Chapter Text
Chapter 86
By the time they reach the dining room, the laughter between them has only just settled into something quieter, softer - still there, still lingering beneath the surface.
Christine is already inside.
Waiting.
Of course she is.
The dining room is large—too large for the number of people in it.
Dark wood paneling lines the walls, heavy and imposing, the kind that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Crosses hang at measured intervals between carved frames, and small statues of saints stand in recessed shelves, their expressions fixed somewhere between judgment and quiet suffering.
The air feels… still.
Not peaceful.
Just watched.
A long, polished table stretches through the center, set with precise symmetry. Silverware aligned perfectly. Crystal glasses catching the low light of the chandelier above.
Everything gleams.
Everything controlled.
Lisa and Carla step in together—still just a fraction too close…
They’re both smiling.
Barely.
But it’s enough.
Every head turns.
Their eyes pass over Carla - pause, just briefly -then move on again.
Carla’s gaze drifts over it all - taking in the crosses, the figures, the rigid order of everything.
For a brief second, something flickers across her face.
A memory.
Lisa’s breath against her skin.
Her hand beneath her sweater.
Here.
In this house.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth before she can stop it.
Lisa notices.
Of course she does.
Her eyes flick toward Carla, questioning - just for a second.
Carla doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t dare.
Instead, she just glances subtle, almost invisible toward the nearest saint’s figure on the wall.
Then back at Lisa.
A beat.
Lisa’s lips press together, her eyes dropping briefly as she fights the smile threatening to break through.
And for a moment - just a moment the room doesn’t feel quite so controlled anymore.
At the far end, Christine stands by the table, finishing the arrangement of dishes as though nothing else in the world could possibly matter more.
The smell hits them first.
Rich.
Heavy.
Then.
Hamish steps into the room, carrying the Beef Wellington.
Golden pastry, crisp and glistening under the light.
Roasted potatoes, perfectly browned.
Buttered green beans.
Honey-glazed carrots.
A dark red wine sauce already waiting in a porcelain dish.
It should feel warm.
Inviting.
It doesn’t.
He looks up.
And then he sees her.
His gaze catches - just for a second too long.
Carla doesn’t miss it.
Of course she doesn’t.
And that’s when it shifts.
Christine’s attention follows - drawn not by the food, but by the way he’s looking.
Her eyes land on Carla properly this time.
And stay there.
For a second too long.
Her expression doesn’t break but something in it tightens sharply, her eyes flicking once, involuntarily, over Carla’s outfit.
The skirt.
The neckline.
The intention behind it.
Beside her Hamish looks at her.
And doesn’t stop.
His gaze lingers - fixed, unashamed, lower than it should be.
A beat.
Too long.
Carla’s mouth tilts.
Just slightly.
“Hamish,” she says lightly, “if you’re going to stare at my tits, you could at least try to look a little more god-fearing while you do it.”
A beat.
She tilts her head slightly, almost thoughtful.
“Although, to be fair—” her gaze flicks briefly toward Christine, “I suppose I understand the curiosity.”
Lisa presses her lips together, already losing the fight not to laugh.
Carla doesn’t stop.
“Hard not to look when someone else clearly got… more generous treatment.”
Christine’s expression freezes completely now.
Carla glances at Lisa, slow, deliberate.
“I do wonder where Lisa got those amazing tits from - because it clearly wasn’t you.”
“Carla!” Lisa breathes, half warning, half amusement.
Carla lifts a shoulder, entirely unapologetic.
“What? I’m just saying.”
Her gaze returns to Christine.
“Your mother doesn’t just lack amazings tits—she seems to have skipped them entirely.”
Silence.
Absolute.
Total.
Betsy makes a small choking sound somewhere down the table.
Lisa bites down hard on her lip, her shoulders shaking despite herself.
Carla leans back slightly, as if reconsidering.
“Although,” she adds lightly, glancing back toward Hamish, “I suppose a little looking is allowed.”
A beat.
“But no touching.”
A beat.
Carla glances at Lisa briefly, something amused flickering in her expression.
“Private property.”
Another beat.
“She doesn’t like sharing.”
That does it.
Betsy actually laughs.
Out loud.
Christine doesn’t.
Her hands still for just a moment on the edge of the table.
Then controlled again.
Perfect again.
“Sit,” she says.
They do.
Hamish moves to the head of the table, knife already in hand.
He had cooked.
Of course he had.
Christine watches him.
Closely.
The knife presses into the Beef Wellington.
Slices down.
And stops.
A pause.
Small.
Barely noticeable.
Then - a thin line of red seeps into the cut.
Raw.
Hamish freezes.
Christine doesn’t.
“What is this?” she asks quietly.
Too quietly.
Hamish swallows.
“It just needs a few more……”
“More time?” she cuts in, her voice rising just enough to sharpen. “You’ve had all afternoon.”
The room tightens instantly.
“It looked ready,” he tries.
Christine laughs.
Once.
Short.
Sharp.
“Well, it isn’t.”
Her voice lifts now - controlled, but no longer contained.
“You can’t even manage one meal properly, can you?”
No one speaks.
Lisa’s expression shifts - just slightly.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Carla sees it.
Of course she does.
“Seems like we could’ve taken our time after all,” she murmurs, just loud enough.
“Don’t you think, darling?”
Betsy looks between them, unsure whether to laugh again or stay very, very quiet.
Christine turns on Hamish fully now.
“Fix it.”
He nods immediately.
Of course he does.
She follows him out.
The door closes behind them.
But not completely.
Through the wood, through the space that isn’t quite sealed, her voice carries anyway.
Sharp.
Relentless.
Every word precise.
Every word cutting.
They sit in silence.
Betsy leans slightly toward Lisa.
“…should we feel bad?”
Lisa doesn’t answer.
Not immediately.
Carla glances toward the door.
Then back to the table.
“Depends,” she says quietly.
“Did he ever do anything to stop it?”
Silence again.
No one answers that either.
The voices outside continue.
Lower now.
But no less sharp.
After a moment, the door opens again.
Hamish steps back inside.
Alone.
He looks… smaller.
Somehow.
He clears his throat.
Doesn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes.
“…perhaps,” he says, carefully, “we could spend a little time in the library. While this is… corrected.”
A beat.
Betsy nods immediately.
“Yeah. Good idea.”
Lisa glances once at Carla.
Carla nods.
“Lead the way,” she says.
And Hamish does.