When the pain finally hit, it didn’t seem to belong to her. She recalled an article Riley had texted her that said almost half of all med school students at one top-ten program didn’t believe Black people feel pain the same way white people do. Judging from the look plastered on the Baron’s face, the old guy was also undoubtedly floating above the clouds. You could probably set his whole body on fire and he would just stare at you and wink.

  “What are they?” asked la Grande Dame. For once she sounded genuinely baffled rather than rude.

  “Woman, what’s it look like?” yawned the Baron.

  Bobbi Sue set down the platter. They were bigger than Striker expected, each shell whiter than snow from having been immersed in boiling water.

  “Penguin eggs,” beamed Vadim. He was so proud he looked like he might start pounding his chest.

  “We got lucky,” said Bobbi Sue. Striker noticed the dark crescents under her eyes, the deep parentheses creased around her mouth. Somehow the lady had aged a solid decade since the last time Striker had seen her. Was such a thing even possible? “Most of the penguin chicks have already hatched, but there were quite a few eggs left that were either abandoned or never viable.”

  “Wouldn’t they go—you know.” Striker found herself searching for the right word, but nothing else came to mind. “Bad?”

  “It’s cold out there,” said Bobbi Sue without conviction.

  “No it’s not,” said the Dame. “It’s like Boca in winter.”

  “If the egg isn’t too old, it should be fine,” said Anders brightly in support of their mom. “Back home we sometimes keep eggs in the fridge for a couple of weeks.”

  “When I was a bachelor, I could go an entire month on one dozen,” said Kevin. There was pride in his voice. The mystery of why Taylor the Tech Titan ever married this dingus only deepened.

  “In Sankt Peterburg, we don’t refrigerate,” said Vadim. “You buy egg right off shelf in grocery store. Who knows how long they sit?”

  “You’re from St. Petersburg?” said the Baron, his eyes softening.

  “Da,” said Vadim slowly.

  “My my my,” replied the Baron. He took a deep breath like a man standing on a mountaintop who, thanks to the alpine air, has just had the most pristine thought of his life. “When it comes to ruthlessness, there’s nothing like a Russian gangster.” There was no anger in his voice, just pure observation.

  Bobbi Sue finished handing the eggs out. Apparently she’d spent enough holidays with relatives to know when a topic of conversation needed to be cut off at the knees. “Anders, why don’t you make a toast?”

  “Wouldn’t a blessing be more appropriate?” said the Dame.

  “I’m Jewish,” said Kevin.

  “And we’re Unitarian,” said Anders. “Our church was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  “More like Frank Lloyd Wrong,” said the Baron.

  “Shut up,” said the Dame.

  “Seriously, that scarf-wearing dwarf wouldn’t know a sight line if it bit him in the ass.”

  “We don’t say ‘dwarf’ anymore,” said Bobbi Sue flatly.

  “Why don’t you say a prayer?” said the Dame, turning toward Striker. “You’re the one wearing a cross.”

  It was peeking out at the neck of her dry suit. “Don’t look at me,” she said, stuffing it back in. “It’s just an old habit I can’t seem to break.”

  Anders was a real trooper. They raised their glass in the air. Striker didn’t mention the prohibition against toasting with water. They were only a kid. Why be a negative Nellie if you don’t have to?

  “May love surround you, may joy gladden you, may peace lie deep within,” intoned Anders. “And may your life and the lives of all those you touch, go well.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “L’chaim,” said Striker.

  The Dame turned to Kevin. “When’s Hanukkah this year?”

  He scratched his neck, mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a practicing Jew.”

  “Na zdorovie,” said Vadim, a beat too late.

  They picked up their hundred-year-old forks and dug in.

  They all used different techniques. Vadim simply lifted his egg high off his plate and dropped it, the shell splintering. The Dame cupped it in her palm and squeezed, all while keeping her eyes locked on her husband. The Baron, meanwhile, had taken his knife and was delicately tapping different spots on the egg as if cutting a diamond. Striker hit hers a couple of times with her fork, then realized in her purple haze she was practically bludgeoning the thing to death.

