Page 57 of Honey Cut
“I’m glad you were able to escape and rest for a few days,” Mark is saying to the president. “I know you’ve been busy.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Embry says with a sharp look. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news that John Lackland’s body was discovered. It’s been a bit of a headache.”
Mark takes a drink of his gin. “I did hear. How terrible.” He doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s terrible at all.
“Of course, we’ll need to nominate someone to fill his position. I had the thought that your sister would be an excellent candidate.”
Mark lifts his glass in wordless concurrence.
“It is strange how these stars align, though,” remarks the president, looking down at his own drink, an amber whiskey that coats the side of the glass when it moves. “If that space exploration bill had passed this summer, it would have passed with all kinds of extra things packed inside it. Like, for example, a provision for a committee to do a full investigation into CIA activities during the Carpathian war. I like Melody, but I have to imagine that a committee like that would have found some skeletons in her closet.”
“Literal skeletons,” agrees Mark easily.
“But the bill didn’t pass, even though it was widely expected to.”
“Politicians are fickle—present company excluded.”
“And then John Lackland died, violently and mysteriously. Tragically.”
“Tragically.”
“And my top candidate to replace him is conveniently free of any ongoing investigations about any murdering she may have done during the war.”
“It’s a common misconception that CIA operators only kill people while in the field. There would have been theft and arson too, at the very least.”
The president stares at Mark a minute, and Mark stares back. And then together, they both take a drink. It looks like they’re both hiding smiles.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” says Mark after he swallows, giving the First Lady a friendly nod. “I’m wishing you three the best.”
“Bythree, I presume you mean me, my wife, and our little Imogen,” the president says. His voice is suddenly edged with a hard cordiality. “But then you’d be leaving out my son, Galahad.”
“My apologies, you are absolutely correct. Please, though, accept my well wishes for the whole family.”
Embry’s eyes narrow the tiniest amount, as if he’s trying to pierce through Mark’s expression to the thoughts behind it.
It must not work because Embry just shakes his head. “Consider them accepted, I guess. And what about you? Any children in your future, Mark?”
I know I keep my thoughts from my face, but my feelings are harder, coming as a scald of heat and blood to my cheeks. Once, I planned on annulling this marriage as soon as possible, on using my uncle’s influence to secure a fresh start for myself after the Church had what it needed from Lyonesse. I would have taken vows then, would have dedicated my whole life—my time and my body and my attention—to the Church. It’s the kind of future that precludes children. That demands an empty womb and an even emptier life, since that very empty life is the vessel that the Church fills with itself.
If I have children with Mark, I am closing myself off to that future forever.
“Embry,” Greer chides lightly, probably noticing my stained cheeks, “that’s a very rude thing to ask.”
The president doesn’t look like he cares.
Honestly, neither does Mark—though the cool expression and lingering tilt to his lips make it hard to tell.
“Isolde and I haven’t decided,” Mark finally replies, and then looks at me. “My wife is a little young yet for children. She’s only just started her career.”
“And we’d have to figure out where to put them,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Having two different kinds of playrooms might make things confusing.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” the president says with a lazy smile, and his wife sighs.
“Embry,” she says.
“Oh, like Mark doesn’t know that our marriage is fifty percent spreader bars.”
“And apples as gags,” she says in a private kind of voice, and Embry’s eyes flash, like he’s ready to drag her back to the White House and try to get her pregnant again somehow.
