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“Money.” She started painting on the canvas, not even pausing to speak to me.
“I know money, but how much?”
“A lot.”
“Come on, Fallon… is it so hard to speak to me?”
My heart physically hurt. It constricted every single time I tried but just got rejected repeatedly by her. Who was this woman before me? It wasn’t this difficult with Fallon. Not the one I’d known. Never was it this hard. It’s why we were such good friends. Everything was so easy with us. She got me. I got her. We were the most unlikely pairing, and yet we just worked.
She was the only person in my life who I believed truly saw me for who I was. I wasn’t just a forgotten son in the shadows of his brother’s bright light when it came to her. Fallon had always made me feel special and important.
But here… in the Oleander… she made me feel like how the rest of them made me feel. Like I was nothing. Invisible. Unimportant.
If that was her intent… then why?
Just as I was about the give up and stop talking all together, she finally spoke. “I appreciate this.” She stopped painting and looked at me with warmth, and gratitude washed over her face. “It’s been a really long time since someone has done something so nice for me.”
“That’s a shame. Because you deserve things like this.”
She nodded very slowly as if she were lost in thought and then refocused on her art but still spoke as she painted.
“It’s important to me that we pass this Initiation and not just because of the money I get,” she confessed.
She took a deep breath but continued to paint as if the act gave her the courage to open up a bit. “I’m tired of always being the poor girl getting handouts and secondhand crap. I’ve always been a charity and I’m over that. I love my mother, but I don’t want to be like her.” Her jaw got firm. “I’m breaking the cycle.”
I nodded but refused to speak in fear that the minute I did, she would shut down completely.
“And I know you never saw me as a charity case,” she added. “You were the only one.”
She painted for a few silent moments and I just sat and watched, wondering what would come out of her work. “So, this Initiation is important to the both of us. We need to make sure we don’t screw this up.”
“Agreed. Although I’m not going to lie. It’s hard for me to see you—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “But we aren’t going to pass these if we keep fighting or if you allow some weird protectiveness to eat at you. I need you. And I know you need me.”
“It’s not weird protectiveness. It’s my job to protect—”
“Your job?” she cut in. “Why would it be your job to protect me?”
As if the ghosts of the manor knew we were talking about the Trials, there was a light knock on the door, followed by Mrs. H.
“Another box,” I said as Mrs. H placed it on the bed.
Her attention quickly turned toward Fallon painting and she clapped her hands. “Oh, I love seeing this!” Mrs. H looked at me and beamed the biggest smile. “Good job, laddie. Very good job.” She moved toward the door. “I can’t stay because I have to deliver another box to Beau and his belle, but good luck tonight. It looks like you won’t be doing this Trial alone.”
When Mrs. H left, I moved toward the box and saw a white tuxedo like the one I had first worn for the choosing of the belle. And no surprise, there was nothing in the box for Fallon to wear.
Nudity had been her attire up to this point. Sick fucks.
But I couldn’t believe what was in the box…
How twisted were their dark imaginations? Who could come up with this shit?
Jesus, Fallon was going to lose her mind.
“What’s in the box?” she asked as she gleefully painted away, oblivious to what was about to happen tonight.
I didn’t want to tell her. There was no point in having her stew over it until it was time to leave. We still had a couple of hours before the Trial tonight. She deserved some time of happiness, and I deserved to return to what would become my chair of peace and quiet as I watched her.
She paused painting and asked again. “Well? What’s in store for us tonight?”
“Just keep painting,” I said as I sat down, crossed my legs and settled in. “All that stuff can wait.”
She stared at me with skepticism in her eyes as she nibbled the edge of her lips. But fortunately, the pull to continue with her painting was stronger than her curiosity.
“Fallon…” I began, needing to say something that had been haunting me nearly as much as the haint of Timothy haunted the Elders. “Promise me something. When this whole thing is over, you won’t hate me.”
