Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Read Online Free PDF Page A

“A cup of milk?”
    â€œChampagne,” she said, eager to sample these magical English foods and beverages. Hadn’t Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland involved cakes and drinks?
    â€œEr, it’s a bit unseemly for a child to drink an alcoholic beverage,” the waiter said.
    â€œOh, all right. Bring her a pot of Moroccan mint tea,” Uncle Nigel said.
    â€œSir?” she asked her uncle. “Why is it called a high tea? Because it’s served on a high floor?”
    â€œI like how your mind works.” Uncle Nigel’s lips tugged into a smile. “Tea is a fancy meal. American tourists add the high , my darling.”
    While he lectured her about the history of British food, the waiter brought a three-tiered serving tray. The bottom layer was crammed with tiny crustless sandwiches; the smaller, higher plates held scones, crumpets, and tartlets. Not a single one had EAT ME written on it. She sighed and reached for a raisin scone, but her bandage was cumbersome and it knocked the pastry to the table. She lowered her head and her eyes filled.
    Uncle Nigel dragged an enormous handkerchief from his pocket. “No tears before bedtime. We’ll get on famously, but for your own privacy and security, it might be wise to establish some ground rules. Do you know what those are?”
    â€œYou lay a ruler on the ground?” She wiped her eyes. The handkerchief smelled faintly of tobacco, and one edge was monogrammed in black. C for Clifford .
    â€œYou’re quite precocious for a tot. Let’s just call it a list of ‘mustn’ts,’ shall we?” he continued. “First, when people ask how you came to live with me, you mustn’t answer. I want you to shrug. Like this.” He demonstrated. “And roll your eyes. Got it?”
    She nodded. Her daddy had played games like this.
    â€œSecond, you mustn’t tell anyone you are from Tennessee—don’t even mention America. Third, you mustn’t speak of the fire.”
    Caro didn’t ask why. Something ghastly had happened to Mother and Daddy, but she didn’t know the whole story. Her uncle’s reluctance to discuss the fire was like a red ribbon pulled tight between them. She wanted to thrum and pick at that ribbon, but he just smiled and poured milk into her tea.
    â€œI don’t suppose you can tone down that Southern accent,” he said.
    â€œWhat’s an accent?” she asked.
    â€œNever mind, darling. I’ll hire a speech therapist. Here’s another scone. Do you want clotted cream?”
    â€œWhat does clotted mean in British? Spoiled or just lumpy?” How would she ever remember that tea was another word for supper? And what about that nine-pound glass of champagne? Her uncle had taken quite a few sips, but he didn’t seem heavier. Yet. Great Britain was looking more and more like a place where the English language wasn’t English and food had whimsical effects.
    â€œClotted cream is delicious,” he said. “Rather like a British version of whipped cream, but thicker.” Her uncle had smiled and patted her hand. “Caro, you’re a dandy.”
    All these years later, when she heard the word tea , she still thought in dualities. Tea was a beverage and a late-afternoon meal. Meatless teas were her favorite. She liked nothing better than eating scones and jam and clotted cream while she watched old movies. Once she’d plowed through an entire jar of Devon cream while Olivier had attacked the Spanish Armada in Fire over England .
    She blotted her eyes with tissues the embassy driver had given her. The overhead speakers crackled and a crisp voice announced that Flight 1887 was boarding—not her plane. There was still time to look for a hairbrush.
    She turned away from the Harrods display and bumped into a man. He wore a brown leather jacket and carried a backpack. It was the man who’d been lurking outside her flat. His