Their voices and footsteps trail away, much to my relief. I resist the urge to glance at the book again, struck by the superstitious fear I’ll fall into whatever weird hold it had on me before. I need to return to the group before I’m missed.
I step out, and move the door until it’s just the way I found it. This took longer than I expected; they’re probably wondering where I am. I turn and walk down the hallway as quickly as I can without looking like I’m in a rush, already thinking of a dozen excuses if anyone asks.
Yet when I pass by another cracked door, I can’t resist the urge to peek. Anna stands in front of a mirror, squeezing herselfinto a skintight gown that makes my eyes widen. I would kill to wear a dress like that. Or have a bodylike that. I’m practically salivating watching the silk slide over her hips, the dip of her tiny waist, the swell of her bust. Even the curve of her neck looks sensual, decorated with a string of pearls…
My gaze slides up further, and I jolt as I realize she’s meeting my eyes in the mirror. Watching me watch her.
“If you’re going to stand there, you might as well zip me up,” she says.
She speaks to me like I’m a maid, rather than a future sister-in-law. But I just got caught staring like a creep, so I step through the doorway to obey anyway.
I try to think of an excuse as I approach her, but the canny gleam in her eye tells me that none of them would work. She sees me. More of me than I care to reveal, I suspect. Of course someone like her, so glamorous and self-assured, would see through my flimsy facade.
Standing behind her, I brush her hair to the side so it won’t get caught in the zipper. I suck in a sharp breath as it reveals the skin of her back. I expected smooth porcelain perfection like the rest of her. Instead, her back is covered in raised white scars, crisscrossing all up and down her spine. What could make a mark like that? And somanyof them? It almost looks like she was… whipped?
She snaps her fingers, and I flinch. Caught staring again.
I swallow and slowly drag the zipper up the curve of her spine. Elegant silk swallows up the sight of those angry marks like they never existed at all. Pain hidden beneath finery.
Anna picks up a comb and begins brushing out her long hair, completely ignoring my existence without so much as athank you.
“Any advice for tonight?” I ask.
She meets my gaze in the mirror again rather than turning around.
“Run while you can,” she says with a thin smile.
Yet her eyes hold no humor at all.
Chapter
Three
The food looks delicious, but I can hardly taste it. There’s too much restless energy buzzing through my veins. I feel like I’m on a stage, spotlight shining in my eyes, hoping that I’ll remember my lines.
It’s nerve-wracking… and exhilarating. I’ve always been the type to stand too close to the edge when I’m high up, relishing that low swoop in my stomach when I look down. Sometimes I think part of me wants to fall. I imagine it would feel, at least for a moment, like I’m flying. Free.
I allow myself tiny sips of wine. Alcohol takes the edge off, and makes sure nobody gets any ideas about this being a shotgun wedding. Small bites of food, too, to make sure I don’t seem like a glutton. I want to appear like I’m used to meals of this quality, like I don’t regularly shove cup noodles into my mouth while watching reality TV.
The food is surprisingly hearty fare. Braised red cabbage, rich dumplings, an entire roasted goose as a centerpiece.
“We always eat traditional German food over the holidays,” Louis’s father says, cutting into a goose leg. The meat is shockingly red and dripping fat. He shoves a piece into his mouth and chews heartily. “Our roots are important.”
“It’s delicious,” I say, though I’ve barely touched my plate. But it feels like everyone is looking at me now, so I cut myself a thin slice and chew with some appreciative noises.
“So glad you’re enjoying it,” Louis’s mother says, though there’s a hint of judgment in her eyes. I realize she’s barely eating, and Anna is pushing hers around her plate in between generous gulps of wine.
I dab at the grease on my lips with my napkin. “Did you cook it yourself?” I ask. I haven’t seen anyone here but the family.
Louis’s brother lets out a guffaw. “As if she’s ever touched a stove in her life.”
His mother looks at him with pursed lips, then back at me. “Our staff were kind enough to prepare it in advance. They were up here cooking half the night, though of course we let them go home to their families afterward.”
“How considerate,” I say, since she seems to expect it. As if asking her staff to come up a freezing mountain, slave away in the kitchen, and drive away without enjoying any isgenerous.
His mother waves it off with a pleased little smile. She seems to take all of my praise personally, as if she has any claim to money from her husband’s wallet and work done by people whose names I doubt she ever asked for.
“So what is it you do, Diana?” Louis’s mother asks. “You’re an art collector, is that right?”
