Flora parked her red Porsche in the visitor lot of the Heathridge Academy for Girls. She didn't normally pick up her niece in person, particularly not with so much snow on the road -- she had servants for this sort of thing, after all -- but Jenna had said that the dean wished to speak with her in person, before the holidays, if possible. She hadn't said what it was about, though. Flora took this as a bad sign.

She wrapped her silver fox-fur coat around her shoulders and headed for the main administrative building, admiring her reflection in the glass doors as she ascended the broad steps. The blue cashmere suit was a good choice, she thought, particularly if she were going to have to talk the dean out of expelling her niece. It made her look responsible but still feminine, and it brought out her eyes. The fox coat might not've been the best choice, though; mink looked better with her light gold hair, even if the fox looked better with the suit. Ah, well. Too late to change. She'd just have to compensate with charm.

Flora spotted Jenna as soon as she entered the building. The girl slouched in an overstuffed chair just outside the dean's office, her dark hair partially obscuring her face. This in itself was not an especially bad sign; Jenna always slouched. Flora wished, not for the first time, that the school would incorporate some sort of corset into its uniform. It was supposed to be such a good school, and yet sometimes she wondered whether they really knew anything about how to train a young lady.

Jenna caught sight of Flora then, and raised her hand a few inches in greeting, revealing a nasty-looking scab on her knee, dark and ugly against her pale skin. Flora suspected she'd been picking at it. "Dean's waiting for you," Jenna said. "Go on in."

"You haven't gotten into a fight and gotten yourself expelled, have you?" Flora asked.

"Nope," Jenna said. "Oh, you mean the scab? I was horsing around on the climbing wall after class today and fell kind of a long way. No biggie."

"Then why does the dean want to see me?"

Jenna shrugged. "Beats me," she said. Flora had her doubts, though.

Just then, Dean Brummell appeared in the door of his office. "Miss Flaumel," he said warmly, extending his hand. "So pleasant to see you again. I'm sorry you had to drive through such nasty weather to get here. Please do come in. Let me take your coat."

Flora exchanged a few more mindless pleasantries with the dean as he hung her coat, poured her a cup of coffee -- instant, she noticed with disappointment -- and ushered her into the inner sanctum of his office. She took great care in arranging herself in the large leather chair across from his desk, trying to project an air of calm dignity. She wondered how big a donation she'd have to make to keep her niece from getting expelled.

"Dr. Brummell," she began, "I just want to thank you for the wonderful job you seem to be doing with my niece. I know she can be quite a handful at times."

He laughed and took a sip of his coffee. "Indeed. That's why I wanted to talk to you."

Flora's hands tightened on her coffee cup, but she kept her smile in place. "Oh?"

"I'll come right to the point," he said, setting aside his coffee and folding his hands on his desk. "Genevieve is a bright girl, brighter than she lets on, and quite the little athlete, too. If she keeps it up, she'll be competing at State in both fencing and archery this year."

Flora nodded and kept smiling, playing the proud auntie.

"It is my belief," he continued, "that her occasional discipline problems are simply due to boredom. Perhaps if she were being challenged more, her behavior might improve. Now, if she were still in elementary school, I might suggest skipping her ahead a grade. That's not so easy to do within the structure of a high school curriculum, though, and the logical next suggestion, letting her take more classes per term, would probably just make her rebel even more."

He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together. "No, I think perhaps a different kind of challenge is in order. I've talked with her fencing coach, and we think she might benefit from being allowed to train one afternoon a week with the team at Westing."

"Westing?" Flora said, her smile slipping just a little. "You mean, the boys' school?" This had to be one of Jenna's little schemes. The little wretch had an uncanny way of planting ideas in people's heads without their even noticing.

Dean Brummell chuckled as he misread her trepidation. "Oh, I know she's still just a little girl to you, but believe me, she's strong, and quick as lightning. She can hold her own, I'm sure. So is her coach. I'd be more worried for those poor boys, I think. They're not going to know what hit 'em." He chuckled again, perhaps in anticipation of humiliating another school's sports team.

"But -- being around all those boys," Flora protested, "-- don't you think she'd be tempted to get into even more trouble?"

"Oh, she might be tempted," the dean responded, "but there won't be much she can do about it. She'll be under constant supervision the whole time she's on their campus. She'll change into her workout clothes before she goes, and wait 'til she's safely back here to shower up; and Westing has four fencing coaches, all of whom will be watching her closely, if for no other reason than to try to keep her from beating the pants off their boys; plus the Heathridge assistant coach, who'll chaperone her."

