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A delirious laugh bubbles up my throat at the sound of her treating us like children. She’s the same age as all of us. In fact, I’m three months older than her.
But Beth and Cleo don’t find it funny, at all. Beth silently sits back down on the bed, and Cleo kneels and begins furiously digging through one of the bureau drawers.
I break away, though, touching Elizabeth’s wrist before she turns away. “Did you talk to him? To Noah?”
She hesitates, and there’s a scent of uncertainty about her. “Yes,” she finally answers. “He agreed it’s for the best that you all leave.”
“What about Isolde?” I ask before she can walk away. “What did she say?”
“Nothing. She’s consumed by her grief and needs rest,” she says impatiently. “I didn’t dare bother her with this news, which I’m sure you understand, Hetty, so please hurry.”
My ghost rumbles as Elizabeth stalks quickly down the dark hallway, disappearing up the steps.
She’s being so cryptic—I still don’t fully understand why we need to leave. The sickness? Or because she thinks Isolde is dangerous to us?
But still, Isolde gets to be consumed by her grief, and I … have to pack? Suddenly, I feel breathless and overwhelmed. I need to see Noah. I shouldn’t leave without talking to him, not after everything that’s happened tonight.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble, not looking at Beth and Cleo as I turn on my heels and follow Elizabeth’s footsteps down the hall and up the stairs.
I’m relieved there’s no sign of her in the kitchen. In fact, it’s silent and pitch dark. Tiptoeing through the darkness, I make my way into the equally dark hallway. A light flickers under the closed door of the study.
I know Noah is in there before I even push the door open—his scorched scent mingles with the flame jumping from the candle on his desk, beckoning me forward. His head’s down, arms pooled on the desk, and there’s a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass next to the burning candle.
“Noah?” I keep my voice low, stepping forward cautiously. I don’t want to startle him.
He doesn’t move. Is he asleep?
“Noah?” I say a little louder.
“Go away, Hetty,” he groans, not lifting his head.
I swallow, undeterred. “We need to talk.” I’m standing over his desk now, looking down at his hair. It’s messy and ruffled like he’s been worrying the strands with his fingers.
His head raises slightly off the desk, scowling at the sight of me. Grunting, he lets it fall again. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, his voice muffled.
Clearing my throat, I try again. “Elizabeth said that you—that the betas are—” I release a pained breath. My emotions are too big to process. I feel like there’s something heavy pressing on my chest. I can’t think. I can’t talk. “I’m just wondering if—”
“Spit it out, Hetty,” he hisses, his head popping off the desk again. This time, he leans back in his chair and stares at me. Even in the candlelight, I see his eyes are glassy with anger and his face flush and accusing. I don’t recognize him.
Startled, I stand straighter, steeling myself.
“Elizabeth said we have to go live and work at Cypress House,” I announce loud and fast. “She said it’s not safe for us here. Because of the sickness.”
“She’s right.” He shrugs and leans back in his chair, running his hand through his hair. “You need to go. You don’t want to end up like your grandmother.”
I wince. “You mean dead?”
His furious gaze clashes with mine. “Yes.”
I inhale sharply. “So, is this really because of the sickness? Not … what we did in the garden? Because there’s nothing wrong with that, Noah. I’m happy it happened.” I rush around the desk, my hand extended. Maybe if we touch again, he’ll remember and stop acting like this.
Before I can lay a hand on him, though, he grabs hold of my wrist and pushes me away. “I told you not to touch me.”
I stumble backward, swallowing a lump in my throat, painful tears burning the backs of my eyes.
“Then what were we doing out in the garden an hour ago?” I spit out viciously. “Having a tea party?”
He pulls back, his eyes glittering with surprise. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he grunts, straightening and pouring whiskey into the empty glass. “You’re just a beta.”
