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They all sit around the kitchen table. I’ve already set it, of course. All I need to do is take the pot roast out and deliver it to the round wood board in the center of the table, which I do, using the oven gloves I quilted and sewed myself while I was pregnant with Sally. I lift the top of the ceramic dish to reveal a chunk of perfectly cooked meat falling off the bone, surrounded by vegetables.
“Wife?” Archie raises a brow at me as the steam clears.
“Yes?”
“What’s the meat?”
“Beef, of course.”
It is not beef. And it’s not an even slightly passable lie. Beef doesn’t have fingers. I was going to discard them, but they make such a pretty garnish if you criss-cross them over one another - and if you put them under the grill to finish, they have a lovely crispiness that really satisfies. I pluck one out, cool it off by blowing on it for a bit, and hand it to Rhys, who stuffs it happily into his mouth.
“What kind of cow has digits, darling?” There is a little warning in my husband’s tone. I see the other two giving me indulgent looks. They never mind if I hunt. It’s always Archie who demands I stay home and cook what he provides. But there has to be a little give and take in any relationship, a little bit of an ability to overlook minor infractions. He might very well take me over his knee later, but for now everybody is hungry.
I hesitate a moment before answering. “The kind that lactose?”
A pun of that quality should surely get me out of trouble. A ripple of laughter runs around the table, Archie lets the subject drop, and I start serving my family their dinner, just as a good wife should.
“Can I speak with you?”
I am donning my long pink rubber gloves to do the dishes when Atlas takes me by the elbow and draws me away from the sink. I know the suit he is wearing has to be that much more uncomfortable than these gloves, and they are uncomfortable enough.
“Of course,” I smile at him sweetly. “Whatever you like, dearest husband.”
“I would like you to come with me.”
The others go to the sink to take over the chore. They move silently, and in concert, as if the movement is orchestrated. Has he planned this with them? Is this the culmination of a lot of my little rebellions?
“Did you like dinner, dear?”
“You can drop the act,” he says when he has me safely in our bedroom. “I know you’ve broken your programming again.”
I glance around our cozy little bedroom. The carpet is mint green, and the bedspread is a cheerful pastel yellow. The wallpaper is floral, of course. Bright sunflowers lift their faces to a sun that does not exist, while their bright green stems sort of tie the color scheme together. It’s all very nicely done.
“Hmm?”
“I also know you’ve been going out hunting of your own accord. That’s murder.”
“I have to consume something. May as well be an unfortunate numahn or two.”
“Emrys will bring you everything you need. Your job is to raise the children. Where were they when you were out bringing your prey down?”
“They were with me, of course. I had Sally in the baby carrier and Rhys in a stroller.”
“So you put them in harm’s way while you hunted down a numahn for dinner?”
“Of course not. He never saw what hit him. They were never in any danger at all. I wouldn’t do that. I’m not stupid.”
“This house, this simulation?” He gestures generally about the place. “Its exists on a planet in which multiple species live, but that does not mean there is no law. You cannot simply pick people off. You are going to lead the authorities to you, and if I need say it again, you are still wanted by the numahns. I have tried to keep you programmed, but the programming won’t stick with you. I don’t know whether to blame Emrys’ bond with you, or your own fractious nature. But what I will not tolerate, on any level, is you getting yourself arrested while in possession of our babies. You are lucky I am confronting you about this on my own.”
“I didn’t put either of them in danger, I promise you. I dropped the numahn from behind by severing his spine. The children enjoyed some fresh marrow on the way home. It was a very wholesome family outing. No different than taking them to a grocery store, or perhaps a petting zoo.”
“You will not hunt again with the babies,” he insists.
“Fine.”
“Which means you will not hunt at all. Your job is to mother, not provide.”
“Fine.”
