Star Trek Read online

  Then the song ended, and she thought of her mom, and she felt sad.

  Sweet sixteen, Sylvia Tilly thought. Happy birthday, dear Sylvia. Happy birthday to me.

  * * *

  Gabriel Xavier Quinn knew from the way the door flung open that his evening’s peace was unlikely to continue. In fact, he’d been expecting fireworks all evening, because Siobhan, his stepdaughter, was calling. That was almost a guarantee of . . . well, if not a quarrel, then some seriously fervent emotions, conveyed in no uncertain terms to each other by some seriously strong women. Quinn stuck his thumb into his book and watched as his beautiful and much adored wife swept into the room, and he thanked whatever stars had aligned to bring Adèle into his life.

  Her relations, not so much.

  Well, Sylvia was a darling.

  “That girl!” Adèle cried, throwing her hands up. She muttered something under her breath, Gallically. Quinn didn’t try to translate. His own ancestors had equipped him sufficiently in that respect, thank you very much.

  Quinn was Adèle’s second husband. They had met fifteen years ago, at the opera, and embarked on a whirlwind romance that had taken their respective sets of friends completely by surprise. Adèle was grand, stately, aristocratic; Quinn was rather raffish and unkempt. In other words, there was considerable appeal on both sides. They married after three months and were exceptionally happy. Their particular joy was in daily proving wrong every single friend who had said it would only last eighteen months.

  Quinn frowned. “What? Sylvia? She’s a grand girl—”

  “Not Sylvia! Siobhan!”

  “Ah,” said Quinn. “Well. Siobhan.” He looked back down at his book, which was about the adventures of a captain and a surgeon serving on the same ship during the Napoleonic Wars. Right up his street. There was a whole set of them, and he was eager to get back on board. Things were simpler there. Quinn, in general, tried to keep out of the fraught and tangled relationships that existed between his wife, her daughter, and her daughter’s daughter. But that did not stop him from taking an interest in Sylvia. He had been the one, in fact, to suggest that Sylvia might come to live with them in Paris and commute each morning to her exclusive day school back in New York. He felt sorry for Sylvia. Weight of the world on her shoulders. Only sixteen. She could do with a lot more fun in her life. He tried as best as he could to inject it, insofar as a step-grandfather could without incurring the wrath of either wife or stepdaughter, but it was a tricky balance. “What’s Siobhan done now?”

  “She forgot her birthday!”

  Something serious, then. Quinn put down his book. “Aw no,” he said. “How is she?”

  “Putting a brave face on things.”

  “Poor kid.” Quinn studied his wife’s face. “What now, love?”

  “Now, I will have a word with her mother . . .”

  Quinn’s eyebrows shot up. “And are you quite sure that Sylvia wants you to do that?”

  But Adèle was already hastening toward her desk and opening a communications channel. Quinn took a deep breath. These had been the preliminary fireworks. Now he must prepare himself for the evening’s main event. Siobhan was formidable. Only Adèle came close, and she had the advantage of being Siobhan’s mother. Sometimes it made for some remarkable conversations. Quinn slipped his bookmark between the pages and leaned forward slightly, preparing to eavesdrop, without shame.

  Siobhan was usually in a meeting, or talking, or being briefed, or doing something or other of (to be fair to the girl) genuine importance, so it took a minute or two for her aide to get her on the line. “Maman,” said Siobhan, voice crisp, “this isn’t a good time—”

  Adèle cut straight through, the only person who could do that kind of thing to Siobhan and get away without a roasting. “You forgot to say happy birthday.”

  There was a pause.

  “You only had to remember to say it, Siobhan! One thing! One simple thing!”

  A further pause. Then: “ Merde,” muttered Siobhan.

  “Quite,” said Adèle.

  Siobhan lifted up her hands. “All right,” she said. “I’ll fix this.”

  Adèle rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You do realize, chérie, that this is not simply a problem to be fixed. That Sylvia is not simply a problem to be fixed—”

  But Siobhan was already busy with her diary. “Okay, listen. I can clear some space at the start of next week. We’ll go to London. She’s always wanted to go to London, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes, she has—”

  “Great! So you think she’ll like that?”

