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“Right! So obviously you know Grandma Iris. That’s Grandpa Leopold’s brother, Eli, next to her.” She’d pointed out a white-haired man who I’d hardly noticed before. He seemed to recede into the background of the room, even standing in the middle of it. “Then Caleb, obviously, and his wife, Sandra.”
Sandra was blond like Celia, but hers clearly came from a salon. She held a glass of white wine with a lipstick-stained rim in both hands, fingers laced over it. Several other people had wine, but she was the only one who looked like she’d had more than a few sips.
“Then there’s your aunt Victoria, aka our mother,” Desmond said, taking over. “And that’s her husband, Roman—”
“My father,” Celia interjected. “Desmond and I are half siblings.”
“Which I’m sure comes as a shock to her,” Desmond said, andshe rolled her eyes at him. A pang of jealousy zipped through me at their gentle needling.
Celia’s father was the one who’d glared at me for laughing. He stood by himself now, one hand in his pocket and the other clutching a glass of red wine tight enough that I worried it would break.
“That brings us to your parents, who Iassumeyou already know,” Desmond concluded. As if hearing him, my mother looked over her shoulder. She looked worried, but when she saw me chatting with Desmond and Celia, her expression eased.
“We’re acquainted,” I assured him. I watched his face and Celia’s, searching for the familiar signs that something was wrong. The twitch of the lip, the flare of the eyes, the faint expression of disgust that came over people’s faces. Or, worse, the vacant smile, the puppy-like adulation that swept people up when they first met me. At least when people hated me from the start, I knew what to expect. It was the ones who loved me I couldn’t bear.
It was always one or the other. As if they could sense something was wrong with me. It repulsed some people. Others were drawn in—temporarily. Until they got some distance and seemed to wake up.
I couldn’t see any of that now. Desmond had a sharp, perceptive look, but he didn’t seem put off. Celia’s eagerness to please didn’t have the vague, placid feel I was used to. Caleb hadn’t looked at me like that either—and certainly Iris hadn’t. The realization filled me with a strange kind of excitement—almost hunger.
Was it possible things could be different here?
I realized I’d gone silent for a beat longer than was normal. Icleared my throat. “So, uh, you go to the same school?” I asked, indicating the crests on their jackets.
“Atwood School, yeah. It’s a boarding school. Our family has pretty much always gone there,” Celia said. “Or I mean...” She seemed to realize she’d just excluded me from the definition of “our family” and stammered. “What school do you go to?” she asked quickly, recovering.
“I’m homeschooled,” I said, trying to sound casual about it.
Celia flushed. “Oh, right.”
“Had some trouble at school, didn’t you?” Roman asked in a low rumble. I jumped—I hadn’t realized he was listening or that he had moved to stand only a few feet away.
My shoulders stiffened. I hadn’t been sure what the family knew. Clearly, they knew enough. What had happened.
What I’d done.
“We don’t have to talk about that,” Desmond said, not even glancing toward his stepfather.
“I don’t do well in a traditional school setting. I’m not good with rules,” I said, fixing Roman with a flat look. My direct gaze always made people uncomfortable, and sure enough, Roman looked away.
“You won’t like Harrow, then,” Desmond said lightly. “It’s nothing but rules.”
“Have you picked a room yet?” Celia asked, the shift in subject graceless but welcome. “Ooh, you should take the Willows. It would suit your complexion.”
I didn’t know how to respond to the idea that you should picka room like you’d pick a foundation shade. “We’re staying at the Starlight,” I said.
“That grungy motel in town?” Celia asked, faintly horrified. “But you can’t. Everyone has to stay at Harrow.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Desmond said, but he sounded nervous. “Did you tell Caleb?”
“Yeah, we did. Why would it be a problem?” I asked.
“It’s nothing. Just kind of a superstition,” Desmond said, waving a hand dismissively. But his eyes were still troubled. “What did Great-Grandpa Lawrence used to say?Harrow is a jealous mistress. We were always warned to return to Harrow every night while we were here or...”
“Or what?” I asked.
Desmond shrugged. “Who knows? Probably an old-timey thing from when this place got built. The locals didn’t exactly love us. They even accused Nicholas Vaughan of being a vampire and tried to dig up his grave. Gnarly stuff.”
“If Uncle Caleb says it’s okay, it’s okay,” Celia said, as if to herself. Her fingers twisted together, pressed against the folds of her skirt.
