Alistair responded quietly, "I brought it. It makes no sense, as your brother, not to know at least the outline of your books. When others start discussing them, should I just stay quiet, looking at the ground?"
Elena’s expression softened, but her warning remained firm. "Don’t read it. I’ll tell you the stories in short, like I used to when we were kids. The imagery is too strong. What is John doing if not preventing you? He needs a good talking-to."
She spoke softly, careful not to jar his still-foggy mind. "Come on, now. I’ll go to the dining salon first. Change, and you’ll find someone by the door to guide you." She patted his head as if he were still a child; in her eyes, he always would be. Though he was only four years younger, the difference in their upbringings felt like a lifetime.
She reached the door before turning back to snatch the book. "I’m confiscating this." Before he could argue, she added, "These gatherings aren't for me to sit and hear others praise my work. We rarely mention it. And don’t feel bad—my next book is definitely something I’ll let you read."
She pulled the door shut behind her and moved quickly toward the next floor.
One side of the dining salon stood open to the sea, the glass panels drawn back. A steady breeze drifted through, carrying salt and sunlight across the neatly arranged tables of varying sizes, each spaced with quiet, almost clinical precision.
John was already seated, a little out of place, turning the pages of yet another of her novels.
A twisted smile played on his lips, and his foot tapped the floor as if he were mentally scoring the killer’s actions to a private symphony.
Elena threw the confiscated book at him. Startled, he looked up, met with her infuriated glare. "What did I do now?" he asked.
"You didn’t stop him from reading? Are you trying to make his condition worse? To push him into a spiral of endless medical procedures?"
"What was I supposed to do?" John countered. "Monitor him all day and snatch away anything that doesn't meet your standards? I advised him, Elena. He is an adult practicing his free will."
"This is my last warning," she said, clenching her fists. "Keep washing his brain and you'll find the consequences. Cutting out that glib tongue of yours is the least you can expect. His well-being is far more important than his 'wishes.' There are plenty of people who can seamlessly replace you."
She sat down and closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. The pressure of this year's special gathering and a tight writing schedule was already grating on her nerves.
As she waited for Alistair, her mind wandered. If not for her current commitments, she would drop everything to start a new medical thriller: A heart doctor is knocked unconscious, only to wake up on an operating table surrounded by ambitious residents. They performed every conceivable procedure on him—from extensive skin grafting to structural bone replacement—all while he remained agonizingly awake, denied even a drop of anesthesia.
By the time Alistair arrived, the smell of gunpowder had dissipated. No books were in sight. Elena and John sat on opposite sides of the restaurant, both watching him with eager, expectant looks. Instead of choosing a side, Alistair strode to a table in the center and sat alone. A steward appeared at his side instantly, as if he had been hovering just out of sight.
“Lunch will be served shortly, sir. May I offer you something to drink?”
Alistair ignored the condemning looks of the two "children" flanking him. “Lemonade would be good, thank you.”
Elena rose and approached him with a slow pace, but her steps quickened the moment she saw John move to do the same. The table Alistair had chosen was only set for two. A winning, mocking grin flashed across her face as her hand claimed the back of the chair first.
John stopped short, then retreated toward his own table. "I won't fight an old lady for a chair, Alistair," he said with a shrug. "I hope you enjoy your meal, though I wonder if your appetite will survive the company of a nagging hen."
"At least he still has a sister," was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back, not wanting to ruin the purpose of the gathering so early. She suppressed an amused chuckle and said instead, "Resorting to baseless insults the moment you feel at a disadvantage? What a mature twenty-seven-year-old child. Don’t bother us." She dismissed him with a sharp wave of her hand.
John mumbled some gibberish under his breath and retreated to his table. Alistair, silently sipping his lemonade, wondered how Elena had let the "old lady" comment slide so easily, but he decided not to poke the hornet's nest.
"You mentioned your next book," Alistair said, changing the subject. "Do you already have a clear idea for it? I thought you usually rested after a release. What was the last one about again?"
The steward returned with their food, and they continued their conversation as Elena began adding portions to Alistair's plate whenever his side of the dish appeared empty.
"It's just a historical thriller," she said casually. "About a prince committing patricide to push the young crown prince to the throne."
The sound of the knife in her hand scratching against the ceramic plate created an unsettling image for Alistair. The fish on her plate suddenly looked like the king lying on the ground, eyes bloodshot and fixed in eternal disbelief that his own daughter had slit his throat—and then her mother’s.
Alistair uncomfortably retracted his gaze, putting down his fork to reach for his water. Before he could finish his sip, she continued. "I’m already into the second half. I’ve had inspiration."
As he choked on the water, Elena calmly reached out and passed him a napkin. He turned away from her, fixing his eyes on the open side of the salon. Beyond the neatly spaced tables, the sky was a vast, mocking blue. He tried to let the salt air and the steady breeze wash the memory from his mind, but the damage was done; one of her words had acted like a key, unlocking a specific day that replayed in his head, a vivid contrast to the peaceful pier outside.
“You’ve written that much already?” he managed to ask, finally finding his voice.
“Yes, it’s a bit different from my previous work,” she replied, her voice dropping back into a pleasant, conversational lilt. “The activities I have planned for the rest of the week are enough for even more inspiration. But you won’t stay until the end, right? You’re leaving tomorrow night?”
Alistair nodded, still focused on the horizon.
“It’s because of this sea trip,” she continued, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to his discomfort. “Thank you for the idea, Alistair. I don’t know why I never thought of spending the week moving between the open sea and the land.”