The Dinner Party
Ms. Renfield, Gregor, and I mount the stairs above Mrs. Morgan’s Curios at half past six. 

Ms. Renfield’s mother, Lorna, has invited us to dinner, and Ms. Renfield was quite fervent about our need to attend. 

I could have said no. I have said no to kings. 

But a Renfield does not become as singular as Ms. Renfield without cause, and I found I wanted to know what shaped her. 

The apartment above Mrs. Morgan’s Curios is small and warm and tidy, decorated with mismatched furniture. The aroma of garlic and baked cheese fills the space.

Gregor follows us in, ducking slightly under the doorframe. He takes up a position near the wall, looking like he’s attending a military briefing rather than a dinner party.

“Do you like our décor?” Ms. Renfield says when she notices me examining the space. “It’s a décor scheme we like to call ‘revolving cast of characters from the store below.’”

“It is pleasingly cozy,” I say.

She smiles. She has barely spoken to me since the pasta incident of two days ago. Has she moved past it? Or is this a temporary truce for the benefit of her mother and grandmother? 

I turn my attention to the photographs that crowd the walls. They feature Ms. Renfield at various ages, gap-toothed and then not. Curly hair tamed in different ways. A boy, perhaps a cousin, is in the early school photographs and holiday snapshots, the three of them beaming at the camera, presumably wielded by Granabelle. 

There is one particularly arresting image of her at perhaps sixteen, squinting into the sun with her hair whipping sideways.

She looks reckless in it. Alive.

I do not look for long.

Granabelle Morgan sweeps in, resplendent in 1940s high-waisted trousers, a knotted shirt, her white hair pinned up in a roll. “Prince Miramonte!” She seizes both my hands. “Do not move. Do not!”

Before I can respond, she produces her telephone, angles it upward, and captures what I can only assume is a photograph of the two of us. She moves to take another one that includes Ms. Renfield, who attempts to step out of frame. Granabelle hooks her back in by the elbow and takes it. “Gorgeous. The people are going to lose their minds.”

“Granabelle,” Ms. Renfield says.

“Posted,” Granabelle says serenely.

Lorna Morgan emerges from the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Welcome, Alexandru. Gregor.” A nod. “Red wine?”

Ms. Renfield says, “Alexandru and I will both have red. Gregor doesn’t drink.”

“Noted. Gregor, make yourself at home!” She leaves the room. 

Granabelle gestures at the chair next to Lorna. “Sit, Gregor!”

“It—it is not for me,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Granabelle asks.

“What’s going on?” Lorna sets down a bottle and four glasses, along with a sparkling water for Gregor.

Granabelle says, “Are you having back trouble, Gregor? Are you more comfortable standing? My friend Gerald has the same thing.”

“You have back trouble?” Lorna asks.

“No, milady.”

I look at Gregor and incline my head toward the empty chair.

He stiffens.

Ms. Renfield glares at me, as though I am personally responsible for Gregor’s ways.

“Sit, I beseech you,” I grate out.

Gregor sits.

Ms. Renfield sniffs softly, a vote of annoyance only I can hear. 

Lorna leaves and returns with a cheese and olive plate.

Granabelle seats herself across from me and immediately begins arranging the olives as though styling them for a photograph, which she may well be doing.

“So,” Lorna says, settling into her chair. “Karsovia.”

“Yes.”

“Where exactly is that?”

“It borders Romania to the northeast. In the Carpathian Mountains.”

“Mm.” Lorna studies me over the rim of her glass. “But you have an English accent. Did you spend time in Britain?”

“Quite a while.” I look over at Ms. Renfield. “I hunted there. Among other pursuits.”

Ms. Renfield nearly chokes on her cracker. 

“What, like fox and hounds? That whole sort of thing?” Lorna asks. 

“On occasion. Though I preferred other quarry.”

Granabelle leans forward, delighted. “You must be quite the marksman.”

“I do have some facility with a bow,” I say.

“Not the crossbow, I hope!” Granabelle jokes.

“Let’s please not get him started on crossbows,” Ms. Renfield says.

Granabelle claps, ever the imp. “You like the crossbow, Prince?” 

“The crossbow is a weapon for a man who does not wish to practice. It removes the skill from the equation. Any peasant can operate it, whereas a proper bow requires years of discipline.”

