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I answered the call and put the phone to my ear. My heart stuttered at the silence on the other end.
I ripped it away from my ear and ended the call without sticking around to listen to them breathing. This was the sixth call I’d had.
“Wrong number,” I said to Misery, shoving off my unease and dragging a deep breath into my lungs.
Miz’s eyes turned murderous, but I just faked calm and headed for the door.
I was disappointed when Miz and I walked out of Lawrence House, hand in hand, crossed the park with its many trees and double fountains1 and found the gala set up in a giant gazebo behind Everard Tower wasn’t in flames or falling apart.
Miz paused with me beside the tower—it was a three-storey building, and not even cylindrical, so calling it a tower seemed aspirational—to watch the staff, students, and esteemed guests who’d flown onto the island mill around in their white-tie finery.
“We can go home,” Miz reminded me, squeezing my hand. He looked insanely good in a fitted tuxedo, his shirt as white as snow but offset with an ice-blue bow tie that matched his eyes. I wanted to see my Miz in the suit, though.
I shook my head. “It’ll be fine. I only have to stay an hour and half, then we can bail.”
“Bail?”
“Leave.”
He scowled at the gazebo, at the sculpted topiaries that had been wrapped in golden fairy lights, the mammoth Christmas tree by the entrance to the gazebo where tables had been set out, laden with drinks and leather-bound catalogues. The whole area looked like a festive explosion, and even smelled of Christmas—fir and cranberries and cinnamon. I didn’t know how they’d managed it, and I was annoyed to find myself admiring the area.
“Language is annoying,” Miz said, and led me out of the shadow of Everard Tower towards the throng of people, his head swivelling as he scanned the area. We were pretty enclosed here, between the tower and the woods, but the lights made it seem brighter, bigger.
“Are you okay?” I asked as we approached the table. We were close enough to the lake to be able to glimpse it between the trees.
“I’m fine.” He lifted my hand to his lips and brushed a kiss to my knuckles. “Are you?”
I swallowed. The last time I was on this side of the campus, Honey and I pushed Dean Fairchild’s body into the lake. “I’m fine,” I echoed his words. I wondered if we were both lying.
“Honey,” he pointed out, lifting our joined hands to gesture at my friend dressed in a gold silk dress and heels, storming across the ground2 to throw a single red rose into the woods.
“Honey?” I called, hurrying across the space past mingling guests, snatches of conversation reaching me—business deals being done on the downlow, a trio of judgemental women sneering at the latest equality bill passed in parliament, even a marriage being arranged between a businessman and a politician, with zero input from their children. “You’re still being sent roses? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Honey sighed, crossing the grass to meet me halfway. “I thought it had stopped, and honestly, you’ve been stressed enough after—”
Yeah. After.
“I didn’t want to give you anything else to worry about,” she said with a sad smile, giving Miz a questioning look. “Do you think you can let my bestie go so I can hug her?”
“No,” he replied, point blank.
I snorted and pulled my fingers free after a reassuring squeeze. The second he let go, Honey flung herself at me.
“You look hot, Cat. Megawatt hot.”
I laughed, hugging her back. That’s what we used to say when we were tweens—there was a whole scale of hotness, and we had ranked boys on it. Harry Styles was megawatt hot, but we’d argued about Tom Hiddleston.3
“You look megawatt hot, too, Honey.” I stepped back to look at her, the gold silk hugging her curves and trailing artfully behind her. I told myself she dressed killer for herself and not her boyfriend, but I was pretty sure it was denial. “Seriously. Do you know how much money you’d make for homeless cats if we auctioned you?”
She rolled her eyes, her cheeks flushing pink. “Oh, shut it. It’s items and experiences only, no humans auctioned.”
I tilted my head. “What do you class as an experience…?”
She elbowed me, giving me an unimpressed—but thoroughly amused—look. “Who’s your date, anyway? Don’t tell me you have a fourth husband.”
“If she had a fourth husband, I would slit his throat in his sleep,” Miz informed her conversationally.
“This is Miz’s med student face,” I told her. And when her eyes widened with disbelief, her mouth popping open, I added, “I’ve found it’s best not to think about the how of things, and just shrug it off as magic.”
