Just as Solomon had anticipated, when Lorna learned she was going to be forced to attend the upcoming social season, her face turned bitter. Not even Dana's carefully prepared meal could lift her spirits. This social tradition from London had been adopted and grotesquely exaggerated by New York's artist circles. There were no horse races, no regattas, no opera festivals, no tennis tournaments, no flower shows, and certainly no court balls. Instead, there were only celebrities under spotlights, postmodern art, blaring camera shutters, loud-mouthed reporters, and fashion shows with increasingly awful taste and increasingly rigid political correctness. It had completely lost its original elegance and now perfectly embodied every British stereotype about Americans.
But what bothered Lorna most wasn't all that—it was the fact that she'd have to wear a dress at those events. That, more than anything, was unbearable. She had no intention of donning a custom-made gown and faking pleasantries with high-society heiresses. Lorna was convinced she could see right through the vacuous minds of those people—it was just so stupid.
"We could wear expedition gear and bring folding shovels to the banquet!" Solomon proposed, making Lorna's eyes light up. She knew her brother still had tricks up his sleeve. If any kid from the orphanage could claim the title of prank master, it was Solomon. Though he always acted well-behaved, when it came to mischief, no one could match him. The time he took Lorna to rob S.H.I.E.L.D.'s accounts was just one of many less-notable escapades. And since he'd been a prefect (complete with cane) at the prestigious Eton College, naturally, he was a frequent target of his classmates' pranks. But his response was to evolve. His tactics grew bolder, more inventive, rapidly catching up to the legendary prankster Horace De Vere Cole. And every time, Solomon walked away clean—only to return with the cane and punish his would-be tormentors.
Lorna couldn't wait to hear what plan he'd cooked up this time.
"We start by going to Tanzania to follow the wildebeest migration. It's the perfect season. We drive a jeep, bring a few guns to fend off poachers, and pack some shovels—for scooping elephant dung. Then we wash the shovels and use them to grill meat," Solomon said with a mischievous grin. "Trust me—after a week of filming an adventure documentary, we debut it at the gala. Right after the screening, we get airlifted—jeep and all—straight to the venue and show everyone what we've been up to in Africa. They'll have to applaud us for our dedication to conservation while suffering through the stench of elephant dung."
"And they won't dare plug their noses!" Lorna practically bounced in her seat. She knew Solomon wouldn't let her down. Her appetite came roaring back. She popped one of Dana's salmon sushi rolls into her mouth, chewed quickly, and said, "When they see we used the elephant-dung shovel to cook dinner, I'm going to go kiss everyone who shakes my hand! Oh God, I have to see the look on their faces—that's going to be hilarious! And they can't say no!"
"We could unload all the goats from the transport plane right into the reception," Solomon added, slipping a bit of fish into the little girl's mouth beside him. She bit into it like jelly and swallowed. The Arcanist gestured with both hands as he continued, "Picture it—over a hundred goats stampeding through the venue, chasing journalists and actresses around… I can already imagine one tugging on a debutante's dress, while some smug Silicon Valley genius gets butted across the room. Let me see the guest list… Oh, I'm sure it'll be glorious. The best-dressed actresses will hate me. Especially the Kardashian sisters. I can't wait to see goats chasing those nouveau riche posers trying to pass off art as class. Minerva's guest list is simply perfect."
It wasn't that Solomon viewed American celebrities with a jaundiced eye—it's just that he genuinely disdained their vulgarity. The Kardashian family, for instance: just speaking to them made him feel his IQ was being drained. What he respected were talented people—those would always have his admiration. That's why he discreetly made sure Taylor Swift's seat would be in a goat-free zone. Pepper Potts, who was attending as well, had been placed there too.
The scene was so hilarious in her mind that Lorna couldn't help but slam her forehead onto the table, laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. The silver cutlery on the table clinked and jumped from the impact. The girl who'd just swallowed her bite of fish was giggling, too—though she had no idea what the others were laughing about. She just found it funny that everyone else was.
Solomon, however, was closely watching the girl's eyes—and the silk ribbon wrapped around her head, which was embedded with delicate instruments and mysterious circuits. When her emotions spiked, a flicker of alertness crossed his eyes. Bayonetta noticed. She kicked Solomon lightly under the table, signaling him not to overdo it. Perhaps her recent tension with Lorna made her want to ease up on the teenage rebellion for now—and maybe start with this child instead. Bayonetta believed the experience might help her future parenting skills.
"That'll definitely make the front page. We'll be the stars!" Lorna squawked with laughter—her laugh sounding like a honking goose, the kind of crude behavior Athena would never tolerate. But for the first time, Lorna truly appreciated the benefits of living at the Oxfordshire estate. Compared to Mount Athena or her private school, this place was way less strict. Only Bayonetta was somewhat firm, and as long as you crossed her rules carefully, the others wouldn't say much.
Lorna's "animal pelt," as she called it, was actually opossum skin. For most modern people, this skill would be unpleasant at best. Minerva never insisted she learn it—but Lorna had taken a shine to the messier craft. She even asked Solomon for help, and only after several tries did she successfully skin one and present the intact pelt to a leatherworker.
"As long as they remember that gala, they'll remember the pain of a goat butting them in the ass—and us," Lorna declared, raising her fork. "From then on, we'll be the social terrors of New York! No one will dare mess with us! We'll be banned from every event! It's gonna be amazing!"
"As long as you can survive Minerva's wrath," Jeanne deadpanned, pouring a bucket of cold water on their fun. "I doubt she'll take it well. She might twist the goats' heads off—or yours. Better hope it's the goats'. That woman doesn't have a temper—she is a temper." Jeanne exaggerated the motion of biting through a cream-coated baby carrot with her sharp, white teeth—just to add a little menace.
She was clearly alluding to something Solomon hadn't caught on to yet. The Arcanist couldn't figure out what she meant, but Jeanne left no doubt about her warning. "If I were you, I wouldn't push her limits. Solomon, if you eat food with that shovel, don't expect a kiss from me until you've brushed your teeth a thousand times."
"A hundred times is enough—a thousand's too harsh," Bayonetta said with a wink. "Besides, I like the taste of mint toothpaste."
"You're going to spoil him, Cereza!" Jeanne retorted.
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