The Keeper of the Green accepts Eulalie’s invitation to come to tea. After further discussion, we decided against letting her know about Taraana and his identity ahead of time. Not because we don’t trust her—well, actually, we don’t. We don’t know her, so the question of trust isn’t even a question at this point. We also don’t trust the people around her. Avarice is a universal middle name.

The day of the meeting is sunny with nary a cloud marring the pristine blueness of the sky. We attempt to help Eulalie in the kitchen but she shoos us out, calling us nuisances. She is busy whipping up meatballs, deviled eggs, coconut shrimp, cakes, and a host of other goodies we get our hands slapped for. The entire house smells like a feast. The rules of hospitality demand that no one leaves the house they visit with an empty stomach. Eulalie means business.

The front parlor on the first floor, where the meeting will take place, is cleaned and polished till it shines. Colorful cushions grace the chairs, mahogany gleams, and little white doilies soften dark surfaces. Vases full of freshly cut flowers are placed around the room. Curtains are pulled apart to allow the sun to whisper its way in. When the room is done, we look to our toilette. We put on our prettiest clothes and our pinkest lipsticks. With some persuasion, Taraana puts on one of his new outfits and combs his hair back. He looks uncomfortably debonair. At ten minutes before the meeting hour, we are in the parlor watching the clock count down the minutes.

“I feel like we’re meeting royalty,” Valentina says, fussing with the headpiece she is wearing.

“I object to the deification of a human being simply on account of that being’s privileged birth,” Talei says.

“The Keeper of the Green isn’t human,” Kamboja points out.

“I’m not talking about her,” Talei replies.

“So, you wouldn’t mind the deification of a human being if the human being did something to deserve the deification?” Etsuko jumps into the conversation.

“Look, all I’m saying is that we’re all overdressed,” Valentina says, bringing the conversation back and earning several dirty looks in the process.

“What I’m more worried about is how I will feel if, after all this fuss, she doesn’t show up.” Paheli’s light pink hair is in a tight French braid, emphasizing the bones of her face. This face is currently furrowed up in a frown.