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14
ADRIK
After dinner, everyone helps carry the dishes back into the kitchen.
Sloane and I linger at the table the longest, me gathering up the empty wine glasses, and her folding the tablecloth with all of its crumbs so she can shake it out over the railing of the deck.
The sun is going down. Pale moths flutter around the strings of light suspended over the hammocks. The honeysuckle in the yard smells sweeter now than it did in the daytime.
“She’s very clever,” Sloane says.
I smile, pleased that Sloane noticed how quickly Sabrina rattled off that quip in Ivan’s code.
There’s no point pretending—I’m sure Sloane already knows twice what I think she does.
“I’m glad you could meet her,” I say.
Sloane is not maternal, not in the usual way. She’s my aunt, but she’s been more like an older sister to me, or a friend. I want her approval, hers and Ivan’s. I always have.
Sloane gives the tablecloth a brisk snap, tossing the crumbs across the lawn for the delight of all the robins and sparrows in the morning.
“I knew you’d never pick some pretty little idiot,” she says.
I shake my head. “That would bore me.”
Sloane re-folds the tablecloth, crisply, intricately, like a flag, even though she’s only taking it to be washed.
“She’ll be an asset to you,” she acknowledges.
I’m not sure I like the term “asset.” It’s a word Sloane’s father would have used. Sabrina is valuable to me, and potentially useful. But she’s much more than a tool or a means to an end.
Sloane continues, “And a liability, too.”
I pause, a bouquet of wine glasses in each hand, the dregs of shiraz streaky and dark.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s unstable.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it takes one to know one.”
I frown, irritated that Sloane is passing judgment on Sabrina when she hardly knows her at all.
“She’s young, that’s all.”
“Some people form at an early age. That was you, Adrik—you’ve been the same practically since you were a baby. I taught you, but I never changed you. You are who you are. Other people are more malleable. You can shape them and hone them, like a sword. You can wield them for your own purpose. And some people … some people are bombs. When they go off, they tear everything apart, including themselves.”
“Which one are you?” I demand.
“I’ve been a sword and a bomb.”
“Then you grew up.”
“No,”Sloane says sharply. “I changed. It’s not the same thing.”