“Sounds like you’re quite the archer,” Lorna says.

“I was a soldier.”

Lorna perks up at this. “Really! In the Karsovian army? Does Karsovia even have an army? I guess I don’t know.”

“It does indeed,” I say. 

Lorna’s eyes narrow slightly. “And they still use archery in their army?”

“It’s in the mountains,” Ms. Renfield says, as though that explains everything, which it does not.

Lorna narrows her eyes. “Therefore... archery? I’d think rifles would be more the thing up there.”

“Mom was in the army for six years,” Ms. Renfield reminds me. “Staff Sergeant.”

“Six years. Straightened me right out.” She turns to Gregor, who has been attending this conversation with the animation of a museum statue. “And you? Military service?”

Gregor goes stiller, somehow. 

“Gregor isn’t a military type,” I say.

“More of the high-end-carpenter type, I guess.” Lorna nods at him appraisingly. Then the oven timer sounds, and she disappears into the kitchen. 

Granabelle turns to show Ms. Renfield something on her telephone. In one swift motion, without looking at me, Ms. Renfield reaches across, switches our wine glasses, and takes a long sip.

I say nothing.

She says nothing.

Lorna sets a pan of lasagna on the table and cuts it into squares.

“Don’t forget, Alexandru does intermittent fasting,” Ms. Renfield says. 

“But surely he can make an exception for dinner.”

“I cannot,” I say.

Lorna frowns. “I’d imagine you could if you wanted.”

“Seriously, Mom? Would you push steak on a vegetarian? Because this is the same thing.”

“Fine.” Lorna sets a piece of lasagna on Ms. Renfield’s plate. “More for the rest of us.”

Granabelle looks interested. “Is this one of those biohacker things?”

“It is not.”

Lorna snorts. “I don’t know what a biohacker is, but I already hate it.” 

Granabelle brightens. “They drink butter!”

Lorna stares at me. “You drink butter?”

“I would rather be drawn and quartered,” I say.

“Alexandru is extremely disciplined, that’s all,” Ms. Renfield says. “He has very specific ideas about things. I’ve seen him sit up all night correcting map books when he disagrees with them.”

“Really!” Granabelle says breathlessly. “A man of scholarship!”

“I feel like it would be quicker to use Google than correct a map book,” Lorna says.

I ignore her and watch Ms. Renfield instead, surprised she has taken such careful note of my reading habits.

Granabelle points her fork at me. “Fair warning, Prince. If you faint from hunger, you will absolutely be photographed.”

I smile. “I expect nothing less.” 

Lorna sets a portion of lasagna in front of me without comment. “If you don’t eat it, I’ll send it home with you.” She turns to Gregor. “And you?”

Gregor looks at the lasagna for a long moment. “I do not eat...this.”

“Oh no. What’s this?” She casts a pointed look at Ms. Renfield. “Is it the gluten? The meat? I was not told of any dietary restrictions.”

“He’s uh...” Ms. Renfield fumbles for an explanation. 

I say, “He eats only gruel.” 

“Gruel? Gregor?” Lorna asks. 

“It is true.” 

“Why?” she asks. 

“Mom!” Ms. Renfield scolds. 

“What? I can’t ask? Is it a diet thing? A European thing? Excuse me for wanting to know. Is it a religious thing?”

“In a roundabout way, milady.” 

Ms. Renfield looks intrigued. 

Lorna asks, “In what way?”

“Mom, stop with the interrogation!” 

Lorna frowns. “And what is gruel, exactly?”

Granabelle has her phone out. “Gruel is a food consisting of some type of cereal—such as ground oats, wheat, rye, or rice—heated or boiled in water or milk.”

“Yes,” Gregor says humbly. 

Lorna takes his plate back without another word, disappears into the kitchen. A blender runs. She returns two minutes later with a large earthenware mug bearing a turtle design. From the scent of it, she has mashed the lasagna with some liquid and blended it to something approaching the right consistency. She sets it in front of Gregor.

Gregor looks down at it. Then up at her. He says nothing.

“It’s not gruel,” Lorna says. “But it’s close.”

“Okay. Gruel-adjacent,” Ms. Renfield says, trying for lightness.

Gregor picks up the spoon and gives it a taste, considers it gravely. He raises his gaze to Lorna’s. “My appreciations, milady.” He does not look unhappy. 

