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69
Oliver and Finn snuggle against a pile of pillows arranged by the fire.
Song sits perched on one of the silk cushioned chairs.
Jago sprawls across the velvet settee, as Elodie commands the other half, their legs entwined in a way that makes me wonder if she’s decided toget around to himlike she jokingly promised in the lighthouse.
While I occupy an overstuffed purple velvet chair that pairs so perfectly with the green of my robe I feel like a queen, until I catch another look at Elodie’s scarlet caftan and the ruby tiara she’s perched on her head, and I’m instantly reminded that title is claimed.
I look around the room, my eyes roaming from the fine furnishings, the masterpieces hanging on the walls, to my new group of friends. Everyone looks so glamorous, it’s like being in one of those aspirational spreads you find in the September issue of a fashion magazine. Then again, I’d expect nothing less from Elodie’s Full Moon/Half Slumber party.
Apparently, the party takes place before every Yellow’s first Trip, and it’s meant to build team spirit, camaraderie, and calm any fears the new person may have. From what I’ve seen so far, it basically amounts to a night when everyone piles into Elodie’s room dressed in their finest sleepwear, to swill champagne, gorge on tiny little sweet cakes (more properly known aspetit fours), and recall their fondest memories from their own first Trip, or any Trip, if the first isn’t worth sharing. And, since the first few times it fell on a full moon, the name stuck.
While it’s fun to hear about the time Finn posed nude for Michelangelo—he kept the sketch, it’s framed on the wall of his room, and he promises to show it to me someday soon; and when Song had tea with Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace; and Oliver’s tale of clay pigeon shooting with members of the British monarchy; and Jago’s most recent story of a dinner spent in the company of King Ferdinand VII of Spain—everyone unanimously agrees, Elodie has the best story.
“I Tripped back to the sixteenth century,” she says, pausing to sip her champagne. “I visited the royal court of King Henry the Eighth.”
I set my empty glass on the gilded side table and draw my knees to my chest.
“I forget what he was celebrating, but the drinks were flowing freely, and Henry was quite taken with me.”
Finn cups his hands around his mouth and imitates a soundtrack from a vintage porn movie. “Bow chicka bow wow,” he sings. And I can’t help but wonder if he does that every time he’s forced to hear this story, or if it was a bit of spontaneous improv. Either way, it works. Everyone laughs, including Elodie.
“Hell yeah!” She grins and raises her glass to him. “Anyway, where was I?” She presses a finger to her cheek and feigns a coy look. “Oh yes, so, Henry was in serious pursuit. And believe me, this is a man who does not like to hear the wordno.”
They all laugh. But I’m stuck on her use of the present tense. It reminds me of how Braxton spoke about Leonardo da Vinci, as though he’s still out there, among the living. And to hear them tell it, and from everything I’ve learned, he actually is. And yet, I’m still having a hard time fully embracing the idea that for those with the proper knowledge, resources, and tools, the past is as easy to access as the present.
“As Henry and I danced,” Elodie continues, “he was starting to get really grabby. Still, I managed to elude him just enough to keep him at bay but still interested. That’s the trick with Henry—he wants what he wants, but he lives for the chase.”
“C’mon,” Jago says, sliding his foot up her leg. “Get to the good stuff, already.”
She laughs and playfully pushes him away. Directing her focus to me, she says, “Henry literally chased me around the Palace. It was hilarious, and actually pretty thrilling if I’m going to be honest.”
“Ew.” Song cringes, settling deeper into her chair. “This is my least favorite of all your stories. Henry’s such a disgusting misogynist, never mind all the wives he beheaded. It’s just so gross. I still don’t know how you went through with it.”
Annoyed, Elodie rolls her eyes, then turns toward the rest of us, about to continue her story when Oliver cuts in. Poking Finn on the shoulder, Oliver says, “Wouldyoubed Henry, if given the chance?”
Oliver shoots him an exaggerated lascivious look, and sings the porn song to him, which makes everyone laugh.
“Seriously,” Oliver says, speaking over the laughter.
Everyone turns their attention to Finn, which doesn’t sit well with Elodie. Her story’s been hijacked, and she’s not one to tolerate that. Or at least not for long.
“Depends,” Finn says. “Are we talking about the young Henry, or the decrepit, totally paranoid, murderous Henry with the foul-smelling ulcerated leg—”
“Oh, for fu—it was early in his reign as king,” Elodie says, reclaiming the spotlight. “He was young, handsome, tremendously fit, and it was well before Anne Boleyn lost her head. But more importantly, there’s something about being in the presence of that kind of power. He commanded the entire kingdom, and it was amazing to see the lengths the members of his court would go to—all of them competing for his favor.”
She could just as easily be describing Arthur, but I keep that bit to myself.
“So?” Jago says. “Did you, or didn’t you?”
“You haven’t heard this story?” I ask, knowing that by delaying Elodie’s big reveal even more, I risk bearing the brunt of her wrath.
Jago shakes his head. Elodie clears her throat and climbs atop the velvet settee so that she towers well above us, claiming our attention. “I, Elodie Blue—” She juts her hip to the side and raises her glass. “Do hereby solemnly declare, that I let King Henry the Eighth chase me all the way into his private chambers, where we enjoyed a delightful royal romp. Or three, if I remember correctly. And, if you must know, I showed him who truly wears the crown, thank you very much.”
Elodie bows with an exaggerated flourish, as Song makes a gagging face, and Jago leans forward with a newly interested gaze. “So, how was it?” he asks.
Before Elodie can reply, Finn says, “She begged.Please, sir, I want some more!” And everyone falls into hysterics, laughing at a joke I don’t understand.
