Page 96 of Fate, Interrupted

Henry is at the sideboard when I walk in, one hand on a wine decanter, his expression carrying the focus of a man who has been given a task he intends to live up to.

“You’re late,” he says, without looking up. “Which is impressive, considering you haven’t left the building.”

“I took the scenic route.”

“There’s a scenic route between the warehouse and the stairs?” He glances over, eyebrows up. “We really are upgrading the amenities around here.”

“Exclusive access,” I say, pulling out my chair. “Not everyone qualifies.”

“Tragic,” he says, sliding a filled glass toward Logan’s place with the gravity of someone completing a surgical procedure. “I thrive on exclusivity.”

Logan is already seated, one arm draped over the back of his chair. He meets my eyes as I sit.

I look away first.

Henry sets a glass in front of me with the flourish of a man who has decided wine service is an art form. “Drink,” he says. “It makes everything easier to listen to.”

“That’s not true,” I say.

“It’s a useful fiction,” he says pleasantly, “which is basically the same thing.”

I pick up the glass anyway.

The wine is excellent. It’s always excellent in this room. My father’s position on vintages is consistent with his position on most things, there’s no reason to tolerate less than the best when the best is available.

The door at the far end opens without a sound.

We all feel it before we see him.

Elias doesn’t rush into a room. He never has. He steps in as if he were already there, and we are simply catching up to him. His jacket is gone, the sleeves rolled cleanly, cuffs straight. No sign that an hour ago someone left his warehouse in an ambulance. For Elias, it’s nothing more than concluded business.

He takes his place at the head of the table, acknowledging none of us, easing into the chair with the steady confidence of a man who has never once entered a room and wondered whether he belonged there.

His gaze moves across the table once.

We are all present. That is sufficient.

Henry hovers with the bottle.

“I’ll pour,” Elias says.

Henry steps back without a word, passing the bottle across with a nod that manages to look like a choice rather than a concession. That is a skill Henry has developed over years of understanding that life runs better when his concessions look voluntary.

Elias fills his glass and sets the bottle down.

For a moment no one speaks.

The quiet in this dining room has its own structure: not awkward, not empty, only waiting. Elias takes a sip, sets the glass down, and begins.

“The north corridor will hold.”

Logan: “Yes.”

“Reinforce the schedule for the next two weeks. I don’t want gaps they can test,” says Elias.

“I’ll change it tonight.”

Henry leans forward slightly. “You want extra coverage on the east side, too, or just the corridor?”