Page 42 of Holly & Hemlock
The men consider that, and we continue eating in silence for a few minutes.
“Lane,” Larkin calls down the table, “do you remember the time Whitby served us dandelions and called it ‘haut cuisine’?”
Lane looks up, the line of his mouth severe. “She was trying to kill us, I think.”
“Doubtful,” Whitby interjects from the sideboard. “If I wished to kill you, Mr. Sullivan, there are a hundred ways to do it outside and not in my dining room.”
Larkin laughs, the sound dry and genuine. “See? Always the poison wit.” He turns to me. “Nora, if you ever want to know the history of this place, just ask Whitby. She knows where all the bodies are buried.”
“Do you mean that literally?” I ask, only half joking.
Whitby replies, “Sometimes the difference is academic.”
The wine flows. It is golden, nearly viscous, the kind that warms rather than cools. With each glass, the barriers soften. The talk turns to weather, to politics, to the sorry state of the world beyond Hemlock’s grounds. Larkin is at his best in this mode: raconteur, devil’s advocate, master of the offhand cruelty. He pivots from topic to topic, testing, prodding, always waiting for someone to falter.
Lane, by contrast, is a wall. He speaks only when addressed, answers in the fewest syllables possible. When he disagrees, it is in the clench of his jaw or the angle of his shoulders, never in words.
I try, for Whitby’s sake, to keep the peace. “Were you close growing up?” I ask.
Larkin doesn’t miss a beat. “Too close for our own good. Itailed him like a lonely little puppy until Maeve decided I was to be her protege, of sorts. Lane was born here, in a shed, did you know that?”
Lane shrugs. “She made you an inside-dog.”
Larkin’s smile is a blade. “Indeed.”
The next course arrives: lamb, pink as the inside of a cheek, resting in a bath of thyme and garlic. The aroma is narcotic. Larkin carves his, holding the knife with a surgeon’s grip. He watches as I take the first bite.
“It’s good,” I say, surprised.
“Whitby’s a sadist, but she can cook,” Lane offers, voice gruff.
The wine is red now, darker, almost brown. I drink it too fast, and feel my tongue loosen, my cheeks flush. The talk gets meaner, but also more honest.
Larkin says, “When we got older, the roles reversed. Lane used to follow me around the house. Also like a dog, but with more self-respect.”
Lane’s knuckles whiten around his fork. “You begged me to.”
“Did not.”
“You cried, first night. Remember?”
Larkin’s face goes still. “We were children,” he says, quiet.
Lane softens. “Not for long.”
I jump in, desperate for neutral ground. “What did you two do for fun?”
Larkin’s answer is immediate: “We made up ghost stories. Tried to scare each other to death.”
Lane snorts. “He always scared easier.”
The next dish is a wedge of cheese, white and veined with something blue-green. Whitby sets it down herself, the knife glinting as she slices. “Blue Stilton,” she says. “Imported for the occasion.”
Larkin spears a piece, chews, and says, “Did you ever notice how the best things are always imported? Even the people.”
Whitby’s eyes flicker, but she ignores the bait.
Lane eats his cheese in silence. Larkin refills my glass, then his own, then raises it in a toast. “To the outsiders, may they always find a way in.”
