“I—” I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you.” Then from a sudden wind-like force, I stood and gave her a quick hug. It was barely there. Before I knew it, I was back in my seat and sitting like nothing had happened, the gloves in my hands. When I blinked, I couldn’t even tell anymore if it had happened.
“Me next!” Cecily shrieked, running around the long table. As she passed Preston’s empty seat, my gaze lingered.
The memory of the two of us sitting on the cold balcony flashed into my mind. His words kept haunting me, even days later. He never told me why I should keep Hudson being my father a secret, but I never intended to share it with anyone anyways. Part of me regretted even telling him. My mum, she didn’t explain it either, not yet at least.
“Happiest Birthday El!” Cecily grinned, pushing a long pink thing into my free hand.
I put the gloves aside and unwrapped Cecily’s gift, her grey gaze burning the top of my head as she watched. A dark glass bottle, stoppered with ghostly white wax and a handwritten label was tucked inside.
The glass was still warm in my hands.
“You love it don’t you?” Cecily hugged me, almost knocking the bottle out of my hand.
“I do,” I answered, trying to draw back.
“It’s a delicious reminder of our adventure,” she whispered before letting go of me.
And it was. “Thank you,” I said, and her grin widened enough to hurt.
When she sat back down, and the silence stretched long enough, I raised my fork once more?—
A wooden box, adorned with thorny vines was placed beside my plate. Lilian’s long nails tapped on its top.
“Happy Birthday, pet,” she said, opening the lid and revealing a worn notebook. I lifted it out, the leather was soft and aged at the edges. I loosened the dark silk ribbon and opened the heavy cover. The pages were completely blank inside, except for the circle of thorns that framed the paper.
“It’s for you to fill,” Lilian said as I looked up at her, her dark gaze meeting mine. “With your studies and knowledge.” She smiled, brushing a hand over my head. “Your other gift is already upstairs.”
“Other gift?” I asked, shocked.
“Of course, it’s your nineteenth birthday. Your last year as a teen. That is very special,” she said, walking back to her seat.
I nodded, my throat dry at the thought. I wished my mum were here. Not as a ghost. But really here. Celebrating with me. Telling me how she would have topped the figs with a lot more honey. Forcing me to wish something before I blew out all the nineteen candles that pierced the cake. Clapping, singing, then dancing with me to her old vinyl.
The sweet bite of cake stared up at me from the silver fork, forged as a branch with small leaves crowning the top. Suddenly my appetite left, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in the shape of my mum. The shape of her love, her hug—which I could never feel again. I glanced at the bottle of hot toddy then back at the last slice of cake as I silently waited for the others to finish their breakfast.
Only then, I excused myself to my room.
By the time I climbed the staircase—dodging trays of crystal glasses and swaths of satin—I was half-ready to fake an illness. But when I opened the door, my gaze landed on the wardrobe. It stood in its usual grace with vines and flowers painted on its sides, but on its door hung a dress.
A long black gown, sprinkled with tiny diamonds and stitched with dark feathers, shimmered like ink under moonlight. I traced the silver tendril-like threads, then loosened the matching mask that dangled beside it.
A masquerade ball. I had never been to one before. But it meant that tonight I could pretend to be someone else. Someone who moulded into this place better.
I tugged on trousers and a thick knitted jumper, then headed back down the long staircase. The soft tread of my boots on the rug was barely audible over the chaos below. People rushed past, balancing chairs, armfuls of roses, and lengths of tulle and satin in every shade of red. Like the inside of a bleeding heart. I madea run for the garden doors, hoping for a breath of clean air, when a voice snagged me.
“Like what you see?” Declan Marzouq walked toward me with a wide grin on his tan face. Like the sun had personally given him permission to steal its shine.
The last time we spoke we agreed we didn’t want anything to do with whatever our families had planned for us. So I stared at him warily, unsure whether he had changed his mind. Although it wouldn’t change a thing. I wasn’t going to marry anytime soon. If ever.
I glanced back at the chaos of disco balls and scarlet drapes. “It’s…definitely something,” I said, uncertain of what else to say. “Thank you,” I added, even though the idea of dancing tonight in front of hundreds of people made me nauseous.
Declan’s smile deepened, his brown eyes gleaming. “It is, isn’t it? And you’re most certainly welcome.”
“Declan!” The voice belonged to a man wearing a deep green velvet suit. Golden rings glittered on each of his fingers, catching every beam of light like they were chasing the attention he already commanded as he strode toward us.
“There you are, son,” he said, his gaze sliding to me. “The youth.”
His smile was like honey melting on skin. Gooseflesh rose along my spine, but I held back the urge to grimace.
