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This is an Order event—technically—so I’m fairly sure the Capulets can’t keep us out, but I still don’t feel like dealing with the bullshit that will come from being here. Maybe last year, but not now.
The party is well underway, so we let ourselves inside without bothering to knock. The entry hall is massive and opens into the great room. I frown. Nothing about the house reminds me of Etta. The wallpaper is gaudy, and the carpet is deep crimson. The furniture is large and overstuffed, and every light is a dark, black metal. It’s all heavy, and overbearing, and nothing like Etta at all.
“Should we split up?” Bennet asks.
“What?”
I turn back to my cousin, and he’s watching me, exasperation all over his face. “To get this over with quickly? Should we split up to find Tyberius or stay together?”
“Oh.” I glance around, “Um—”
This is one of the reasons that Pierce is here. Aside from being a friend, he’s also a member of another family, which provides a social buffer of sorts. Splitting up would negate that advantage.
Some people have spotted us now, and even among the few faces close enough to scrutinize, there are a wide variety of reactions.
Older couples seem anxious or disapproving, while a few guys I used to hang out with are waving and their dates are staring, wide-eyed. I suppose I really haven’t gone out much lately. Unless you count that auction, but that was far from a party.
“Roman!”
I look up and am incredibly relieved when I recognize the blur in the purple dress hurtling toward me. Of all the people who could be yelling at me right now—or rather yelling for me, I suppose—Violet is one of the least offensive.
“Hey,” I say when Violet Cesario reaches me.
“Hey!” She smiles widely. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Me neither,” I say honestly.
I glance back at Bennet and mutter. “Split up.”
He nods, and disappears into the crowd with Pierce, as I refocus on Violet.
I haven’t seen her in months. Not since…well, everything. She’s Marcia’s friend, not mine, and it’s not like I’ve been great about staying up to date with my own friends let alone acquaintances. She can also play buffer though, if she wants.
“How are you?” I ask, not fully listening as she answers.
Instead, I glance behind her to where the great room is packed to the brim with people. It’s November, but still all eight of the double glass doors are wide open onto a large patio where huge, floating blue and purple flames, placed strategically around the space, undoubtedly keeping it warm enough for guests. There’s some sort of bespoke bar and a hibachi grill, and a cheer goes up as the chef tosses his knives into the air. Over the noise, the jaunty, festive sounds of a band—half modern, half old-world—waft in from out of sight.
I tune back into Violet for a moment. She’s saying something about a theater class. Or maybe attending a show? I don’t know, I’m not paying attention because I don’t care, and I feel guilty that I don’t care, but I can’t make myself change it now.
And just as I’m berating myself for not giving a shit about anything around me, I spot something that does hold my interest.
It’s actually her hair that catches my attention, which both is and isn’t strange. I can’t say I’ve ever been overly observant of hair, or clothing, or anything else aesthetic about women beyond “good” or “bad.” Etta’s hair was always firmly in the “good” category before. Tonight, I notice it because the blonde is catching the light from the fire and it looks like a halo from this distance, a renaissance idol in the flesh.
She’s laughing, talking to someone just out of my sightline. I drag my gaze over her face, down her neck, and over the absurd princess dress she’s wearing. The princess dress that looks nothing like anything she would have ever chosen for herself. It’s half bride, half Disney character, and the polar opposite of the high-necked, black dress she wore to prom, or the painfully sexy lace thing from last night.
Okay, maybe I do notice things, but only about her. Only ever for her.
“Roman?” Violet asks.
“Sorry? What?”
She turns to follow where I’m looking. “I should have known. What, are you planning to spill a drink on her or something?”
I scowl, because as absurd as that sounds, it also sounds like something I would have done more recently than I’d like to admit. I run a hand over the back of my neck, now trying to recall the last time I did something like that to Etta. Fuck, two, three years ago? Shamefully recently.
“No,” I say curtly. “I’m not going to start anything with her or any of them.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She grins like a cat. “I heard about that. You guys have to play nice?”
