“Of course! I would die for freckles like yours.”
Magda and Divya are arguing over some TV show they’re both watching. Colette is humming quietly as she swipes a final coat of gloss over her lips. For a tiny, begrudging second, I’m glad she convinced me to come, because this easy, comfortable friendship is everything I’ve been missing the past few years. I can feel it slipping beneath my skin, making me stronger, nurturing that lonely teenage girl who wanted nothing more than to be included.
When I catch Divya’s eye in the mirror, I realize with great horror that I’msmiling.
I slip my feet into my Converse just as a quiet rumble of thunder cracks across the valley. Perfect weather for a Sorrowsong party, I suppose.
We run across the cobbled courtyard and into Achlys’s Hall, the four of us trying to hide under one jacket. The ball is already in full swing when we arrive, the room bustling beneath the watchful gaze of the painting that has set me on edge since the day I arrived.
Candles line each wall, hanging from chandeliers above us like a twinkling night sky, heels clicking against the tiled mosaic beneath our feet. The last shards of daylight slip through the high arched windows on the two longest walls, failing to brighten up the place. A small orchestra play in almost complete darkness at the far end. The paintings and vases that decorate the near side of the room are all winter themed: frozen landscapes and icy lakes behind white roses and pale blue delphinium that rise from the vases like icicles. But at the far end of the hall, the lakes in the paintings have thawed, the flowers turning to pastel shades of pink and orange.
A reminder that we are teetering on the edge of spring.
I try to twist it into something clever about fresh starts and new beginnings, but I can’t.
I can’t spin anything positive out of losing Alex.
If I thought Magda’s dress was something special, Belladonna’s is on another level. In a black gown that looks like it could’ve been plucked from Sorrowsong’s dusty crypts this morning, she’s somewhere between a gothic witch and a regency bride, accessorized with a black spider necklace and the captain of the women’s rugby squad.
“Winters,” she mutters, gazing down at me. Her eyes are unreadable beneath the wing of eyeliner that looks sharp enough to cut someone.
“Belladonna.”
“Glad you came,” she says, like she knows something I don’t.
I open my mouth to ask her why, but she turns and stalks away.
“Whatis her problem?” Divya says, rolling her eyes. “She’ll regret it when she dies alone.”
I shrug as we head toward the bar, grabbing four cocktails from the tiered silver tray that’s almost as tall as I am. “I find her really hard to dislike. I don’t know why.”
“Me too! I feel like … growing up in that family, she has to have seen some things, right?” says Colette, who may well be tipsy already. “Like Vincenzo—he can hardly fall asleep at night.”
I frown. “Really?”
“Yeah. He definitely has something going on.”
Magda clinks her glass against each of ours. I bring mine to my lips, the welcome burn of whisky sliding down my throat, leaving the honey aftertaste of Drambuie behind. “Well, the Ivanovs keep trying to kill him, so that can’t exactly help.”
Colette scans the crowd, looking for him. The Nightshade students seem to lurk in the shadows, stolen kisses lingering between hushed conversations and whispered threats. Hemlock have flooded the dance floor, Snakeroot mingling around the edges in deep and thoughtful conversation. For those I know in Cortinar, this is just another opportunity to show off their extensive wardrobes and family millions. Colette is no exception, dripping in jewels and a powder blue, off-the-shoulder tulle dress that has her looking like she might lose a slipper and find a prince this evening.
Knowing her, she probably will.
Or maybe not, I think, as I spot Eike, her driver-turned-bodyguard-turned-killjoy keeping a watchful eye on her from his position leaning over the ornate banister of the two curved staircases behind us, smartly dressed in a black tuxedo.
I doubt he’d let her breathe if her stepfather didn’t allow it.
“Can you ballroom dance?” she asks, face lighting up as the song changes.
“Colette, do I look like a woman who can ballroom dance?”
She pouts, but Magda gladly takes her hand. Of course Magda can ballroom dance. I’m content to stand and watch them, unable not to let Colette’s infectious joy tease a small smile out of me when she swaps partners to dance with her friend Hattie, the daughter of a princess and a famous dressage rider.
Divya gets tugged away by some medical student friends, and immediately, I become hyperaware of another presence beside me, a Scottish accent softened at the edges.
“It feels like no time at all since we met in this very spot.”
I glance up at Achlys, at the way she sneers at me in the darkness of the hall, painted in such great detail that it looks like shemight reach out from her frame and stroke her dirty fingernails down my cheek. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
