Page 126 of Pretty Savage: Defy

No one alive has witnessed it.

“What do you think, exactly, it requires?” I ask her. “Do I have to, um,” my face goes hot, “come?”

The brush she runs through my hair pulls, hard enough to make my scalp sting.

“Sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay.” I don’t tell her I’m grateful for the pain. It reminds me I’m still inside my body.

“I think it’s penetration. That’s what Mother said counts.”

Penetration.

So clinical.

The entire time we’re in the bedroom, Sam doesn’t mention her promise to stop the sealing, and I don’t ask whether she has a plan. The walls in this house have too many ears, and hope feels dangerous when one careless question could destroy it.

“Ready to go?” Sam steps back, finally done.

“No.” I smooth one hand over the fabric. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.”

She reaches up and draws the hood over my head. It is wide and heavy, framing my face while casting the rest of me in shadow.

I force myself to face the mirror.

“I look like Little Red Riding Hood, only in white.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

One last look at my reflection.

The robe is white. My hair is loose. My face looks composed, almost serene.

Only my hands betray me, clenched around the belt as though it’s the last thing keeping the robe closed.

Or holding me together.

***

By the time Sam leads me downstairs, evening has settled over Ashford House. The large wooden doors to the dining hall open without a sound, and once again I’m reminded of a wedding, though the resemblance grows less convincing the farther I look.

All the tables have been removed. The long wooden benches are arranged in rows facing the back of the room, where a raised dais ensures everyone has an unobstructed view. The regular lights have been extinguished, leaving candles and torches to illuminate the hall.

Clusters of blood-dark roses and pale magnolias line the aisle and climb the steps to the dais. Their perfume mingles with melted wax and burning oil until the sweetness becomes cloying, like flowers shut inside a crypt. The roses are fully opened, their petals almost black at the edges, while the magnolias glow pale in the candlelight.

Roses for the Ashfords.

Magnolias for the Bellefleurs.

There are twice as many roses, their thorned stems wound around the magnolia branches, one bloodline already consuming the other.

No one speaks.

Hundreds of people fill the benches, yet I hear only the snapping of the torches and the whisper of my robe against the floor. Every face is turned forward. Every pair of hands rests palm down on their knees.