  Once she cracked it open, she didn’t know what she’d been expecting. This wasn’t tea at the Four Seasons. Still, regardless of origins, weren’t eggs basically all the same on the inside?

  To say Bobbi Sue had erred on the side of caution was an understatement. After Vadim busted up a few crates and packed it with wood, the stove had fired right up. Who could say how long she had boiled them? With no functioning watch to keep track of time, it was all about instinct. Each egg cooked hard as rubber. And once you peeled off the shell, the egg white was completely transparent, the yolk suspended in what looked like glass, the yolk itself a fiery orange in color.

  “It’s because of the cold temps,” explained Anders. “The ornithologist on the Yegorov said penguin eggs have less albumin than chicken eggs, so they don’t turn white when you cook them.”

  “Is that a foot?” someone asked.

  “I think I got a beak.”

  “In countries in Asia, eating an embryonic duck cooked right in the shell is a delicacy.”

  “Did anyone wish me a hearty konnichiwa this morning?” said the Baron.

  From his bed by the vent, Hector began coughing. “Konnichiwa, konnichiwa,” he finally managed to croak.

  “Is it just me or is the music getting worse?” said Striker.

  In the corner near the door, the Victrola stood a little more than three feet tall and was a beautiful golden color, the box solid oak.

  “You’re only supposed to use a needle a couple of times max before it gets too dull,” said Kevin. “They must have played them down to the nub. I put in the best one I could find.” The music stretched out like dark taffy.

  “St. Petersburg,” repeated the Baron.

  “Land of big culture, white knights, warrior people,” said Vadim.

  “Everyone knows Russian gangsters are more vicious than any other gang,” said the Baron. “MS-13. The Blacks in South Central. The Asians out of Vietnam. They’re a bunch of mama’s boys compared to you Ruskies.”

  “That’s racist,” said Anders.

  Ah, thought Striker. This really does feel like a good old-fashioned holiday meal. Christmases when she and Ama were young, Doug’s brother would come over with his family. Doug’s sister-in-law couldn’t seem to help herself. Talking about the illegals or those animals in New York City, what they did to that poor jogger. Later in the kitchen, Mindy not even lowering her voice when she asked Trish how the grand experiment was going. Was the darker one giving her any problems? No? Well, just wait, she would say.

  “Live a little, feller,” said the Baron to Anders. “Then call me when you’ve seen some things.”

  Striker was surprised how fast the kid went for the jugular.

  “You’re what’s wrong with America.”

  “Greatest Generation,” said the Baron.

  The Dame laughed. “That was your father’s generation,” she said. “The last of the real American men. And now they’re dead.”

  “What is it with you women and the strong silent types?” said Kevin. “Is that what you want? Someone who can kill a bunch of people on a battlefield and then come home and never talk about it?”

  Striker recalled a skit she’d seen on TV. A Black comedian, she couldn’t remember who, explaining that after the 2016 election he was gonna take a knee and watch white people duke it out. The second time around proved 2016 wasn’t a fluke. Peace on earth, goodwill towards men was simply a recommendation, like getting eight hours of sleep. Most people she knew got by on six, which maybe explained the state of the world. She was still too high to say anything plus the egg wasn’t half bad. Several contained tiny wings, the bones soft enough you could crunch right through them with your teeth. Others held small shrimp-like creatures suspended in the yolk, each one like a fun-sized candy bar.

  “There’s more pemmican soaking in a bucket if anyone’s still hungry,” said Bobbi Sue.

  “Pemmi-what?” said Striker.

  “Pemmican,” said Anders. “It’s a kinda jerky. Probably penguin. Stuff never goes bad. There was a write-up about it in some guy’s journal. Claimed it tasted like goat.”

  Striker dipped the last of her egg in the bowl of broth they’d each been given. It was nice and salty. In SoHo, people would pay big bucks for a meal like this. She turned to la Grande Dame and her flat white woman ass.

