At dinner the next evening, Lawrence invited Schuyler to dine with him at his old club. The Adventurers Club was an elite organization founded by the Blue Bloods in the early part of the eighteenth century as a meeting place of like-minded globe-trotters who were eager to document and share their research and theories on natural and geographic phenomenon. It was located in a well-appointed town house on Fifth Avenue, across from the Knickerbocker Club and minutes from the Metropolitan Museum—two Blue Blood associations that had to effect a more inclusive policy in recent years and accommodate Red Bloods into their ranks.
But the Adventurers Club was still a vampire stronghold, if only because humans didn’t seem to be as interested in environmental issues as social ones, and there was no cachet to be had by joining the stodgy old Adventurers circle.
The dining room was filled with members of the old families: the Carondolets were there, as well as the Lorillards and the Seligmans, whom, like the Van Alens, had more illustrious histories rather than present-day fortunes.
Lawrence was welcomed by the ma?tre d’ and walked around the room, shaking hands and chatting before he and Schuyler were finally able to sit down.
The menu at the Adventurers hadn’t changed since the nineteenth century. Sole meunière. Steak Diane. Roasted rabbit.
Schuyler ordered the sole, Lawrence opted for the steak.
Their food arrived underneath silver covers.
“Voilà,” the waiter said, uncovering both at the same time. “Bon appétit.”
As she cut into her fish, Schuyler told Lawrence what had happened the night before. “I had a blackout . . . I woke up and I was at the hospital, in Mom’s room,” she confessed.
“Blackouts? How do you mean?” Lawrence asked, chewing on his steak.
“You know, when you slip out of time and then you wake up and you don’t know how you got there.”
Lawrence put down his fork. “I know memory flashbacks. But vampires are always in control when they relive their memories.”
“Really?” Schuyler asked.
Lawrence nodded. “What you’re describing is highly unusual.”
“Unusual?” Schuyler paused. But it happened to Bliss all the time, so it couldn’t be that uncommon. She relayed to her grandfather what Bliss had told her.
Lawrence digested the information. “Perhaps this crop of vampires has something new in their genetic makeup that causes it. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, but let me know if it ever happens again.” Then he sighed and put down his fork. “Now, I must tell you something.”
Schuyler steeled herself for the news she had been dreading since the day her grandfather had returned.
“The judge has agreed to hear Charles’s petition to adopt you. The hearing is in a month.”
PATIENT RECORD
St. Dymphna Home for the Insane Name: Margaret Stanford
Age: 16
Admitted: April 5, 1869
CAUSES: Showing the probable causes of insanity in the patient admitted.
MORAL: Religious excitement
Love affairs
PHYSICAL: Self-abuse
Accident or injury
Epilepsy
Suicidal. Patient found with wrists slashed a week prior to admittance by family member.
Delusional ravings
FAMILY HISTORY: No sign of dementia or hysteria in any family member. Only child of both parents still living.
PREVIOUS HISTORY: Epileptic fits. Patient complains of headaches, nightmares. Blackouts. Patient has no memory of certain actions. Love affair with inappropriate young man cited in hysteria. Patient was not pregnant upon admission, however.
PRESENT CONDITION: Excerpt from admission interview with patient: “It seems so real. I cannot escape it. I wake up and I can feel it in my bones. It’s coming, it says in my dreams. It knows my name. It says it is part of me. That’s all I can remember. Help me doctor, help me. I need to get away. I need to get away from it.”
TWENTYEIGHT
The inspiration for the photo shoot was “Talitha Getty in Marrakesh.” Lots of gauzy, linen djeballas, jeweled caftans, and the occasional turban—oh, and the tiniest string bikinis possible. But somehow the fashion assistant in charge of travel had misunderstood and booked them to Montserrat instead, so the Caribbean island would have to stand in for the North African enclave. Not that anyone seemed to mind—everyone loved a beach. Bliss had gotten the call from Farnsworth Models on Thursday, she was on a plane on Friday, and had arrived at the beach at sundown. Schuyler had been chosen as well, after Chic’s first choice of models—two Russian beauties— had discovered that their visas had expired and they wouldn’t be able to return to their country. The fashion director of Chic, Patrice Wilcox, was a stern, no-nonsense woman dressed in head-to-toe black, even in the tropical heat. She welcomed the models and crew with a smile as thin as her figure. “This isn’t a vacation, people. This is work. I expect everyone to be on set at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
However, even with Patrice’s dire warnings, there was no denying it—the photo shoot was a vacation. While she was giving her lecture on punctuality, Jonas Jones, the famously incorrigible Blue Blood photographer, winked behind her back. “Margaritas at the bar in five minutes,” he mouthed.