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She seems to believe what she’s saying. It really isn’t my responsibility to fix Alexander’s mess, so I don’t question her. Alize thinks Alexander ratted her out, and perhaps the evidence points to it. There’s little I can say right now that would convince her otherwise.
“À qui tu parlais?”
Recognition flashes in her eyes, and the anxiety is back, two-fold. I didn’t hear much of her conversation, but clearly it was something sensitive if she’s so scared at the possibility that I did.
“Ça ne te regarde pas,” she snaps back, but her lip trembles.
A sharp chuckle falls from my lips. “Pourquoi as-tu si peur, alors?”
“Je ne m'attendais pas à ce que tu parles français.”
“Si tu me dis a qui tu parlais, t'a une meilleure chance que je ne raconte rien a Alexander. Sinon, je vais devoir lui dire que je t'ai surprise en pleins milieux d'une conversation plutôt passionnée avec un homme au téléphone.” I’m lying, but she wouldn’t know—she already thinks I’m Alexander’s lackey. “Qu'est ce que tu penses qu'il fera quand je lui raconterai ça?”
This is purely for my own self-interest, though.
She considers my words. By this, Kingmaker House is in view. Darkness has settled around it, and against the backdrop of dark foliage the building is lit up like a homing beacon, beckoning us towards its sinister depths. It’s a gorgeous building, even more so at night, as the darkness lends it a bit of spookiness.
I wish I was spending my night quietly in the bowels of the House like I usually do.
“My father,” she says, gauging my reaction. “I was talking to my father for the first time in a…while.” She looks up at me coyly, but there’s a hardness to her expression.
She’s bracing herself for something.
“Oh,” I shrug. “How did it go?”
“Comme d’habitude. Plus de questions que de réponses.”
I laugh.ThatI can sympathize with. “Mon père aussi est un salaud.”
Clenching my jaw, I trash the memories before they can bubble to the surface—the ones of my own confusing, overbearing father. Over the years I’ve gotten better at blocking him out, of talking about him without actually remembering him. Nowadays, it’s almost a painless process.
Almost.
A sliver of phantom pain snakes around my wrist. I put my hand into my pocket, resisting the urge to trace the outline of the scar there.
“How is your French so good?” Alize asks.
I smirk. “Why can’t I have good French?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.” Then she adds, “You could pass for a local.”
“One of my nannies was French. I know Mandarin and Spanish too.”
Alize chuckles. “I’m French. Well, my father’s French, I guess. I don’t know if I can call myself French really, since even though I was born there I didn’t live there for very long.”
Is she oversharing or just trying to lower my defenses by acting like she’s opening up to me? I’m not entirely sure. From what Alexander has told us about Alize, she’s supposed to be shy and naive—the byproduct of a sheltered upbringing.
It’s clear that life has changed her, though.
A sheltered, naive girl could have never conquered Alexander. He’s a shell of himself and she seems mostly the same, excusing the new, strange hairstyle.
“After a certain point, it’s hard to describe your identity,” I say. “My father is from Botswana and my mother is from Egypt. I was born on a yachting trip in the Seychelles, and I’ve lived in South Africa for my entire life.” The disbelief on her face is amusing. “Imagine having to tell someone that every time the topic of identity comes up?”
“I’ve lost track of the amount of places I’ve lived in,” Alize says.
“You’re not defined by that. It doesn’t matter where you’re from, where you’re born, where you’ve lived. I hardly think that means anything. The kind of person you are matters a lot more.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and that’s when I know I’ve said too much. Everyone has a threshold—the point up to which they are willing to accept new ideas. Once you’ve hit it, everything else will seem weird to them. I must’ve hit Alize’s after my strange origin story.
