A chime rang out from the front of the atrium, followed by the arrival of one of the hosts in a charcoal suit, who announced, “Dinner will be served shortly. Please find your places.”
“Do you remember your table number?” Marise asked.
Kathleen nodded. “Eight.”
“Perfect. Let’s let the crowd move first and then we’ll go in.”
Kathleen didn’t respond right away, but she didn’t step away either. She stood beside Marise, shoulder shy of brushing hers, and watched the tide of guests begin filing toward the double doors at the rear of the hall. For the first time since she’d stepped out of her apartment, she wasn’t so rigid.
They waited until most of the crowd had moved before making their way to the dining hall.
The main ballroom had been transformed into a spectacular sight. Soft lighting glowed from a chandelier webbed across the ceiling like a constellation. Each round table was draped in white linen and decorated with a centrepiece of orchids, ferns, and a taper candle.
Table eight was near the edge of the room, close to a side exit but with a clear view of the stage. Marise guided Kathleen there with a hand hovering behind her back, not touching but with her. There were eight seats at the table.
Two older men were already seated—distinguished, greying, in tailored suits with committee pins on their lapels. Their wives sat beside them, wearing gowns and pearls, the kind of elegance that suggested generations of wealth. The two other chairs were occupied by a couple in their forties, glamorous in a bold way. The man wore a checked jacket that verged on too casual. The woman, all silver-blonde hair and glossy nails, wore something low-cut and expensive.
The Institute board members offered polite nods.
“Dr. Knowles,” one of them said, his voice rich with familiarity. “Lovely to see you again. This must be your guest?”
Kathleen gave a tight smile. “Yes. This is Veronica Hale.”
Marise smiled warmly, extending a hand, but not pressing. The introductions passed quickly, and they took their seats. Marise made sure to position herself on Kathleen’s right, placing a small buffer between her and the couple across the table.
The donors introduced themselves as Greg and Lianne Asher, supporters of “forward-thinking environmental ventures,” as Greg put it, while helping himself to the first pour of wine.
Lianne leaned forward, flashing a white smile. “So, you’retheDr. Knowles. We’ve been hearing your name in all sorts of interesting places.”
Kathleen nodded. “Yes.”
“We read a profile inScientific Weekly. Your work on... what is it—synthetic root networks?”
“Electrically conductive vascular systems,” Kathleen corrected, voice cool but even.
Greg chuckled. “Right. Right. Some of that went over my head, I’ll admit. But the gist is, you’re growing magic plants.”
Marise felt Kathleen tense beside her, not visibly, not to anyone else at the table. But she saw it: the slight narrowing of her mouth, the fingers curling under the linen napkin.
“They’re not magic,” Kathleen said. “They’re engineered.”
Lianne pressed on, undeterred. “We were wondering, hypothetically, if something like that would ever be available commercially. You know, for properties in the desert. Or for ornamental purposes. Maybe a boutique version?”
Kathleen hesitated. Her lips parted, then closed again. She clearly didn’t know how to answer the statement.
Marise stepped in quickly. “What you’re asking, Lianne,” she said, with an easy smile, “is whether the technology has lifestyle applications. I’m guessing that’s a little like asking if rocket fuel could be used for a garden torch.”
Greg laughed. “Well, that puts it in perspective.”
Marise turned slightly toward Kathleen, her tone shifting slightly. “But it’s a good question. People want to understand. It only takes a little translation.”
Kathleen’s eyes flicked to her briefly, with the faintest touch of gratitude. Then she gave a single nod and didn’t elaborate.
The board member on her other side leaned in. “So how closeareyou to viable deployment, Dr. Knowles? You must be field testing by now.”
Kathleen opened her mouth, then shut it again. Marise leaned in, annoyed. These weren’t neutral inquiries, they were fishing expeditions and they were putting Kathleen on the spot.
“I'm afraid we signed an NDA,” she said lightly, smiling. “Even I don’t get to know the details, which is a shame. I’d love to brag.”
