Mother has outdone herself with the decorations this year. The spruce pine in the foyer is adorned with antique ornaments—many from my grandmother’s collection that I remember examining as a child, cataloguing their fragility. Three hundred and twelve perfect glass bubbles of memory, each precisely placed.
I run my finger along the dining table, inspecting the settings. Fine bone china, Georgian silver, crystal that captures light in precisely calculated facets. The pattern is flawless: Father will sit at the head, Mother to his right, myself at his left, and directly across from me is where Avery will sit when the world operates according to its proper order.
The conversation drifts from the kitchen. Father’s voice is pitched low as it always is when he speaks with Avery. Even through the closed door, his disappointment is palpable. When he emerges, his expression confirms what I already suspect.
‘Sebastian,’ he begins, the rehearsed neutrality in his tone betraying the effort it costs him. ‘Avery won’t be joining us today, after all. She’s come down with the flu.’
I maintain an expression of appropriate concern. ‘That’s unfortunate. Did she reschedule?’
‘Not exactly.’ He glances at Mother. ‘Hopefully in the New Year.’
The crystal wine glass shatters musically in my grip before I register squeezing it. Glass fragments splinter in every direction. The sound draws Mother’s attention, concern etching across her features.
‘Sebastian? What happened? Are you hurt?’
‘A momentary lapse in attention,’ I reply, voice modulated to project appropriate remorse. ‘How careless of me.’
She fusses with a cloth, gathering fragments while I retreat to father’s study, with my laptop, closing the door behind me. The room smells of leather, cedar, and failure.
Flu and fever.
The transparent lie offends me more than the cancellation itself. She couldn’t even craft a plausible excuse—not for us. Not for family. The Baccarat decanter catches light from the window, the carefully prepared compound still waiting inside. All the preparations, the meticulous planning, the perfect scenario—rendered obsolete by her choice.
By him.
They’ve likely locked down a completely different plan—a different family gathering. The irony doesn’t escape me. The symmetry of our parallel celebrations, now fundamentally unbalanced.
I open the encrypted folder on my laptop, reviewing the contingency plans. The blueprint of the Beckett estate emerges on my screen, annotated with security positions, blind spots, patrol timing. The product of weeks of observation and analysis.
My finger traces the path of least resistance—the wine cellar entrance, the staff corridor, the precise route to the main dining room. The timing would need to be immaculate. The distraction perfectly orchestrated.
But it could be done.
I open the desk drawer, removing the velvet box containing my final black lily. It was meant to be a parting gift to Beckett, after he’d succumbed to the compound.
A symbol of transition.
Now it will serve as a herald instead.
My reflection in the window shows a composed man, not the turbulent emotions beneath. The door handle turns—Father, checking on me. The facade must be maintained.
For now.
I slip the lily into my jacket pocket, alongside the precision blade that never leaves my person. Plans change, but purpose remains constant.
If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, then the mountain will come to Mohammed.
