“Miyazawa Nahoko,” Varga said, staring into her phone with black eyes.
“No phones at breakfast,” her mother said, smiling up at the footman as he offered her scrambled dodo eggs and rhinoceros bacon. “Nguru, you’ve changed your uniform.”
He smiled and nodded at the new grey piping on the traditional black jacket.
“Yes, mum,” he said. “I felt this looked more … desolate.”
“It’s quite evocative,” she said with an appreciative grin. “A little of both, eggs and bacon.”
“The chef,” Nguru said as he tonged the food onto mother’s plate, “instructed me to tell you that the dodo hens are nearly extinct.”
Her eyebrows lifted at that. “Is that true, Dinos?”
The butler, a squat man looking like a barrel in the corner, nodded his square chin. Dinos was ensconced between a shelf of musty books and a fireplace with a row of intricate urns along the mantle. The portrait of some visibly displeased 17th century ancestor leaned out from the wall above the mantle. Below it, a warm fire crackled.
Father waved his fork at Varga. “No phones and no Japanese. You know none of us are fluent.”
“Although,” cousin Odisha said with a toss of her black curls, “it is quite a deliciously complex tongue.”
“No arguments there,” father said with visible frustration. Cousin Odisha was always injecting unwanted arguments. “But, rules are rules. English, Arabic, Nahuatl, or Sanskrit at the table.”
“And Sumerian!” said Churchill, cheeks flushed.
“Quite right,” said father, lifting pumpernickel toast in a pumpernickel toast to his son. “Anything gleaned from clay impressions from our agricultural ancestors is duly welcome at any meal.”
Churchill dug into his moose hash, beaming. He was clearly a daddy’s boy. Father spread elderberry jelly on his pumpernickel toast.
“Miyazawa Nahoko is a name, I believe,” said Auntie Bellows, brushing a strand of black hair from her wrinkled face. “Is that right, Varga?”
Varga nodded with a pale grin, her white hair floating in the air. She tapped defiantly at her phone, ignoring her plate and her parents.
“Sweet daughter,” mother said, “did you have to wear that body again today?”
“I like Rudramsa,” the girl said. “It helps me study death.”
Father leaned in. “Your mother is just saying that you have twenty bodies in your closet, and you wear this one so often. Why not try out Hora? Or Dasamsa?”
“I like Rudramsa,” the girl pouted, touching her deathly grey cheek.
“Miyazawa Nahoko is a name?” Uncle Swansea said, with a broad grin on a pudgy face under greying ginger curls.
“A dead name,” Varga said, swiping at her phone. “Died yesterday.”
Everyone at the table sat back in their seats. Forks, knives, and spoons settled noisily onto antique porcelain. The footman Nguru leaned over Varga’s shoulder, peeking at her phone. Dinos stood, although it hadn’t been obvious before that he was squatting. The maid, Menesta, leaned into the room like a grey moth from the hallway.
“Surely this is another James Craddock,” mother said, the henna around her eyes tight in suspicion.
“James Craddock?” cousin Odisha said.
“James Craddock,” father said, spooning dodo eggs onto his pumpernickel toast, “claimed to be one hundred fifteen years old when he died. It was all over the news. But Auntie ferreted out the truth.”
Bellows smirked and nodded, knowingly. “The oracles never lie. He was ninety at best.”
“But, Auntie,” Varga said, “what about Miyazawa Nahoko?”
“Oh no no,” Auntie Bellows said, “I’ve asked the ghosts about her. She’s for real.”
“Oh, Stephen!” Uncle Swansea said, bouncing in his chair.
Father leaned across the table to settle a hand on Varga’s shoulder. His daughter looked up with dead, black eyes. She was clearly not a daddy’s girl.
“How old was—”
Varga shrugged. “How old was she? Miyazawa Nahoko?”
Stephen Ball nodded at his daughter with wide, curious eyes. Everyone leaned forward in their chairs. Nguru straightened his black jacket with grey piping. Dinos took a clumsy step forward. Menesta rested her dainty fingers on the door frame.
Varga shrugged again. Auntie Bellow chuckled. Uncle Swansea whined in glee.
“She was one hundred twenty years old.”
Everyone sat back in their chairs again.
“Stephen,” mother said. “A new record!”
“Uncle Swansea,” Mr. Ball blurted with a finger in the air. “To the cellars!”