Stupid man, Flora thought, you're not even listening to yourself. She's brighter than she lets on, and she will foil you. Despite herself, she smiled at the pun.

"It is an interesting proposition," she said. It could be a useful bargaining tool, she thought.

Dean Brummell reached into a desk drawer and produced a pink form, which he slid across the desk to Flora. A quick glance revealed it to be the standard I-give-my-permission-and-will- not-sue-you-if-something-goes-wrong form. "Talk it over with her over the holidays, and if you decide to let her try -- and I hope you will -- just fill this out and have her bring it back to me."

"I will, Dr. Brummell," Flora responded, more brightly than she felt, as she rose from her chair. "I'm so glad you take such an interest in her well-being."

Dean Brummell rose, too, retrieved Flora's coat, and saw her to the door. Jenna still slouched in the chair outside, but now she'd produced a fountain pen to aid in the scab-picking process. Flora looked at her just in time to see her slide the nib under the edge of the dark mass, achieving just the right angle so that black ink trickled down her leg from under the wound like so much film-noir carnage. "Cool," Flora heard her mutter.

"Have a nice holiday, Miss McCaine," Dean Brummell said cheerfully. "Do try not to kill anyone."

Jenna looked up with a smirk. "Back atcha," she said. "Both parts." She unfolded her gangly limbs, stood, and slung her jacket and backpack over her shoulder.

"Is that all you've packed for the holidays?" Flora asked.

"Like anything else would fit in your trunk," Jenna retorted.

They walked to the Porsche in silence, got in, drove away. Not 'til they'd reached Highway 9 did Jenna ask, casually, "So, what did Brummell want?"

Flora waited almost a minute before answering, trying to decide whether to fabricate a good story and save the truth for a more opportune time. She changed lanes several times, pretending to be concentrating on the road, but when Jenna cleared her throat for the third time she knew she couldn't stall any longer. She opted for the truth. "He suggested that you might start training with the Westing fencing team one afternoon a week."

"And what did you say?"

"I said I'll think about it."

"And did you mean it?"

"What do you think?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jenna smile like she'd won some sort of small victory. So she added, "I suppose it doesn't really matter. Men have fragile little egos, and I swear, Jenna, you have no instinct for nurturing them. Those boys aren't going to have any interest in you once you best them at their own game."

"No interest?" Jenna replied. "I dunno, Flo, you sure seem to take an interest when someone's threatening to kick your ass."

"I told you not to call me that," Flora snapped.

"Sorry. Florimel." Jenna retrieved a hairclip from her jacket pocket and pulled back her hair on the side nearest Flora, perhaps so Flora could get a better view of her sneer. Even in the thin winter light, the clip sparkled quite prettily. Flora arched an eyebrow in surprise; Jenna seldom volutarily wore pretty things.

"That's a nice clip," she said. "Where did you get it?"

"Chloe Bairstow."

"Of the White Plains Bairstows?" Flora asked.

"Yeah, sure, I guess," Jenna said.

"She's a friend of yours?" Flora couldn't help sounding impressed. Maybe all her hard work was finally paying off.

The cold sound of Jenna's laugh dispelled Flora's hopes. "Not anymore. I mean, not that we were before, either, but now she's good and pissed off at me, instead of just indifferent."

"What," Flora asked coolly, "did you do?"

"Aw, nothing. I just knocked her down a peg or six. Her folks took her to Vegas over Thanksgiving, and she came back all high-and-mighty 'cos she won at poker. The girl only played two friggin' hands! It's not like there's any skill involved in that. But she kept bragging about it -- totally obnoxious -- so I challenged her to a game, knowing full well that the bitch was goin' down."

"Watch your language, young lady," said Flora.

"Oh, sorry -- knowing full well that the 'female dog' was 'performing fellatio'. Better?"

Flora pressed her lips together tightly, but she couldn't suppress a snort of laughter.

"So I set it up that we'd play thirty hands, enough so that it would be a contest of skill rather than dumb luck, with the provision that we could keep playing after the first thirty if we wanted to. So at the end of the thirty, she was way down -- like, hundreds of dollars -- and wanted to keep playing so she could make it all back. We kept going 'til curfew, and she kept losing -- not every hand, but most of them -- she's got no poker face at all, I swear -- until finally I felt a little sorry for her and told her I'd excuse the entire rest of her debt if she'd bet this clip on the last hand. It was kind of a stupid suggestion, because with all the game stakes riding on one hand it became a luck thing again, but I figured enough people had seen her lose over and over again that she'd learned her lesson already. But then I got a full house on the last hand and won anyway."