  “I don’t think it matters where you go, chérie, as long as you spend some time with her. She barely sees anything of you, and when you do you’re berating—”

  “I said she could stay with me, Maman,” Siobhan said, exasperation of her own creeping into her tone. “She’s the one who wanted to go and live with you—”

  “Let’s not go through that one again. She’s here now. And I do think she’s happier—”

  “Happier, huh?” Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. “Were you the one who encouraged her to do that project on the mushrooms?”

  There was a pause. From his seat across the room, out of the firing line, Quinn said, “Oh, did she do that in the end, then?”

  Siobhan’s lips pursed. “Oh, so it was you,” she said. “I might have guessed. Quinn, I love you, if only for my mother’s sake—”

  “Thank you, Siobhan!” he said cheerfully.

  “—but, really, Sylvia’s education is my business.”

  Quinn eased out of his chair and came over to the screen. “All we did was chat about what she was reading. Some interesting stuff there! Way over my head, of course. But she’s old enough to make her own choices, surely—”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” said Siobhan frostily.

  Quinn removed himself from view. If Siobhan was now on the offensive, a tactical withdrawal from the battlefield was the only sensible option for an underling such as he.

  “Okay,” said Siobhan. “Here we are. I’ve shifted a couple of meetings. That frees up Sunday afternoon and evening. There’s a reception that night, but I can send someone from the office—the experience will do them good. Okay! That’s excellent! We can meet at the Ritz at fourteen hundred—that’s GMT, Maman, don’t forget—and I’ll have her back to you by twenty-two hundred. That’s early enough for a school night, and I can get a couple of hours of work in afterward—Maman, are you noting all this down?”

  “Why should I do that, chérie ? Your aide will put it into my schedule anyway.”

  “Oh, Maman, you know how busy I am. It’s more efficient that way! Don’t be cross with me!” Siobhan was starting to get upset. “God knows I’m trying my best! It’s not been easy, with Iain away—”

  Adèle relented. “I know, my darling. You are doing splendidly. Truly you are.”

  “Thank you, Maman. I really am trying—”

  “This is difficult for all of us, I know,” said Adèle. “We have busy lives, and we all have different needs, and we’re all learning how to lead those lives and respect and love each other. I’m proud of you, chérie. I will always support your work and your choices. But one piece of advice, Siobhan, if you’re willing. Just you and Sylvia on this trip. Nobody else.”

  “Well, of course!”

  “And try not to check in to work. Just . . . be with her.”

  There was a pause. “I’ll try. But you never know what comes up—”

  “I know, chérie. Trying is all I ask.” Adèle took a deep breath. “Well, there we are. Today’s crisis is averted, more or less, and may this be the worst of your day, my darling. I’ll leave you to let Sylvia know your plans, yes?”

  “I’ll do that straightaway. Good night, Maman.”

  “Good night, chérie,” said Adèle. “God bless. I love you. I’m proud of you.”

  The channel closed. Quinn lifted his book, ever so slightly. Shields up. Adèle turned to him with a dangerous
glimmer in her eye.

  “Quinn!”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “Did you really tell her to write about those blessed mushrooms?”

  Quinn shrugged.

  “Quinn!”

  “Well, why ever not?” he said. “She’s interested in them, for heaven’s sake! Hey, what mark did she get?”

  Adèle’s lips twitched. “Best they’d ever had.”

  “Well, there we are! Good girl!”

  “But mushrooms, Quinn!”

  “I like mushrooms. Grand for breakfast. Who knows what else they might be good for?”

  “Sometimes,” said Adele, pursing her lips and looking very like her daughter, “I think you do these things on purpose.”

  “My dearest love,” said Quinn, “I have a much stronger sense of self-preservation than that.” Peaceably, he went back to his book, but he couldn’t help but smile down at the page. Mushrooms. It was all too magnificent. In his heart, Quinn was sure that Sylvia would go far, and he had a hunch about those blessed mushrooms. But not even he imagined how far.

