“What is it?” my uncle finally said, over a forkful of lobster.
“What’s what?” I put down my fork.
“This.” He gestured at the spread of silver platters between us, pulling the shiny dome off one overflowing with steaming, spicy oysters. “And this.” He looked pointedly at my viola, still playing softly. “Paganini, of course. Am I really that predictable?”
I avoided his eyes. “It’s called dinner. You eat it. Which you seem to have no problem doing, by the way.” I grabbed a ridiculous flagon of ice water—where Kitchen found some of our tableware, I’d never know—before he could say anything else.
“This is not dinner. This is, as Mark Antony would say, a tantalizing table of treason. Or perhaps treachery.” He swallowed another bite of lobster. “Or perhaps both, if Mark Antony were a fan of alliteration.”
“No treason.” I smiled. He smiled back, waiting. My uncle was many things—a snob, for one—but he wasn’t a fool. “Just a simple request.”
He set down his wineglass, heavy on the linen tablecloth. I waved a finger, and the glass filled itself.
Insurance, I thought.
“Absolutely not,” said Uncle Macon.
“I haven’t asked you anything.”
“Whatever it is, no. The wine proves it. The last straw. The final pheasant feather on the proverbial fluffy feather bed.”
“So you’re saying Mark Antony isn’t the only fan of alliteration?” I asked.
“Out with it. Now.”
I pulled the matchbook cover out of my pocket and pushed it across the table so he could see it.
“Abraham?”
I nodded.
“And this is in New Orleans?”
I nodded again. He handed me back the matchbook, dabbing at his mouth with his linen napkin. “No.” He returned to the wine.
“No? You were the one who agreed with me. You were the one who said we could find him ourselves.”
“I did. And I will find him while you remain locked safely in your room, like the nice little girl you should be. You’re not going to New Orleans alone.”
“New Orleans is the problem?” I was stunned. “Not your ancient-but-deadly Incubus ancestor who tried to kill us on more than one occasion?”
“That and New Orleans. Your grandmother wouldn’t hear of it, even if I said yes.”
“She wouldn’t hear of it? Or she shouldn’t hear of it?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“What about if she just doesn’t hear of it? That way it’s not an issue.” I put my arms around my uncle. As angry as he made me, and as annoying as it was to have him pay off the Underground bartenders and ground me from various dangerous pursuits, I loved him, and I loved that he loved me as much as he did.
“How about no?”
“How about she’ll be with Aunt Del and everyone in Barbados until next week, so why is this even a problem?”
“How about still no?”
At that point, I gave up. It was hard to stay angry at Uncle Macon. Impossible, even. Knowing how I felt about him was the only way I understood how hard it was for Ethan to live apart from his own mother.
Lila Evers Wate. How many times had her path crossed mine?