"Why did you want the clip?" Flora asked. "It's lovely, but it doesn't really seem your style."

Jenna shrugged. "Another lesson, I guess. It was a gift from her boyfriend -- Barrett Browning, of the Pompous Brownings --" Flora shot her a dirty look, but she ignored it -- "and she's always going on about how precious it is -- you know, not only is it real diamonds and real sapphires, but Barrett picked it out all by himself to match her eyes, blah blah blah -- but I guess it wasn't as precious to her as the fifteen hundred dollars she owed me."

A moment later, she added, "Come to think of it, Barrett's on the fencing team at Westing. Maybe I'll let him challenge me to a duel for a chance to win it back."

"You'll do no such thing," Flora said sternly. "You will wrap the clip up as soon as we get home and send it to Chloe for Christmas, and you will write a nice note to go with it, and you will mean every word."

Jenna smirked. "God, Flora, you suck the fun right out of every situation. You're, like, the Anti-Random."

"I choose to take that as a compliment," Flora responded, all haughty dignity.

They drove in silence the rest of the way to Flora's home. As the house came into view, Flora fumbled in the glove box for the remote for the big iron gate. These days, she knew, a woman can't be too careful, especially a woman living alone. Well, alone except for the servants.

She pulled the car up the winding driveway and into the carriage house. As she and Jenna walked the rest of the way to the main house, an icy wind began to blow. They'd have more snow by morning, Flora knew. As she dug through her handbag for the key, Jenna hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep warm. Flora wondered why she hadn't bothered changing out of the short skirt of her school uniform and into warmer clothes. Sometimes the girl had no sense at all.

As they stepped inside, they were met by the enormous form of Donner, one of Flora's Irish wolfhounds, every muscle in his powerful body tensed as he judged them friend or foe. Satisfied that he didn't need to rip their throats out, he stood, stretched, and greeted Jenna in the usual dog way -- he stuck his nose up her skirt.

"Donner, heel!" Flora ordered, but Jenna already had her arms around the beast's neck, wrestling playfully. For an instant, Flora thought, Jenna looked almost like a real girl with a real heart, and not like the cold ball of sarcasm masquerading as human that was her usual form. Donner grinned like a lovesick puppy as Jenna scratched him behind the ears and cooed, "Have you been a good boy, sweetheart?"

Just then, Flora's servant Carmella appeared. "The Bordens called, miss. They will be able to come to dinner after all."

"Thank you, Carmella," Flora said. "I suppose I should start getting ready."

Jenna, now sprawled on the mosaic floor rubbing Donner's stomach, looked up. "You've got dinner guests? Can I go into the city, then? I know someone who's got tickets to Radiohead."

"No, love, you'll be having dinner with us. What's a Radiohead?"

"No fair!" protested Jenna, as fiercely as if Flora had suggested she go swimming through shark-infested waters. "Why do I have to be here?"

"They're bringing their daughter, who's about your age, because I told them you'd be home for the holidays."

"But... but... Radiohead!" Jenna scowled and added, "You know, if I really wanted to go, you couldn't really stop me. I mean, what're you gonna' do, sic the dogs on me?" She did have a point; Donner now lay on his back with all four paws in the air and his tongue hanging out, enjoying his belly rub, helpless as a day-old kitten.

Sometimes Flora wondered whether Jenna hadn't made friends with her dogs just to irritate her. But no, the girl did genuinely seem to like animals, even if she didn't like much else. Flora wondered briefly, and with a touch too much amusement, how Jenna would fare against Morgenstern -- or the hellhounds.

She said, "What could I do? I could find a nice shadow with no animals, and no music, populated entirely by joyless businessmen, with a timeflow of one year there for every week here, and I could leave you there for your entire holiday."

"Yeah, you could," Jenna replied, "but you wouldn't dare. That's child abuse. I should know -- I go to school with the fluff-heads who grew up like that."

"Perhaps you're right," Flora said. "Maybe instead, I should decide not to let you train at Westing."

Jenna considered this for a moment, then dismissed Donner with a thump on the rump. "What time are they getting here?"

Flora smiled sweetly. She'd just scored a point in their little game, and Jenna knew it. Good thing, too -- Jenna was becoming entirely too good a player, and really needed a serious drubbing. She'd have to think of something. "In about an hour," she said. "I've taken the liberty of buying you a nice dress to wear."

"Fine," Jenna said, disinterested. "As long as it's not some hideous color or something."

