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Boston peered down at Emma, who had loads of information on that subject while he had none, and said in a semi-confused, pinch-faced state, "No problems." Emma was ignoring the question in favor of picking at her nails. Any moment now this would end with her fingers in her mouth and little ivory crescents scattered all over the floor, unless Emma was considerate enough to put the chewings in her pocket, which she might be. Boston only hoped she wouldn't swallow them. There had been an episode of House one time where a gypsy boy had punctured some internal organ chewing toothpicks and Boston could just hear himself now, trying to explain to the doctors how his wife had ruptured her intestines by chewing on her fingernails. They'd have him for that, spousal abuse allegations all over the papers, and he would shut down the entire printing industry and blacken all the television channels for a week. The scary thing was he could probably do it.

There was a sudden flash in Emma's eyes, and had she not been sitting on the floor and halfway out of sight, Boston might have caught it. Since he did not, there was no warning.

"You shut up."

It was a small voice, almost like a whisper of a thought spoken without intent, but Emma had intended it. She wasn't looking at Beatrix. Her eyes were fixed on the corner, on an inanimate object, the only way she could muster the courage to say these things.

"You don't know anything about us, anything at all. You don't know if we're bad or good people, how we live, who we are. I don't care if Merroth likes you, I don't like you. I don't like people who talk behind someone's back. Especially it's not fair to Merroth. He doesn't deserve this conspiracy." Her mouth shut, but her lips trembled as if scared.

Boston perched his chin in his hand and stared at the top of Emma's hair with something akin to amusement. Attraction, maybe.

"I for one would be happy to listen to any suggestions you may have," said Boston very suddenly and rather loudly. "As someone who is familiar with Merroth's situation." He was quite the diplomat. Emma only glowered intently at the corner on which she was focused, exiting the conversation for the time being.

"Of course, I defer to your expertise," said Boston amicably, but with an edge of placation. He was beginning to seem like a politician. Smiles and promises up-front, but a hidden agenda he wasn't keen on sharing. Quite the opposite of his wife. Emma had about as much tact as Jace.

"I don't use e-mail," said Boston, "but you can feel free to send it to one of my senior auxiliaries and they'll see to it the message is relayed. I can get you an address now." He reached into his jacket and produced some form of pocket computer, which he began scrolling through. It did beg the question of why he had such a device if he didn't use e-mail, since a model as advanced as that one must have come with e-mail access standard.

"And I think that about covers it," concluded Boston, making quite clear that while this was Beatrix's office, this had always been his meeting from the start, catered to his schedule and running on his agenda. "Anything you want to add, dear?"

Emma was pulled back into the conversation whether she wanted to be or not, but her only contribution was a small, frustrated, "Fiddlesticks!" to which Boston gave a low chuckle.

With a hand out towards Beatrix, Boston stood. "It's been a pleasure, Beatrix." He was far too lax in his usage of the word pleasure, but in this case, the thought had to count for something.

Emma stood without a word or a handshake for Beatrix and walked out, Boston behind her. Once in the hallway and with the office door closed behind them, she stopped and stood, looking grim. Boston came up behind her and perched his elbows on her shoulders like she was a lectern. "Dear my love!"

"Outsider," said Emma darkly, firmly defining Beatrix in the way she defined most people.

"This is why we don't have dinner parties."

She laughed at that, a sound that probably carried into Beatrix's office, but out of sight meant out of mind. "Where's Merroth?"

---

Punted from the meeting and quite sure this was a sign of adult conspiracy, Merroth sulked a moment in the hallway. He almost listened at the door, but then he decided ******** all, he would treat this like a hostile betrayal and get revenge on everyone for it later, which was easier when he used his twisted imagination to fill in the blanks. Even if Boston intended to keep his promise, Merroth would make it a hard case for anyone to prove, thereby justifying any and all retaliation.

He was not thinking of Beatrix's suggestion that he go join Jace in the classroom, but an echoing pthonk, pthonk of some unknown origin drew him to the classroom door. Pthonk, pthonk, it went in a rough rhythm, and when he drew closer he could make out a third piece in the pattern: pthonk pthonk, smack, pthonk pthonk, smack. He was beginning to learn there were merits to being nosy and poked his head in the door.

Merroth listened to the pattern for a moment, displeased by the tiny, imperfect variations. When the ball struck a slightly different spot, the rhythm and acoustics were subtly different. Jace's throws were timed imprecisely. She was hesitating between throws at different intervals. He wanted to run over and tell her it was completely obvious she was doing it wrong.

Instead, Merroth listened to the pattern and inserted his own component by tapping his fingernail on the door frame, a little metallic ping that added just a hair's breadth more complexity to the pattern.

It wasn't enough. Two seconds later he had a little ting-a-ping ping ting-ting-ping that, while it failed to erase the problems with Jace's pattern, at least provided a distraction to her shamefully human imperfections.