Quoth the Raven(78)
“Solid or liquid?”
“Liquid,” Alice said positively, and was surprised to realize she was positive.
“The tea,” Gregor said gravely. “She could have been drinking the tea.”
Alice shook her head. “I wasn’t doing an analysis at the time,” she said, “right after that Maryanne fell over and I wasn’t doing an analysis of anything. But I can swear to you that that tea hadn’t been touched.”
“Why?”
“Because it was slopping. One of the things I did when I was working summers during high school was wait tables in a diner. You got much better tips if you didn’t slop the coffee. I have an eye you wouldn’t believe for when a cup is overfull, and that cup was overfull. Trust me.”
Trust me. Alice felt herself blushing again. That was the kind of thing people said when they weren’t trustworthy at all, when they had something to hide. Demarkian would be a fool if he didn’t at least consider the possibility that she had something to hide, like attempted murder. She had been the one standing closest to Miss Maryanne Veer when she fell.
She braced herself for another round of questions about the cafeteria tray and the swallowing and was surprised again. Instead of pursuing the subject, Demarkian was going off on a tangent.
“Tell me about the Climbing Club,” he said. “Who’s in it? What do they do?”
“The Climbing Club?” She found it a little hard to switch gears. Why would he want to know about the Climbing Club? “We’re all in it. All the faculty in the Program, I mean. Ken and me. Katherine Branch. Everyone except Father Tibor.”
“I’ll admit I can’t see Tibor climbing rocks if he doesn’t have to. Isn’t that a strange hobby for so many of you to take up? I wouldn’t think you’d all have the talent for it.”
Alice laughed. “We don’t. Ken’s good, but I’m a mess. Jack Carroll’s supposed to be a wonder, according to Ken, but Chessey Flint—” Alice shrugged. “I think it’s like pajama parties and mixers when we were all in high school. You do it because everybody else does it. It’s part of belonging. And then, of course, “there are the people with ulterior motives, like Katherine Branch.”
“What constitutes an ulterior motive for rock-climbing?”
“In Katherine’s case, there are several. In the first place, she has to try it, just to prove to herself and everybody else that she hasn’t been turned into a puling little wimp by the sexist expectations of a patriarchal society. Relax, Mr. Demarkian. I’m quoting. Anyway, then, of course, she’s got to fail—”
“Fail.”
“Certainly. If she succeeds at everything she wants to do—and Katherine’s got the talent for that, Mr. Demarkian, don’t let all that nonsense with the witchcraft fool you—anyway, if she succeeds, her whole philosophy goes up in smoke. The patriarchal society hasn’t wounded her. She’s nobody’s victim. Good Lord, she’d have to throw all the scholarship she’s done up to this point in the trash can and start over from scratch.”
“Did she have a talent for rock-climbing?”
“According to Ken she did. About ten times better than she ever let on. It used to drive him crazy.”
“Used to?”
“Katherine gave it up at the beginning of this term. Stopped coming to meetings. Stopped going on climbs. She said she refused to join any organization where even the women voted for men for president.”
Gregor Demarkian seemed to consider this, shifting back and forth in the chair he had chosen—the most uncomfortable one in the room. Alice wondered why he had done that. There was a perfectly good stuffed armchair in the corner and a wing chair next to the window. The water in her teamaker was boiling away. Alice leaned over, took the pitcher off the burner, and started searching around for her cups.
“Do you really want tea? And if you do, what kind? I’ve got six.”
“Any kind,” Gregor Demarkian said. “Can I ask you one more question?”
“Of course. But if it’s one more question about Katherine, I think I’ll go hide in the closet. The woman gives me migraines.”
“It’s not about Katherine,” Gregor Demarkian said. “I want to know what you know about Donegal Steele.”
Outside Alice Elkinson’s window, a breeze had kicked up, rustling what was left of the brown and drying leaves in the trees and bringing half-hysterical laughter and Lenore. “Croak a doak,” Lenore said, perching on the windowsill. Then she took off again, back out to wherever she went, and Alice threw a pair of tea bags into a pair of teacups. Earl Grey for herself, Darjeeling for Gregor Demarkian. Gregor Demarkian seemed to her like a Darjeeling sort of man.