"Richard, I'd like to speak with Mr. Brennan alone for a moment."

The COO nods and makes himself scarce, leaving you and Mrs. White alone in the room. As you both rise from your chairs, she walks over to you and appraises you critically, rather like a bird might size up a particularly plump worm after rain. "Thank you for your presentation, Brennan. You did a fine job… despite a few excesses. I'll not begrudge your fire, but I trust that in the future you won't let it get the better of you."

You nod silently. She stares at you a moment longer, as if trying to discern something, before shaking her head slightly and asking in a lighter tone, "I have a request for you, Brennan." "Yes?" "I'd like you to come to my house for dinner tomorrow night. I'll send a car for you. Will you come?" You pause, unsure of how to respond. After inadvertently blowing off Zuleyka, you have little choice but to make it up to her. On the other hand, this is a direct request from the head of the company that's commissioned you…

"Well?"

"I'm afraid I already have plans," you end up saying reluctantly. It's a shame. So far as people go, you enjoy Mrs. White's company, her directness and no-nonsense attitude.

"I see. Then the next night?" "I'm booked for the two weeks to come." You decide to err on the side of caution, in case things go worse than anticipated with the mayor.

"I see. I had thought your social calendar was rather open, but it seems I was wrong. Tell me, are you afraid of me, Mr. Brennan? Is that why you're turning down a free meal at my house?" Mrs. White raises an eyebrow, and you can't help but feel as if you're a mouse being toyed with by a cat.

"No, I simply don't intend to relinquish my homefield advantage so easily," you reply breezily.

"Homefield advantage?"

"Yes. You're more likely to convince me to do what you want if I'm on your territory, rather than the other way around."

Mrs. White's full lips curve into a smile. "My, how quickly we jump to suspicions of ulterior motives. I assure you, Mr. Brennan, my only motive is to enjoy your company over a good meal. I promise you won't be disappointed." You return her smile faintly.

"Believe me when I say that I have never felt the sting of putting business before pleasure more acutely than now."

"Oh! So you can pay compliments." Mrs. White's eyes twinkle good-naturedly. "I suppose it'll have to tide me over until you can make it to dinner."

"I'll make it up to you soon," you promise.

"I'll hold you to that, Brennan." Then, her expression assuming a certain gravity, she abruptly tells you, "Don't think it's a done deal just yet."

You frown imperceptibly, quite possibly unnoticeably, in the shadowy conference room. "What do you mean?" "Your design. You know my opinion of it, but the board isn't unanimous in their decision. The design—"

"—That's ridiculous. The design and selected materials are perfect for the needs of the city. It's affordable without compromising aesthetics and durability—"

"The design isn't the problem," she interrupts you, her eyes flickering over your face. "It's you."

"Me?" You frown. "What do you mean?"

She eyes you doubtfully. "I think you know."

"I'm afraid I don't."

She exhales through her nose. "You're a good architect, Brennan, but you need to raise your head from your work and look at the world once in a while. You're missing the forest for the trees." Tapping her index on her forearm, she continues. "Look, I'll be honest with you. The board is split down the middle. A majority of members initially leaned toward your design, but someone started raising doubts about your suitability for this project."

"...Who?" you ask, somehow still dully surprised whenever you learn that other people can feel so strongly wronged that they resort to underhanded maneuvering.

Her eyes are steady on yours, seemingly trying to deduce how it's possible for someone to be so thoroughly oblivious as to what's going on around them. "You're serious, aren't you? You really have no idea."

You stand in place, silently counting the seconds that tick by on the wall clock. You're sure the Mrs. White will give you the name eventually, but until then this is a marvelous exercise in patience.

"Isn't there one name that comes to mind?" she suggests. "One connected to an individual—a prominent individual—who doesn't hold you in the highest regard?"

... Ah. How obvious.

The CEO regards you shrewdly, certain you've—at long last—succeeded in connecting the dots. "Father Lawrence." She drops the name casually, like a child tossing a pebble into a pond to watch the ripples spread. Your face, however, remains unperturbed. Mrs. White queries, "Bishop Morehouse doesn't like you, does he?"

"I wouldn't say that," you demur. "He's probably just concerned about the optics of..."

"... an excommunicate being the standard-bearer of his pet project," she finishes for you, then narrows her eyes. "Brennan, don't you think it's high time you got your canonical situation in order? Believe me, it would make my task so much easier if I didn't have to constantly carry water for you. As the situation stands, I just barely convinced skittish board members to accept an excommunicate as architect for the most important Catholic health-care project in the country."

"Call it ecumenical outreach," you suggest with a straight face. She doesn't laugh. Instead, she fixes you with a steely stare. "You need to get back in Bishop Morehouse's good graces. You're already on thin ice in the eyes of some very important financial backers, and this project is going to be the thing that either saves you or sinks you. You need to get right with God, and you need to do it now."

"Liz, you know as well as I do that the excommunication is solemn nonsense—"

She arches an eyebrow at the diminutive. "Liz? Since when are we on a first name basis?"

"Since I've decided to take your advice," you say smoothly, and a grudging smile establishes itself on her face at your cheek. "I'll reach out to the chancery. I'll set up an appointment with a canonist. I'll get this sorted out."

"Good," she says, and stands. "I'm glad you're taking this seriously. And in the meantime, I'll keep the Richard Powells and Father Lawrences of the world at bay. I know you'll get this done, and I know you'll do it right."

You rise from your seat to see her out. "Thank you, Mrs. White." Your tone is somewhat chastened.

Her smile turns wry. "Let's settle for the middle ground. Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth," you echo, and shake her hand. She turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh, one more thing. I've been meaning to ask you—and I'd really like a plain answer."

What more is there to talk about, you wonder. Everything's been covered...

"Does Amie have a soul?"

You blink. That's all you're capable of; your mouth is incapable of speech. It's like the air in the room has emptied into a vacuum.

Mrs. White studies you keenly. "Come on, Brennan. Did you really think word wouldn't get out? Showing up with an android bride at your anti-android parish, waltzing into the mayor's mansion with it hanging on your arm... I'm not stupid. I have eyes and ears everywhere. I know you've finally been saddled with an android. So. Do you think it has a soul?"

"... No. I know what I'm doing, Elizabeth," you manage at last. "Trust me. This is... something on the side. It won't interfere with the project."

"I'm not worried about the project. I'm worried about you. Having an android around can be very... alluring. The combination of beauty and soullessness is…" There's a catch in her voice. You narrow your eyes. "... I sense there's a story here."

She sighs and rubs her temples. "There is, but it's a long one, and not really germane to our discussion. Just... trust me on this, all right? I'm looking out for your best interests. And that includes your immortal soul. If you believe that Amie doesn't have one, then that's good. Keep on believing that. It will keep you safe. Now, I shall take my leave. Oh, and I'll be expecting to meet Amie at some point—not at our little dinner, but for the groundbreaking ceremony, perhaps." Your jaw clenches, but you incline your head. "Understood. I'll make sure she's there."

"Good. I'm sure it—she's—a very sweet girl." Mrs. White smiles faintly, then passes through the door as you hold it open for her. She takes a step into the corridor then pauses, looking over her shoulder at you. "Oh, and happy anniversary, dear."

And with that, she disappears.