Everyone was talking. The hall was a posh tower of Babel, volume rising, some voices trying to dominate, impose order.
Then came the first true scream. It was a soprano sound, a woman’s voice. It began in terror, rose in pitch, roughened, and turned at last into a throaty animal howl.
Lystra closed her eyes and savored it. It went on for a very long time, and a smile split Lystra’s face, perfect teeth shining in candlelight.
The room froze, listening, straining to see the source of this delicious scream. Already some were moving prudently toward the exits.
“God fuck you all! God fuck you all!” A deep male voice, but frantic not angry, fearful and repeating the curse over and over as the man backed away from the table, plowed into people with outstretched arms. “God fuck you alllllll!”
Now the screams and cries, the roars and shouts and canine yelps broke loose in full.
Miguel Reynaldo was laughing and howling like some demented hyena, mouth so wide open it seemed his jaw must dislocate. He dug his fingernails into his face, down his forehead and cheeks, leaving bloody trails behind. Then he threw himself onto the table, twisted onto his back, shrieking all the while, kicking dinnerware and baskets of bread and glasses of sparkling water in every direction, like some great toddler having the mother of all tantrums.
And that’s when things turned really ugly. Because someone—later identified as a Finnish philanthropist—came up behind the Swedish minister of finance and cut her throat ear to ear with a table knife.
And when she had sunk to the floor—gurgling, dying, spraying crimson across white linen—he kept sawing away, brushing aside her weak defensive efforts, sawing away at her trachea.
Panic!
The screams were general now as people rushed to the exits, crushed into one another in their desperate desire to get the hell out of that room, but not all those in the crowd were behaving normally. A past Nobel laureate for physics had stripped off his clothing and was peeing on anyone within reach.
Lystra, too, began to scream and wave her hands in the air. And she grinned, widely, not only because that’s what would be expected of a madwoman, but also because it was all just so wonderful.
“I bring you madness!” she yelled, and laughed, but kept a careful eye on all around her as she backed toward the nearest exit.
Back in the center of the room a man later identified as one of the world’s great scientific minds was squatting on a table defecating, while around him madmen and madwomen screamed and threw things, attacked one another with cutlery and broken glass, clawed their own eyes, or simply huddled in corners yelping at imaginary spirits.
“Madness!” Lystra yelled as she reached the door.
In the space of five minutes the Nobel banquet had become a blood-splattered insane asylum.
Would Bug Man appreciate it? Would he get it? Probably not. Buggy was useful for some things, not for others. He would not be enough to occupy her own Eden. Someone smarter would be good. Someone more subtle. Someone who would chafe even more and thus be even more completely subjugated in the end.
Sadie McLure. God, the irony would be wonderful.
Not everyone was driven mad at the Golden Hall. Most were not, though it was hard to differentiate them as they ran from the hellscape splattered with blood.
Lystra Reid’s gown—Prada, very chic—was already red, so the blood didn’t show. However, her shoes—Christian Louboutin pumps—were absolutely ruined.
But she could not resist, as she fled the room, crying out in her pretended madness: “ ‘As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.’ ”
Thus did Lear quote from King Lear as she kicked off her shoes and ran barefoot into the cold night, laughing and twirling as snowflakes fell.
FIFTEEN
Keats handed Plath a cup of coffee. Her hands were shaking. It was morning and she’d had no sleep. They stood in the kitchen, Keats in some soccer team jersey and sweatpants; Plath in an unattractive sweater, panties, and socks.
“It’s plugged. The big one.” Keats sipped his own coffee and looked at her over the rim as he took a second sip.
“What?” She was confused for a moment, thinking he was talking about the coffee.
“The second hole. It’s plugged. I don’t think it was all that dangerous, anyway, but I’ve patched it, the lymphocytes are keeping it clean, and I can see clotting factor forming nicely.”
“Thanks.” She sent him a very serious look and added, “I don’t say that enough, do I? Thanks.”
“Hungry?”
She considered it. “Yes, I am.”
“I’ll fry some eggs and bacon. No bangers, I’m afraid. You Americans don’t really do sausages very well.”
“You can cook?”
He made a small laugh. “Oddly enough, I don’t actually live at Downton Abbey.” Then, thinking that may have sounded resentful, he smiled and touched her shoulder. “I learned a bit of this and that. Enough to fry an egg and make toast. If we have bread.” He searched the cupboards. “Yes, we do have bread. But no beans or tomato.”
“Beans?”
He sighed. “The thing you Americans so proudly think of as breakfast is a sad affair compared to a proper full English breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast, black pudding, mushrooms, beans, and a nice grilled tomato. And coffee, of course, unless you prefer tea.”
“Black pudding?”
“Given your adventures tonight, it’s maybe best not to discuss black pudding.”