I try to explain it in human terms she’d be familiar with. “It’s like a cross between football, dodgeball, and archery. Instead of a football, the marksman, who is like the quarterback, throws a bright red mark at a player on the opposing team.”
“What kind of mark?”
“Like a bright red burr that sticks to their clothing. The marked player then runs for the end zone while the right and left wingmen on the offensive team try to shoot him down with bows and arrows. If he’s hit, he leaves the game. The winning team is the one with the most points when the last remaining player of one team or the other is removed from play.”
Arden gapes at Edmund in disbelief. “Like real bows and arrows?”
He grins. “The heads are flat. When you’re hit, you might suffer a bruise but more likely a bruised ego.”
My father laughs. “We’ll have to go this fall,” he says to Arden, then seems to catch himself and looks toward me with a grimace. He doesn’t know she’s staying.
“I think that’s an excellent idea, Dad.” I say softly.
Mom chooses that moment to come in with a giant tray of roast Cornish hens, miniature red potatoes, and honey-glazed carrots. I pop out of my chair to help her serve.
Mom takes a seat next to my father, and I watch her practically hold her breath as Edmund takes his first bite.
“Exquisite, Mrs. Larkspur.”
“Oh, thank you, Edmund,” she says.
I muffle a frown. What kind of brownnosing teenager uses the wordexquisite? He’s too smooth. Edmund doesn’t act like a kid trying to impress his girlfriend’s parents. He acts like a boy who is well practiced in the art of making others see in him exactly what he wants them to see.
Beside him, Arden eats her dinner with her left hand while she continues to grip his fingers with her right.Fuck.She’s never had a crush like this before. I fork a bit of hen into my mouth—Mmm. Delicious.—while my mother asks Edmund about his postgraduation plans.
“Business,” he says without missing a beat. “I plan to work for the family business—follow in my mother’s footsteps as they say.”
“I haven’t met many young people who know what they want to do at your age,” I say to him.
He frowns. “There aren’t many Fausts, I suppose. I think it’s different being a leprechaun. There are expectations.”
I don’t hear the snobbery in his tone as much as I feel it. Gods, I wish Seven were here. I bet he’d know a lot about the Fausts.
It’s just after seven thirty when Arden and Edmund stand up from empty plates.
“Thanks, Grandma,” Arden says. “We have to go.”
Edmund offers a practiced but charming smile. “We have tickets for Wonderland Theater.”
“Oh? What are they putting on?” Mom asks.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“You’ve never seen that one until you see it put on with actual pixies and a satyr as Puck,” I say, excited for Arden to have this experience despite my reservations about Edmund.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Arden moves to collect her and Edmund’s dirty plates, but I wave her off.
“Never mind that. I’ll clear.”
I walk them to the door and watch Arden stride toward the center of town on Edmund’s arm. I close the door behind them with a sigh.
When I turn back around, Grandma is right behind me, so close her nose is almost touching mine. “Fucking gods!” I jump, my fist going to my chest.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but there’s something you need to know.”
“What?” I’d noticed how quiet she’d gotten at dinner. She knows something.
She looks over her shoulder, but the hallway is clear. My parents are still in the dining room. “That boy is Alicia Faust’s son.” She widens her eyes as if that should alarm me.