  “You gonna eat that?”

  The Dame slid her plate across the table, the disgust wrinkling her lips.

  Anders explained that the tradition was German, but Striker already knew that. It was how she and Ama had always celebrated Christmas. On Zinnia Trace Santa didn’t arrive on Christmas Day but the night before. Celebrating Christmas on Christmas Eve meant no pictures were taken before you’d combed your hair, de-soured your mouth. Why only the Germans had figured this out, she couldn’t say.

  The teen addressed the room. “Has everyone put their gifts on the chair by the door?”

  “Seriously?” said Striker.

  “We tossed our names in a bowl,” Anders said. They explained how once you picked a name, it was up to you to find something to gift that person. “It could be anything,” they said. A pretty stone from the beach, some breath mints you still had in your dry bag, something you discovered around the hut, like one of the hundred-year-old Victorian novels that made up the library. “Don’t worry,” the teen concluded with a wink. “Santa put in a few extra gifts. We got you covered.”

  “Has someone screwed the whatchamacalit into the whosananie yet?” barked la Grande Dame. She was back in the armchair and in need of entertaining.

  “Relax, Jane,” said Kevin. He held a needle up to the light, trying to gauge how much of it was left. He turned to Vadim. “First thing I ever tried playing on the vintage Victrola my wife gave me for my birthday?” He waited a spell, creating his own drumroll. “Megadeth’s Countdown to Extinction.”

  “Classic,” said Vadim. He put down the book he’d been squinting at. “But Black Sabbath’s Paranoid number-one album.” He thrashed his arm up and down, playing an invisible Stratocaster. “‘Generals gathered in their masses,’” he warbled, “‘just like witches at black masses.’”

  “I feel you, brother,” said Kevin. “But you can only play shellac on one of these babies, not vinyl.” He seemed sad, even sadder than when his wife’s body had up and vanished. “I found out the hard way,” he said. “I totally shredded my Megadeth to pieces trying to listen to it.”

  “Fascinating,” yawned the Dame.

  Kevin closed his eyes, picked a needle at random from the reserve. “Okay. I take zero responsibility for this,” he said, screwing the thing into place. He put the needle down on the record and cranked the handle.

  The music started up. It was instrumental, an Austrian orchestra playing holiday favorites. “The Blue Danube” poured out of the vents. Striker was surprised it sounded so good.

  Vadim approached the Dame and did a formal curtsey, held out his hand. The Dame gave him a long, withering look. Vadim held his ground. The Dame glared harder. It was like a game of chicken. Finally the old bird stood up. She pressed her palm to his wrist, never taking his hand directly in hers. In turn he slipped an arm around her waist. They began to move, twirling in a circle, their dancing unexpectedly elegant. Like the others, Striker couldn’t help staring. The way the Dame arched her body slightly away from his, and how Vadim spun her around the tiny space, the two of them circling each other like magnets.

  It was sexy. The Baron watched with a small smile on his face, holding his arms up and swaying them gently through the air as though holding his wife. Striker noticed Hector sitting up in bed, his broken teeth gleaming in the candlelight. Yeah, the Dame had definitely been a dancer, maybe even a great one. And what was Vadim’s story? Maybe all Russians could dance the same way all Italians could sing Puccini. For ten minutes the Victrola transported them all to some place far away, wherever in their minds they longed to be. Striker on Zinnia Trace balancing on Doug’s toes as he shuffled his feet across the floor, the smell of the fifteen-foot Scottish fir by the French doors in the less formal living room, the tree fragrant and bright, little Ronnie laughing with each twirl, Ama shouting it’s my turn, do me! Trish smiling in the doorway with the video camera in her hand, the sound of the greatest river in Europe pouring through the stereo’s

  “Striker?”

  The room came back into view.

  “This is for you,” said Anders. The kid shook the gift like someone offering a dog a bone. Striker could already see a rectangular shape buried in the dishcloth. “Go ahead. Everyone else has already opened theirs.”

