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“Did you really fight the Morozjak?”
Perine scrunched her nose in apparent embarrassment. “It’s a long story that I don’t really have the time to go into right now. But… yes, I killed the—”
“You killed the Morozjak?” Oleander nearly shouted. “By yourself?”
“Yes. Now can you please leave so I can wash this gore off of me?” Perine turned him roughly, pushing him out the door and closing it behind him, only to crack it open once more. “Can you ask Wisteria if she has a gold-themed outfit I could borrow? Something not covered in blood?”
Oleander leaned against the bathroom door, laying his forehead reverently against it. “We’ll find you something.”
“Nothing hideous. Don’t let her make me look like an idiot.”
A bark of laughter burst from him. “Perine, my sister would give her worst enemy an amazing outfit, just so they don’t ruin her aesthetic. She’s only mildly annoyed by you. If you’re lucky, she’ll forcefully braid those wild curls and do your makeup.”
“Oh.” She gave a surprised laugh. “Well, then. I’m going to clean up now. So… go away.”
“Honestly, just be ready to have no say in how you look tonight,” Oleander said, grinning. “Who do you think did my hair and makeup?”
She returned his grin, only hers was softer—almost nervous. She asked, “Do you think that we can still call ourselves project partners if I’m no longer even at the Academy?”
His heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to tell her that labels meant nothing to him—that whatever they were, whatever they called it, being with her was the only thing that mattered. What he said was, “Of course. We can call ourselves whatever we like, I think.”
Perine searched his face for a moment before giving a slow nod. “I guess I thought that maybe—” She cleared her throat. “You know what? I’m being silly. I’m going to go get cleaned up now and then I’ll… I guess I’ll see you at the party?”
“I’ll see you there,” he said, giving her his very best roguish smile.
Hemlock sat patiently in front of Wisteria as she twisted his hair into something intricate and impressive. He raised a hand, catching her attention. >Didn’t you used to have a snake necklace that you wore all the time?I think the snake bit our father that time when the Grand Dukes cornered her and hasn’t been around since.He deserved it.What’s wrong?Wisteria’s going to cry.What the fuck could make Wisteria cry?Wisteria, what’s wrong?< Oleander signed cautiously.
She didn’t say anything, brushing a stray tear away with her shoulder while she continued twisting Hemlock’s hair. Her chin length hair was shiny and rigidly straight as always, her face painted to accentuate her fierceness—everything about her showcased her harsh, deeply curated beauty. She swallowed and closed her eyes, her hands stilling but remained gently holding Hemlock’s hair. “I’m allowed to enjoy doing your hair, alright?”
Oleander signed her whispered confession to Hemlock and their eyes locked in concern. Wisteria was acting odd. But as quickly as her softness had surfaced, it was gone. She yanked on Hemlock’s hair, “Tell him to sit still! He’s making this impossible.”
Oleander relayed his sister’s message but stared at her, a looming fear lurking around the edges of his mind.
Something was coming.