“Remember how I told you to call me Lorna?” 

“My appreciations, Lorna.” 

Dinner continues uneventfully. Granabelle regales us with tales of her feud with Luverne, “Every look I do, suddenly she’s doing it,” Granabelle says. “Every single look. I do Rosie the Riveter, she does Rosie the Riveter. I do Gibson Girl, she does Gibson Girl. Last week I did Edwardian garden party and within four days—”

“Don’t tell us! Let us guess!” Ms. Renfield says. “She does Edwardian—”

Granabelle bats her hand. “Yes. Four days later and she posts an Edwardian garden party.”

“The woman doesn’t have the brains to come up with her own stuff,” Lorna says. 

Gregor eats another spoonful of his lasagna gruel.

Ms. Renfield helps herself to seconds. “Did you know my father was once a lawyer in London?” 

“I didn’t,” Lorna says. 

“Seems you two didn’t do a lot of talking on that train ride,” Granabelle says. 

“No, we drank whiskey, played cards, and banged, and then he jumped out into the night in the middle of the mountain range. Really not the picture of good sense, but the man was hot enough that I made an exception to my better judgment.”

“Okay, this is lovely dinner chat,” Ms. Renfield says. 

“A different time, wouldn’t you say?” Lorna says to Gregor. “Wild youth.”

Gregor considers this grimly. “The past does not release its hold easily,” he says. “In my experience.”

“I always say, it’s better to regret what you did do than what you didn’t do.” Granabelle beams.

Gregor gazes into his cup, stricken.

“Well,” Granabelle says nervously. “Perhaps we should give Alexandru and Gregor the grand tour? You could see Harriet’s old room.”

“Actually,” Ms. Renfield says. “I’ll opt for Mom telling more about banging my father on a train in Europe.”

“I would enjoy a tour,” I say.

Ms. Renfield looks at me. “Dude. No.”

“The apartment is charming,” I add. “I am curious to see the rest.”

“There isn’t much to see,” Ms. Renfield says.

“I’ll show him!” Granabelle is already on her feet.

“Fine! No, I’ll show him,” Ms. Renfield says.

We trudge up the stairs. “Pasta gruel,” Ms. Renfield says. 

“Most unappetizing,” I say. 

“I wouldn’t feature it,” Granabelle says softly, following behind.

The hallway is narrow, with three doors. Ms. Renfield moves ahead of me.

“This is the bathroom,” she says, not stopping. “That’s Mom’s room. Granabelle’s. Crafts. And this—” She puts her hand on the last door in a way that suggests she will not be opening it. “—is mine. Was mine. And there we have it.”

“Give him a peek!” Granabelle insists.

“He doesn’t want a peek.” 

“I do.” 

With a sigh, she opens it.

I walk in. 

It is a small room, as I expected. The furniture is mismatched in the way of the apartment below—pieces that belong to the store, not to her. 

A ball cap hangs on a hook by the door. On the desk, a small column of quarters, stacked with absolute precision.

She notices me noticing. “Spare change!” she jokes in the way she has of making light of something that is not light. 

“Hardly spare change,” Granabelle says. “Don’t you go messing with Harriet’s quarter towers!”

Ms. Renfield says, “So there we have it. You have to see the roof garden, now!”

I turn. On the opposite wall, three photographs of Ms. Renfield with two girls I recognize as Ms. Renfield’s “BFF,” Josie Galindo, and her paper shop frenemy, Sloane. They are perhaps fifteen. “You were friends. The three of you.” 

She sighs. “A different time.”

Tucked into the frame of the last photograph: a dried corsage, pale pink, still holding its shape after however many years.

And above the desk, partially obscured by the corkboard: pages torn from magazines and travel guides: the duomo of Florence, the Ponte Vecchio over the Arno, and the cypress-lined roads of Tuscany.

Ms. Renfield has never mentioned Italy.

She watches me unhappily. “Seen enough?” 

“Have you ever been to Italy?”

“When would I have gone to Italy?” she asks. 

“Harriet’s too nose-to-the-grindstone to take a European tour,” Granabelle says. 

I look back at the room. The quarters. The corkboard. The corsage. Italy. A life she never permitted herself. 

I have seen quite enough.