“I’d love to hear how.” Cheyenne stared at her mom, who focused on opening the bottle with a little pop.
She’s stalling. Great.
“Any time I have a face-to-face meeting that’s leaning toward the stagnant side, I have Eleanor sit with me for a minute or two. She’s skilled at loosening up the conversation in the most unexpected ways.”
Cheyenne sat beside her mom and leaned her forearms onto the patio table, interlacing her fingers. “Like the time she asked Senator Carradine about his sex life?”
Bianca snorted. “You heard that one, huh?”
When she turned to look at her daughter, Bianca’s gaze dropped to Cheyenne’s elbows and forearms on the table. That was all it took—one look with no change of expression or verbal reminder—and Cheyenne drew her hands into her lap.
Wow. Even moving away didn’t change how much she groomed me with etiquette. “Yeah. I stopped right inside the door behind you and listened to the whole thing.”
“That was…” Bianca closed her eyes in thought before pouring the wine into the decanter. “Six? Seven years ago?”
“I think I was thirteen.”
“Right. The first of the teenage years. You heard everything back then.”
“Not on purpose. Most of the time.”
When they exchanged glances, both Summerlin women broke out into light, silent chuckles. Cheyenne glanced down at her folded hands in her lap, interlaced with the shadow of the patio table’s iron mesh.
It’s funny to laugh about now. My super-human hearing. Or non-human. She wouldn’t be smiling about that if we hadn’t started this conversation with small talk.
“Mom, I know we haven’t—”
“I’m sorry.” Bianca lifted a hand to stop her daughter, then pointed at the charcuterie plate and the wine. “I know we set this up to talk about one thing in particular, and we will. Let’s at least wait until the wine’s breathed, and we both have a glass of it in our hands, hmm?”
That’s not good. Cheyenne plastered a smile across her face and nodded. “Sure. We can wait for the wine. No problem.”
“Excellent.” Her mom shot her a knowing glance, then pulled the charcuterie plate closer and got to work stacking bites of brie and summer sausage on a cracker that looked more like birdseed dried into a square.
Cheyenne sighed and helped herself to the same. She’ll be a lot easier to have this conversation with if she’s wined and at least a little dined first. I’m not the first person to think this.
She ate the first stacked snack and built another, spreading stoneground mustard all over it. “How’re things going up here?”
Bianca dabbed the corner of her mouth with a finger, still chewing. “Smoothly. A lot more activity, oddly enough. Much higher demand for consultations in the last month or so with the elections coming up so soon. Honestly, I expected a few…individuals to have come to me sooner when I saw the debates. Everyone’s a procrastinator these days.”
Including you, Mom. Cheyenne tilted her head in feigned interest, just like her mother had taught her. ‘Doesn’t matter if you care about what’s being said, Cheyenne. The important thing is that you look like you care. Very much.’
Cheyenne had found that advice was unnecessary outside of politics and social engagements of the caliber Bianca Summerlin attended or hosted. It worked very well here.
I wonder if she can even tell?
After listening to her mom talk vague circles around the various political figures who’d sought her opinion on this or that sensitive subject, Bianca delivered a courteous sigh and grabbed the decanter. “Thank you for at least pretending to be interested in all that. I know it’s hard to focus on anything else.”
“Pour the wine, Mom.”
Bianca dipped her head, her eyes widening in preparation for the conversation they both knew was coming. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bianca lowered the wineglass and closed her eyes in appreciation. “Did you see what year this is?”
Cheyenne licked her lips and reached for the empty bottle, turning it until the label faced her. “Mom.”
“I have a crate of half a dozen, and this is the first one I’ve opened. Excellent aging.”
“This bottle’s as old as I am.” Cheyenne picked up her glass and tried not to gulp it down.
“The occasion called for it.” Her mother gave a dismissive wave, then lifted her wine glass and took a long sip.
“If you say so.”
“Come on, Cheyenne. I’ve been putting this off for twenty-one years, and you’ve found something that makes it impossible to do so any longer.” Bianca smirked into her glass, her voice echoing through the fine crystal when she added, “At least let me endure the experience with as much dignity and refinement as possible.”
The half-drow clicked her tongue. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’ve earned that right.” The wine glass clinked onto the table, and Bianca twirled it by the stem as she turned to meet her daughter’s gaze. “So, what did you find?”
“Something I wasn’t supposed to, I’m guessing.”
“Hmm, you don’t say?”
Cheyenne took another drink. “How much do you know about the other…races of people out here?”
“Very little, Cheyenne.”
“But more than you’re saying, right?” Cheyenne stared at the well-aged wine streaking the inside of her glass. “Because you’d have to know something if your name’s in a document about a maximum-security prison for magicals.”
Her mom’s eyes widened. “I haven’t seen that document.”
“Obviously. There was an addendum about Operation FRoE and initiating some kind of new system.”
“What did it say about me?”
“The addendum? Nothing.” Cheyenne shook her head. “But the original report mentioned an escaped convict. D-class? And suspected interaction between B. Summerlin and Inmate 4872.”
Bianca’s gaze fell to the iron tabletop and stayed there as she took another long sip of wine. “Did this report have a date?”
“January third—”
“Two thousand. Of course.” Bianca’s mouth twitched in recognition and memory at the same time. “Then, yes. That would be about me.”
“About you and Inmate 4872.” Cheyenne leaned back in her chair and studied the lack
