Artemis was nearly thrown by this remark. Worms were most definitely not on the menu, though snails might well be. “Forget about worms.”
“Forget worms?” said Beckett, horrified.
“Just for the moment,” said Artemis reassuringly. “As soon as we have finished our word game, you may think on whatever pleases you. And if you are really good, then I might take you to see the horses.”
Riding was the onlyform of exercise thatArtemis had taken to. This was mainly because the horse did most of the work.
Beckett pointed to himself. “Beckett,” he said proudly, worms already a distant memory.
Myles sighed. “Simple-toon.”
Artemis was beginning to regret scheduling this lesson, but having begun he was determined to forge ahead.
“Myles, don’t call your brother a simpleton.”
“S’okay, Artemis. He likes it. You’re a simple-toon, aren’t you, Beckett?”
“Beckett simple-toon,” agreed the small boy happily.
Artemis rubbed his hands together. “Right, brothers. Onward. Imagine yourself seated at a café table in Montmartre.”
“In Paris,” said Myles, smugly straightening the cravat that he had borrowed from his father.
“Yes, Paris. And try as you will, you cannot attract the waiter’s attention. What do you do?”
The infants stared at him blankly, and Artemis began to wonder if he wasn’t pitching his lesson a little high. He was relieved, if a little surprised, to see a spark of comprehension in Beckett’s eyes.
“Umm . . . tell Butler to jump-jump-jump on his head?”
Myles was impressed. “I agree with simple-toon.”
“No!”Artemis said.“You simply raise one finger and say clearly ‘Ici, gar?on.’”
“Itchy what?”
“What? No, Beckett, not itchy.” Artemis sighed. This was impossible. Impossible. And he hadn’t even introduced the flash cards yet or his new modified laser pointer, which could either highlight a word or burn through several steel plates, depending on the setting.
“Let’s try it together. Raise one finger and say ‘Ici, gar?on.’ All together now .. .”
The little boys did as they were told, eager to please their deranged brother.
“Ici, gar?on,” they chorused, pudgy fingers raised. And then from the corner of his mouth, Myles whispered to his twin, “Artemis simple-toon.”
Artemis raised his hands. “I surrender. You win, no more lessons. Why don’t we paint some pictures?”
“Excellent,” said Myles. “I shall paint my jar of mold.”
Beckett was suspicious. “I won’t learn anything?”
“No,” said Artemis, fondly ruffling his brother’s hair and immediately regretting it. “You won’t learn a thing.”
“Good. Beckett happy now. See?” The boy pointed to himself once more, specifically to the broad smile on his face.
The three brothers were stretched on the floor, up to their elbows in poster paint, when their father entered the room. He looked tired from his nursing duties, but otherwise fit and strong, moving like a lifelong athlete in spite of his bio-hybrid artificial leg. The leg used lengthened bone, titanium prosthetics, and implantable sensors to allow Artemis Senior’s brain signals to move it. Occasionally, at the end of the day, he would use a microwavable gel pouch to ease his stiffness, but otherwise he behaved as if the new leg were his own.
Artemis climbed to his knees, smudged and dripping.
“I abandoned French vocabulary and have joined the twins in play.” He grinned and wiped his hands. “It’s quite liberating, actually. We are finger painting instead. I did try to sneak in a little lecture on cubism, but received a splattering for my troubles.”
Artemis noticed then that his father was more than simply tired. He was anxious.
He stepped away from the twins and walked with Artemis Senior to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase.
“What is the matter? Is Mother’s influenza worsening?”
Artemis’s father rested one hand on the rolling ladder and lifted his weight from the artificial limb. His expression was strange, and one that Artemis could not recall ever seeing.
He realized his father was more than anxious. Artemis Fowl Senior was afraid.
“Father?”
Artemis Senior gripped the ladder’s rung with such force that the wood creaked. He opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to change his mind.
Now Artemis himself grew worried. “Father, you must tell me.”
“Of course,” said his father with a start, as if just remembering where he was. “I must tell you. . . .”
A tear fell from his eye, dropping onto his shirt, deepening the blue.
“I remember when I first saw your mother,” he said. “I was in London, at a private party in The Ivy. A room full of scoundrels, and I was the biggest one in the bunch. She changed me, Arty. Broke my heart then put it together again. Angeline saved my life. Now . . .”
Artemis felt weak with nerves. His blood pounded in his ears like the Atlantic surf.
“Is Mother dying, Father? Is this what you are trying to tell me?”
The idea seemed ludicrous. Impossible.