“Daniel. You know. Our mechanic,” she said as if she hadn’t been talking to him basically nonstop since Tuesday about everything from the geopolitical implications of a currency market collapse to whether or notRocky IVwas better than the original.
“Big smile you’ve got there.”
“I didn’t even notice.” Sam took another sip, hoping in vain that it would sink into her blood and settle the sudden rushing in her veins. “Good wine, I guess.”
Thomas wasn’t stupid enough to buy such a weak excuse. He suddenly looked very grave indeed.
“This isn’t real, Sam. Don’t forget.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she snapped.
No one knew better than she did. This was fake. She’d had to remind herself every time she crafted a text message or imagined herself waltzing across the Ashbrooke ballroom in his strong arms.
“If you haven’t forgotten, no one’s told your smile.”
With this rebuke wedged in between her brain and her skull, Sam prepared herself for the ball. Keeping with her desire to blend in with the regents, she’d begged Thomas to let her borrow the family accounts card to order adivineblack-and-white Chanel suit but had been firmly vetoed not only by him but by her father, who butted in during his usually silent dinners to give her a piece of his mind about the subject. Wearing slacks and blazers was fine when she was trying to be one of the Animos boys, they argued, but when she was representing the family in public, she needed to be in traditional dress. Sam grumbled about the gender normative nature of it all. Had Thomas been the only one to tell her this, Sam would have snuck into her father’s office and taken the card to order the suit anyway, but nothing got her to agree to anything quicker than when Lord Dubarry gave his opinion on something. If her father wanted her in a dress, she’d wear the dressiest dress she could find.
And she did. After a long, hot bath—where she blared the livestream of NPR to keep herself from thinking too much—she slithered into a midnight-blue concoction of satin-chiffon. Finding a ball gown for a woman her size on such short notice wasn’t easy, especially in a country like England, where the waifs were especially waifish, but Mrs. Long outdid herself not only in finding the thing but in tailoring it so beautifully.
Sam was wearing midnight. She looked like she’d pulled the night sky down around her and snuggled into it, finding comfort in the heat of the stars and cool of the inky blues in between. Mrs. Long offered to assist Sam with her hair and makeup, but after lunch, she’d begged off of the help. Sam needed time alone.
Those ghosts who were laughing at her dopey text-message faces were surely doubled over now, as she followed along with a YouTube contouring tutorial and muttered to herself.
“Listen up now, Dubarry. You’re gonna go down there like a machine. No feeling. Get the job done. Wait, do I use this brush or the other one to highlight? Screw it, I’ll use my fingers. It doesn’t matter how good he looks in a suit. It doesn’t matter if he’s the best dancer in the world. It doesn’t matter if the Queen herself shows up and commands that you swoon over this guy. You’re. Not. Gonna. You know why? Because you’re stronger than that.You’regonna sweep him offhisfeet, and then you’re gonna take him to the Animos thing and you’re gonna be a winner and wear their stupid uniform until youdieif you have to. Dad’s gonna be proud because you wouldn’t be doing this if you could think of anything else. This is what matters. Don’t let tonight get in the way of—”
Movement behind her pulled her gaze from her own face to the reflection of her bedroom in her mirror. Thomas sat on her bed, the picture of comfort.
“How long have you been listening?” she asked, lipstick hovering over her mouth.
“Long enough, Sam.”
Chiming of the grandfather clock down the hall saved her from any further embarrassment. Thomas checked his own watch, his face deepening into a frown and his wrist shaking in displeasure.
“Is that the time? Damn watch isn’t working again.” He rose and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
Sam rushed through her lipstick application and stole a glance in the mirror. Those YouTube women knew what they were doing when it came to tutorials. She didn’t look half bad.
She might have even looked beautiful.
Sliding her arm through her brother’s, she added one last layer of makeup to her face, though this was an invisible one. It required no brushes or paint, no primer or base. It was the mask she’d been constructing ever since she moved here, the mask protecting her against Daniel. And maybe even herself.
“Here goes nothing.”
Chapter Ten
There was something his grandmother always used to say.Don’t aim too high, boy-o.People get themselves into real trouble these days by trying to rise above. Thinking they can get the moon by wishing hard enough. Focus your eyes down here. Where the attainable things are. Then, when you look back on your life, you’ll be happy and accomplished, not bitter and empty.
His father’s mother, Gran, not Nan, was ever the optimist. Daniel had always written off those pearls of wisdom as the best attempt at encouragement an English woman could offer. She had an old-school, Imperialist, Dickensian way of thinking, one not even a cell of Daniel’s body could accept. He rejected it like a virus, expelling it as soon as it got near him. He was one of those rare creatures who fell asleep every night easy, knowing in his heart of hearts even better things would befall him tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after.
Standing in the Grand Ballroom (because apparently Ashbrooke Manor was distinct in the county for having a Grand Ballroom and a Not-So-Grand Ballroom, otherwise known as the Petit Ballroom) on Friday night, Daniel wondered what Gran would do if she could see him now. He started the week as the family’s hired help, nothing more than grease monkey with the fancy title ofCurator of Antique Vehiclesand was ending it in their ballroom as their personal guest, just like he’d started the week as a starving artist and was only a few days away from possibly signing with a real record label.
Take that, Gran.
“Champagne, sir?” A uniformed waiter with bright orange curls offered him crystal glasses on a silver tray. Not any uniformed waiter, it was—
“Ifan, how are you?” Daniel couldn’t help but breathe a slight sigh of relief. The ballroom was glittering, opulent, and filled with strangers who seemed to smell the poor on him. He was overjoyed at the friendly face. He and Ifan ran in most of the same music circles, playing open mics and sharing pints for years now.
“I’m serving the champagne tonight, sir.”