  She peered around the room, trying to spot the differences. Vadim with a monocle lodged in his eye. Bobbi Sue drifting around the table with a new broom. The Baron in bed with what appeared to be an iron protractor he kept aiming at various things. The Dame with a dark green bottle clamped between her thighs, the old gal clawing at the cork like a rat trying to liberate some cheese. Hector upright in bed wearing a scarf. The way he’d tied it around his neck was rather dashing.

  Striker remembered the Christmas Doug and Trish had given her and Ama a whole new rec room with a pool table and foosball. Truth was Doug spent more time down there with his friends than she and Ama ever did. Growing up on Zinnia Trace, she was never quite certain who Christmas was for. It seemed like an excuse to make yourself appear generous in front of the neighbors.

  “What did you get?” she asked Anders. The candles flickered redly in their watery jars, everyone’s faces flushed.

  The teen held up the severed head of a penguin, the thing’s eyes bulging, the blood still tacky around its beak. “I know it’s out of the ordinary,” Anders said, “but I like it.” They tucked the head back under their arm. “I’m gonna name him George.”

  “What’s your favorite saying?” said the Baron, pointing at the gruesome knickknack. “Oh, I know. ‘That’s racist,’” he sang.

  “What is?” said the teen.

  “Heavens to Murgatroyd, I know something you don’t,” said the Baron.

  The old man and the teen launched into another argument. Striker tuned it out. She could see that the penguin head was actually some sort of Victorian-era gewgaw, the thing dark and exotic with popping eyes. Most likely it had come from one of the British colonies, a souvenir a soldier had brought back to the isle. Anders seemed convinced it was just some silly little beast, but Striker had to agree with the Baron. Though the thing was animalistic in appearance, you could tell from the plush red mouth it was supposed to be human even if vaguely so.

  Quietly she reached over and took the dishcloth from Anders, leaving the teen and the old man to their battle. Tied up in the fabric was a small leather journal, its cover scored with scratches.

  The Dame nodded at the notebook. Somehow her voice cut through the noise. “Didn’t someone mention something or other about women dressing up like men so they could follow their lover to the ends of the earth?”

  “Percy,” said Striker. “His name was Percy.”

  The old girl stopped trying to uncork the bottle. It was only a matter of time before she’d smash it open and slash her mouth to ribbons guzzling from the shards. “I guess there have always been women who need a man to be happy,” she said.

  Striker opened the book at random.

  Doctor claims He is the only one among our party with all His teeth still anchored in His jaw though who can tell? All I can see are those two terrible incisors stitched to his leather mouth, each one yellowed as a wolf’s fangs. Day and night the breath issuing from that hole is worse than sulfur.

  Based on his calculations Bernard believed that in three weeks’ time the first hints of Dawn should begin staining the horizon. When I think of Bernard figuring by the fire, my heart briefly warms. But I must not become maudlin. Ever since the day Bernard strode out to hunt seals with Doctor and only Doctor returned, I am without protection. I know not what I live for.

  Because this journal is a True record of my Heart, I shall not keep secrets from it. Each hour I am freshly acquainted with what my Subterfuge is costing. I can see no end to It. There is a whispering among the men that Doctor is not a True doctor but merely an uneducated Scotsman with a few sharp tools at His disposal; His true training is in the art of Dentistry. If this proves correct, then the Lord has seen fit to abandon us to one who knows Little. In short, we are Forsaken.

  When the moment comes and my Lie is revealed, I can only hope God sees fit to do with me what I have not the Nerve to do by my own Hand. May the Lord take Everything and Nothing less than that.

  “Too bad for those ladies, no?” said the Dame.

  Striker flipped through the rest of the book. Toward the end she landed on a dog-eared page. Someone had scrawled over that day’s entry in huge red letters. The ink watery and without pigments, the way blood dries on paper. It looked fresh. The words jagged as lightning.