“What kind of friend would Darcy be if he did not protect Bingley?” It’s the first time today the vampire’s addressing me, but he faces forward in his seat, so I can’t see him. “He cannot be expected to know what is in Jane’s heart if she guards it so viciously.”
“But he made assumptions before getting to know her character! He thinks he knowseverything—”
“He knows more than Elizabeth!” William cuts in. “She was as blind about Darcy as she was about Wickham.”
“The question was,” says Director Minaro with a heavy sigh, “what are your thoughts on Charlotte Lucas and Mr. Collins?”
A few minutes later, class is finally over.
“Lorena, William?” says Minaro. “Can you hang back a second?”
My spine stiffens in fear that we’re in trouble, and even Salma looks at me with wideuh-oheyes. William and I stand in front of the director’s desk, and as soon as the last student exits, I say, “I’m sorry for going off-topic—”
“Actually, I am sorry,” she says. “Please, sit.”
We each take a seat in the front row.
“I know I have not been making time to meet with you for Shakespeare club. Knowing how quickly the two of you read, I am certain you have finished the play by now. Next month, I would like you to make your presentation in class. You will each perform as one of the two main characters, and you will act out a scene of your choosing. Then—since you both seem to have a penchant for literary criticism—you will provide your analysis of the play in anonconfrontationalmanner.”
She picks up a few folders from her desk. “Now I will leave you here to discuss.”
Once we’re alone, an ear-thrumming silence resounds in the room.
“What scene do you want to do?” I ask when I can’t take it anymore, keeping my voice dull so he knows I’m still ticked off.
“Not the balcony scene,” he says with what sounds like a scoff.
“That’s the last scene I would ever want to perform with you,” I assure him.
We’re both facing forward, and we still haven’t made eye contact since last night—when he pinned me to the wall and came close to forcing his fangs into my throat. Just like our first meeting.
“Not the masquerade ball, either,” he says.
“Believe me, I have no interest in letting you kiss me. Nor do I plan to act out the wedding night.”
It seemed like things had been getting better between us these past eight weeks. I even thought the fact that he stuck to my deadline meant he was starting to respect my boundaries. But it turns out I’m still nothing more than a portable blood bank to him.
“What should we do then?” he asks.
But somethingwasdifferent last night—he didn’t drink from me. Unlike our first meeting, he let me go.
“The death scene.”
He glares at me like I’ve said something offensive. It’s the first time our eyes have locked, and a new shade of purple has surfaced in his gaze that’s the color of a bruise.
He looks… hurt.
In the evening, he doesn’t show up to the dining hall.
“Where’s Will?” asks Zach.
I shrug and stuff my mouth with fettuccine Alfredo to avoid having to talk.
After dinner, the five of us head to the manor’s foyer—or the grand hall—and scope out everything the staff laid out. They set up a kind of costume shop where we can pick from an assortment of clothes and accessories. There are various stations for sewing, dyeing fabrics, making beaded jewelry, styling wigs, crafting props, and so on.
Rather than the prepackaged costumes we’d find in a store, the hangers feature articles of clothing—shirts, pants, dresses—in different shades, fabrics, cuts. There are belts, shoes, masks, headpieces, jewelry, iron-on patches, and colorful rolls of lace, silk, and fishnet.
“What costumes can we come up with?” muses Salma as she and I split off from the others to riffle through the racks of dresses.
