Zero History

water. Coughed into his crisp cloth napkin. What was Rausch doing here? He glanced
back, but didn’t see Rausch. The Dottir, reaching the door, triggered a second wave of
strobing, a raggedly cumulative brilliance, the color of her hair. He looked back to Hollis.
She nodded, almost invisibly.
George and Meredith, he guessed, were unaware of her connection with Blue Ant or,
for that matter, of his own. The Dottirs, he knew, were Blue Ant clients. Or, rather, their
father, whom Milgrim had never seen, was some kind of major Bigend project. Possibly
even partner. Some people, Rausch included, assumed Bigend’s interest in the sisters was
sexual. But Milgrim, from his intermittently privileged position as Bigend’s conversational
foil, guessed that not to be the case. Bigend cheerfully squired the twins through London
as though they were a pair of tedious but astronomically valuable dogs, the property of
someone he wished above most things to favorably impress.
“The Stokers are on a different label,” explained George, “but one owned by the same
firm. The publicists have set up a fake romance, between Bram and Fridrika, but have
also floated the rumor that Bram and Eydis are involved.”
“It’s a very old tactic,” said Meredith, “and particularly obvious with identical twins.”
“Though new to their audience, and Bram’s,” said George, “who as you point out are
thirteen years old.”
Milgrim looked at Hollis. She looked back. Smiled. Telling Milgrim that this was not
the time to ask questions. She shrugged out of her Hounds jacket, leaving it draped stiffly
across the back of her chair. She was wearing a dress the color of weathered coal, a gray
that was almost black. A clingy knit. He looked at Meredith’s dress for the first time. It
was black, a thick shiny fabric, the detailing sewn like an antique workshirt. He didn’t
understand women’s clothing, but he thought he recognized something. “Your dress,” he
said to Meredith, “it’s very nice.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it Gabriel Hounds?”
Meredith’s eyebrows rose, fractionally. She looked from Milgrim to Hollis, then back to
Milgrim. “Yes,” she said, “it is.”
“It’s lovely,” said Hollis. “This season’s?”
“They don’t do seasons.”
“But recent?” Hollis looking very seriously at Meredith over the rim of her upraised
wineglass.
“Dropped last month.”
“Melbourne?”
“Tokyo.”
“Another art fair?” Hollis finished the wine in her glass. George poured for her. Pointed
the neck of the bottle questioningly at Milgrim, then saw Milgrim’s inverted glass.
“A bar. Tibetan-themed micro-bistro. I never quite grasped where. Basement of an
office building. Owner sleeps up above the fake rafters he put in, though that’s a secret.