having cognac to settle her nerves when from behind her, Christine said, “Mrs. Helios, pardon me for saying so, but I suspect that Mr. Helios would be distressed to see you drinking directly from the decanter.”
    Erika had not realized that she had been committing such a faux pas, but on having it drawn to her attention, she saw that she was, as charged, guzzling Remy Martin from the exquisite Lalique decanter, and even dribbling some down her chin.
    “I was thirsty,” she said, but sheepishly returned the decanter to the bar, stoppered it, and blotted her chin with a bar napkin.
    “We’ve been searching for you, Mrs. Helios, to inquire about dinner.”
    Alarmed, glancing at the windows and discovering that night had fallen, Erika said, “Oh. Have I kept Victor waiting?”
    “No, ma’am. Mr. Helios needs to work late and will take his dinner at the lab.”
    “I see. Then what shall I do?”
    “We will serve your dinner anywhere you wish, Mrs. Helios.”
    “Well, it’s such a big house, so many places.”
    “Yes.”
    “Is there somewhere I could have dinner where there’s cognac—other than here in the library with all these books?”
    “We can serve cognac with your dinner anywhere in the house, Mrs. Helios—although I might suggest that wine would be more appropriate with a meal.”
    “Well, of course it would. And I would like to have a bottle of wine with dinner, an appropriate bottle complementary to whatever the chef has prepared. Select for me a most appropriate bottle, if you will.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Helios.”
    Apparently, Christine had no desire for another conversation as intimate and intense as the one they’d shared in the kitchen earlier in the day. She seemed to want to keep their relationship on a formal footing henceforth.
    Encouraged by this, Erika decided to exert her authority as the lady of the house, although graciously. “But please, Christine, also serve me a decanted bottle of Remy Martin, and save yourself the trouble by bringing it at the same time you bring the wine. Don’t bother making a later trip.”
    Christine studied her for a moment, and said, “Have you enjoyed your first day here, Mrs. Helios?”
    “It’s been full,” Erika said. “At first it seemed like such a quiet house, one might almost expect it to be dull, but there seems always to be something happening.”
     
     
     

Chapter 59
     
    Although the Q&A with Arnie’s mother starts well, Randal Six quickly exhausts his supply of conversational gambits. He eats nearly half a quart of strawberry-banana swirl ice cream before another question occurs to him.
    “You seem to be frightened, Vicky. Are you frightened?”
    “Yes. God, yes.”
    “Why are you frightened?”
    “I’m tied to a chair.”
    “The chair can’t hurt you. Don’t you think it’s silly to be frightened of a chair?”
    “Don’t do this.”
    “Don’t do what?”
    “Don’t taunt me.”
    “When did Randal taunt you? Randal never did.”
    “I’m not afraid of the chair.”
    “But you just said you were.”
    “I’m scared of you.”
    He is genuinely surprised. “Randal? Why be scared of Randal?”
    “You hit me.”
    “Only once.”
    “Very hard.”
    “You aren’t dead. See? Randal doesn’t kill mothers. Randal has decided to like mothers. Mothers are a wonderful idea. Randal doesn’t have a mother or a father.”
    Vicky says nothing.
    “And, nooooo , Randal didn’t kill them. Randal was sort of made by machines. Machines don’t care