  * * *

  Siobhan had gotten one thing right: Sylvia had always wanted to go to London. Longed for it, in fact. The good thing about having a diplomat for a mother was that you got to go to some really interesting places. Sylvia had traveled a lot as a kid, particularly after the divorce, when Mom had been doing tours of various worlds, building up experience. The travel was a mixed bag, though. Because the bad thing about having a diplomat as a mother was that often you didn’t see much more than a drinks reception, or a photo opportunity, or the inside of your (admittedly very nice) rooms, and that you were always hampered by where security would let you go. But London had never quite gotten onto their itinerary, and, besides, this wasn’t for work. This was a proper day trip, just her and Mom, no officials or hangers-on, or, shudder, stepsisters . . . just the two of them. Plus security, of course.

  With her term papers out of the way, Sylvia had time to spend the rest of the week reading up on the city. The Science Museum. The Natural History Museum. The British Museum. She hugged herself with excitement. These places—they weren’t just world class, they were galactic class. Nowhere did museums like London. Rome, maybe. Okay, yes, Rome. But they weren’t going to Rome . . . Her main worry was whether they would fit everything in. Would her mother want to look at some art too? Sylvia didn’t mind looking at a few old pictures. Maybe the Portrait Gallery. A whole room of scientists and inventors, staring down at her: Stand on the shoulders of giants . . . Okay, she’d go and look at some portraits. But that was her limit, really. She studied in New York and lived in Paris, okay? She could look at some pretty good pictures any day of the week. But you didn’t get museums like that every day . . . It was just a shame that Dad couldn’t be there; it would be amazing to go around the British Museum with Dad, with his expert knowledge, but Dad was far away right now . . . Still, Sylvia intended to enjoy herself.

  Two minutes into the afternoon, Sylvia realized that the outing wasn’t going to go along with her itinerary, and she kicked herself that she had even imagined that such a thing was in the cards. Whose birthday was it, anyway? Siobhan was waiting for her inside the Ritz, looking stunning, and sitting behind teacups and scones and cakes and teeny little sandwiches of exquisite proportions. Sylvia’s eyes widened in delight. Afternoon tea! Her mother stood up, came over, and put her arm around her. Sylvia found that when she was near her mother, she had this annoying habit of becoming awkward, like she grew an extra arm or something. She hugged her mom, harder than she’d intended. The table shuddered, nearly knocking over the teapot.

  “Careful, Sylvia!” Siobhan disentangled herself from the embrace and reached to steady the pot. “Come and sit down, darling. Help yourself—isn’t this all beautiful ?”

  Sylvia plopped down into one of the seats and began to fill her plate. Mom was right. It was all lovely, absolutely lovely. She had just taken a nibble from a little chocolate-and-orange macaron when her mother said, “Now. Here’s what I’ve got planned.”

  Sylvia’s eyes narrowed. Red alert! Red alert!

  “First stop, it just so happens that my stylist is in town today, and so I’ve got us an appointment there. Oh, Sylvia, you’re going to love him, he’s a riot.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “We’ll get some fabulous outfits for you. He’s a genius. There’s a hair appointment booked for you at four, and then someone is going to come in to help with your makeup.”

  Clothes shopping. They were going clothes shopping? Mom, thought Sylvia despairingly, have I ever given you the impression that I liked clothes shopping?

  “I’ve booked an early dinner,” Siobhan said, “and then maybe we could think about a show. How does that sound?”

  Sylvia perked up slightly. Well, a show sounded like it might be all right. Hey, wasn’t the Globe right across the river, and, whaddya know, there was a production of The Tempest on right now, and by golly if she wasn’t going to pay attention to every last second and take that into school on Monday . . .

  “There’s a new musical just opened,” Siobhan said. “I thought it sounded fun!”

  A musical. Okay, so it wasn’t that Sylvia didn’t like musicals, but, you know, Broadway? In New York? Where she went to school? Pretty good for musicals. And right now they were in London? Which, okay, the West End, but you know, also—did I mention the freakin’ Globe?