"It's lovely," Flora insisted, "even by your eccentric standards, I'm sure. It's mostly black, with a little bit of color in the bodice to accentuate your bust."

"Accentuate my bust? Am I supposed to make friends with this girl or seduce her?"

"Now, Genevieve," Flora chided, "there's never any harm in looking your best. Some parts of you still have a little growing to do to catch up with the rest of you. I just... compensated a little."

Jenna rolled her eyes, but let the subject drop. "I guess I should get showered, then," she said, "if I've got to be all presentable and stuff." She grabbed her backpack and slunk off towards her room, through the kitchen, in the servants' quarters.

It had been one of their many compromises. When Jenna first came to stay with Flora, she'd had a bigger room on the second floor of the main house. But when she'd gotten old enough to want to do her own decorating, Flora just couldn't bear to see her tastefully appointed rooms filled with junk and rock posters, so she'd given Jenna a choice: stay in the big room and live with the pale green silk moire and frilly pillows and elegant four-poster bed, or take a little room in the servants' quarters and decorate it however she damn well pleased. Jenna had chosen the latter. The result, Flora thought, was a pit, like something out of a nightmare, filled with the bizarre and the macabre. Even the clear-plastic shower curtain disturbed her, for reasons she couldn't quite put her finger on. She never went in Jenna's room unless she had to, which suited them both just fine.

"The dress is hanging on the door of the laundry in a Macy's bag," Flora called after her. "Let me know if you need to borrow stockings. Or makeup. And no black lipstick tonight, OK? These are respectable people."

She didn't get a response, but then she hadn't been expecting one.

Flora retired to her own room to ready herself for dinner, changing into an elegant dress of blue-green silk. She pinned most of her hair up in a twist but left a few golden tendrils artfully framing her face. After a quick touch-up of her cosmetics, she returned downstairs to select linens and china for the evening's festivities.

She had just finished arranging the candles and flowers on the table when Jenna re-emerged, dressed and ready. Flora had judged the effect of the dress exactly right, and she smiled as she admired her handiwork. The long, flowing skirt disguised Jenna's gangly legs, making her seem less like a mantis and more like a... like a model. The girl would never be beautiful the way Flora was, of course, but she'd be undeniably pretty in a couple of years, once her breasts and hips had a chance to catch up with her arms and legs. If only she'd smile a little more, a real smile, rather than that perpetual smirk.

Jenna circled the table, lighting the candles, and as she rounded the last corner, Flora saw that she still wore Chloe Bairstow's jewelled hairclip, purely out of spite, Flora knew. And yet she'd taken the time to arrange it so that the curve of the teardrop-shaped clip flowed seamlessly into the curve of her hair as it framed her face. The effect was a minor work of art. Art Deco, Flora decided. She couldn't bring herself to destroy the effect by making Jenna remove the clip.

And that had been the little bitch's plan all along. Dammit. Jenna scores a point.

"You look lovely, Jenna," Flora said. "And as your manners often match your appearance, I find myself hopeful for a pleasant evening."

"The dress doesn't suck," Jenna said. "Thanks."

Was she signalling some sort of truce, or just trying to lull Flora into a false sense of security?

The doorbell rang, and Flora ushered Jenna into the foyer just as Carmella opened the door. "Robert! Monica! I'm so glad you could make it," Flora said, greeting the middle-aged man and woman who entered the house.

"What a lovely home you have, Evelyn," the woman replied. "Of course, I would've expected no less of you."

"And this picture of loveliness must be Jessica," Flora added sweetly as a fair, blonde girl emerged, feminine and shy and beautiful, from behind her parents. The girl wore a pale pink sweater and a pale blue taffeta skirt, and her hair was pulled into a tight bun, like a dancer.

Jenna eyed her with a smile not unlike that of a cat contemplating a caged bird.

"I'd like to introduce my niece, Genevieve," Flora said, before Jenna had a chance to say anything sarcastic. "Jenna, this is Robert Borden, the head of the Philharmonic's Board of Trustees; and Monica is the volunteer coordinator at the MoMA."

Jenna smiled -- sweetly, almost -- and extended a hand. Maybe she did intend to behave herself after all. "It's nice to make your acquaintance," she said, with the same inflection Flora herself would've used.

She shook hands with each of the Bordens in turn, smiling, nodding, exchanging pleasantries. When she got to Jessica, she asked, with the friendly tone of one inquiring about the weather, "So you're a Borden, eh? Any relation to the axe murderer?"

Flora sighed. It was going to be a long holiday.

Last modified: 30 Jan 2002