“These glasses have lids?” Preity asked, lifting one of the glass caps.
“Yes,” I said. “You’re supposed to swirl the whisky around and then put the cap on and leave it for a few minutes. That way the whisky aromas mix with the oxygen and it—”
“Just pour, Jannigan. Let’s get this party started!” Lirala dabbed a fingerful of winkle dust from a crystal dish on my coffee table and popped her finger in her mouth. She left it in there while she eyed me lasciviously. “Want some?”
“Uh, maybe in a bit.” I poured each of us a half glass of the Cinderwell, which was really Hinderwell unless I was going crazy.
“Tell Preity how much this stuff costs,” Lirala said.
“A lot. It was a gift from my uncle.”
“There’s only like a dozen bottles in the entire galaxy,” Lirala said.
That wasn’t completely true; the whisky wasn’t that rare. But I let Lir show off. Maybe she was warming back up to me, and my “punishment” wouldn’t be too bad. I could only hope.
“Is this stuff ready yet?” Lirala asked, swirling her whisky impatiently.
“I think it probably is,” I said.
“Good. A toast, then!”
“What are we toasting?” Preity asked.
“How about your new hair?” I said.
“No,” Lirala said. “We’re toasting to my fiancé’s education.” She had a dark look in her eyes. “Or re-education.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Preity asked.
“You’ll find out, love. You’re a part of it too.”
A look passed between Preity and me. I guessed that she might be getting a sense of how weird Lirala could be. Thankfully, Lir didn’t notice.
We all clinked glasses.
“Don’t chug,” I said. “This is meant to be savored.”
Truth be told, the Cinderwell/Hinderwell was magnificent. I whispered a silent prayer of thanks to Uncle Wallace.
“Wow,” Preity said.
“Do you taste the molasses and burnt heather?” I asked.
“Burnt heather?” Lirala rolled her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I don’t taste it either,” Preity said.
“What about oak and pear?” I asked. “My uncle told me that this whisky had been aged in a Spanish oak cask from the 23rd century.”
“No,” Preity said. “Sorry.”
Lirala took another sip. “Well, what I taste is oak and pear. And a little hint of chocolate.”
“I’m impressed.” I smiled at her and Lir smiled back. It was a rare genuine smile from her. I pulled her close to kiss her, and she let me. Progress.
“So when are you guys getting married?” Preity asked.
“That’s an excellent question,” I said. “Lir?”
“When he proves that he is worthy of me,” Lirala said, without missing a beat.
The fact was, Lirala and I had been together for nine years, and had been engaged, on and off, for the last five of those years. It’s almost like a joke. We go through periods where I want to get married and she doesn’t, and periods when she wants to get married and I don’t, and—increasingly—periods when neither of us wants to get married. It’s complicated.
“I’ve been very busy at work,” I told Preity. It wasn’t true, but it was the excuse we gave most often when friends and family asked about our plans together. “And so has Lir.”
“Yes, of course,” Lirala said. “Mummy’s not as sharp as she once was and I find myself being dragged into more and more of the business.”
That was also a lie. Lirala’s mother, Phelina Windsing, was smarter than just about anyone I knew, and certainly more ruthless. She was also an absolute control freak, especially when it came to Windsing Stables.
We continued chatting. And drinking. And soon we were staring at an empty decanter.
“Shall I arrange for some dinner?” I was hoping to get some food in my body to counter the tsunami of drink and drugs that I knew was coming.
“It’s so early!” Lirala complained. “What are we, oldsters?”
“I didn’t have any lunch,” I said.
The other reason I wanted to arrange for dinner was to slip away and get Cece going on a search for Hinderwell. I needed to know if my memory was damaged. If so, that would explain a lot of things.
“Just one more drink, then,” Lirala said, trying to be conciliatory.
“What are you in the mood for?” I asked.
“Hmm.” Lirala closed her eyes in thought.
She had an encyclopedic knowledge of mind-altering substances, including an uncanny ability to choose the exact perfect cocktail for any occasion.
“I’m thinking I might like a Vieux Carré. Yes, I believe that would sit well after the whisky.”
“Excellent choice,” I said. “Be right back.”
Of course I had no idea how to make a Vieux Carré, or even exactly what it was, but that’s what computers are for.
My kitchen bar was as well-stocked as any cocktail lounge, so it was just a matter of accessing the KB for a quick tutorial. But before I did that, I ordered some catering, and then asked Cece to track down the name of the distillery that produced my Reserve ’87. She came back with the answer immediately: Cinderwell. Then she summarized the history of the distillery (which was over 350 years old). Although the distillery had changed names a few times over its long history, it had been known as the Cinderwell Distillery for the last two centuries.
I asked if there was another whisky producer named Hinderwell, and was told that the only reference to the name ‘Hinderwell’ Cece could find was a village by that name in England on Earth. And, no, the village did not make whisky.
This was upsetting. Normally I had a fantastic memory. I was really starting to consider the possibility that my memories of the past eleven days were faulty.
“Jannigan!” Lirala yelled from the lounge. “Where are our drinks?”
“Five minutes away!”
The KB found a video of how to make a Vieux Carré, so I got to work. It turned out that the cocktail was four centuries old and had originated in the southeast United States. It was made with rye whiskey, two types of bitters, vermouth, cognac, and an herbal liqueur. I only had one type of bitter,