  She didn’t say any of this, obviously. She didn’t dare. Instead, she nibbled around the edges of her macaron. Her appetite had gone. She realized her mother was watching her, and she began to flush red.

  “You’re very quiet, Sylvia. Is this all okay?”

  The museums had long since receded into the distance. She wasn’t even thinking of them any longer—well, not much. Perhaps she and Dad could do them together after all . . . One day, when he wasn’t half a quadrant away . . . “Sure, Mom,” she said brightly, “sounds wonderful!” She finished her macaron and smiled. “These are delicious!”

  “They are, aren’t they? Not too many though, please, darling.”

  * * *

  The afternoon was slightly less appalling than Sylvia had thought it might be, chiefly because her mother’s stylist had realized the moment Sylvia walked through the door that she didn’t want to be there. “Hey,” he said softly as he measured her, “trust me. I’m a magician.”

  He was as good as his word, although it wasn’t the fastest conjuring trick Sylvia had ever seen. Two long hours and about several million changes of clothes later (not to mention hair, nails, and makeup), Sylvia looked in the full-length mirror and nearly gasped out loud.

  “Told you,” he said smugly. “A magician.”

  He hadn’t lied. Sylvia looked . . .

  Exactly like her mother. Hoo boy, now that was some party trick . . .

  “Oh my goodness,” Sylvia said. “That’s . . . a little unnerving.”

  Her mother was standing behind her. Sylvia saw the frown appear (Oh! Hi there, frown! I was just wondering how you were getting on today!) and quickly covered her tracks. “I mean, I look so grown-up!”

  Her mother beamed. “You really do, darling! You look incredible!” She squeezed her shoulders. “My little girl! How did you get to be so big?”

  Sylvia tottered out into the street after her mother. The shoes . . . The shoes . . . Did her mother really go around in shoes like this all day, every day? No wonder she was so touchy . . . Her mother’s car rolled up, and they clambered in, trailing bags behind them.

  Siobhan smiled at her daughter. “Sweetie,” she said. “Do you know how wonderful you look?” She opened her handbag and took out a compact mirror, handing it to her daughter. Sylvia held it up, tilting her head this way and that. Yep, exactly like Mom. She could turn up at some reception right now and sell a trade agreement with the best of them. Except being who she was, she’d probably trip over her heels and land face-first in the profiteroles. She tried not to giggle. It really had been a very lo
ng afternoon, and by now hysteria was mere centimeters away. She didn’t want to laugh. She was scared her face might crack.

  “I don’t know how that hairdresser did it, but she’s certainly got your curls under control,” Siobhan said. Sylvia wasn’t sure how it had been done, either, although there were an awful lot of pins involved, and possibly an actual antique iron had been brought out at some point. It felt like something was tugging at her scalp from every direction. It hurt.

  “And the dress is gorgeous. Wonderful color for you. That kind of red isn’t easy to match.”

  Yep, gorgeous. Felt like a suit of armor, but at least it was gorgeous . . . When, thought Sylvia wearily, when oh when will this endless day end?

  But there was dinner first, and, yes, the restaurant was amazing, and the food spectacular too, but by this time Sylvia felt bone-tired. Her feet hurt, her head hurt, and a little bit of her soul hurt too. Once again, things hadn’t worked out as she’d wanted. The worst of it was that it wasn’t for want of trying, on both sides. She’d noticed that her mother hadn’t looked at her communicator all day—hadn’t checked in with her staff, hadn’t even checked the news feeds once. She’d been completely, utterly, terrifyingly focused on her daughter . . . Love bombs, thought Sylvia. Watch out for shrapnel.

  She chewed her way through dinner and managed to say some reasonably intelligent things about the sauces and the cut of meat and the wines, just to prove that Granna wasn’t completely neglecting her wider education. When they got to the petit fours and the coffee, her mother sat back and looked at her fondly. “I’ve had such a good day, Sylvia,” she said. “I do miss you, you know.”