And there was Jasper at the head of the stairs, a lion prince. Each couple came forward to be greeted. When it was Emma’s turn, Jasper swung her by the waist and kissed her.
“Jasper.” Emma had to laugh, breathless. “Stop, you’re crushing me.”
“No.” His eyes were too bright. He vibrated with nervous energy, his grip hot through the thin silk of her dress. “Shan’t.”
“Jasper, they’re waiting. Behind me.”
“Oh, all right.” He released her as abruptly as he had grabbed her. Unsettled, Emma turned and trailed Julia and Hugo through an open door. Within, a dining room glowed by the light of candelabras. It was set for twenty, with the finest crystal and linen seen outside a palace. Silver domes covered each plate.
Nine Turnbulls, dressed in tailcoats and bow ties, lined the table. Jasper made a tenth at the head. Emma went to slip into the chair on his right, but he stopped her. “Oh, damn. I should have said. You’re not here.”
Lady Alice Blount,read the place card. “But all the other girls are sat next to their dates—”
“I’m sorry,” said a musical voice. “Have I made things difficult?”
A second Grace Kelly stood beside her, gleaming in a satin sheath. Her hair a fall of blond silk over one shoulder; her figure all willowy elegance; her smile clear and sweet, like a painted Madonna. Emma had seen that face, and that name, in the magazines in Julia’s room. Lady Alice Blount hailed from a family of acclaimed beauties. One of her sisters had even married a duke. That was, apparently, still a career path in this particular crowd.
Jasper pulled Emma aside. “My father asked me to look after her tonight. Family friend. She transferred from the Courtauld this term, so she doesn’t know anyone. You’re farther down the table, but it’s only for dinner. Don’t be angry.”
She gathered what dignity she could to smile at Lady Alice and walked stiffly down the table to find her seat. It was a long table. She passed Elizabeth Lim and Antonia Viacelli, leaning over their dates to gossip. And Venetia Kent, holding a fascinated Eddie Spencer in her gaze like a blond, bored cobra. Even little Tabitha Mountbatten was seated before Emma. She was almost at the end before she spotted her place card.
Emma had never spoken to Francis Carr. He was a third-year from Granville College and the proud possessor of an overbite, a limited vocabulary, and enough acres of farmland to rival the Prince of Wales’ estate. Now he pulled out her chair. “Care for some punch?”
“Gladly.” Emma flopped into her seat. At the head of the table, Jasper was smiling at something Lady Alice had said. Emma took the glass from Francis and drained half of it. The punch tasted like cough syrup. She knocked back the rest.
Julia settled into the seat opposite Emma. Hugo followed, as glum as Emma had ever seen him.
Julia’s cheeks were pink. “I was just saying hello to Richard. He explained the history of the clubhouse. Then he was telling me about the heraldic designs on the walls…”
“Richard does like to explain things,” Hugo muttered into his wineglass.
“I didn’t know you and Hugo were together, Jules,” said Francis.
“Oh, we’re not,” Julia laughed. “Just here as friends.”
Hugo wilted. Emma knew just how he felt.
“I think it’s starting. Get ready,” Francis whispered.
A row of silent servers had lined up, one behind every chair. A gong crashed, so loud Emma flinched, and the servers leaned as one to whip the silver dome from each plate.
It was bleeding. That was all Emma could think at first, seeing the mass on the stark white plate. Cubes of raw meat had been carefully molded into the shape of a heart. Anatomically accurate, some part of her mind noted, while she tried not to be sick. Someone had even taken the trouble to shape arteries from strips of dried meat.
At the head of the table, Jasper stood.
“With our flesh, we sustain the Society.”
“We sustain the Society,” the Turnbulls echoed. A cacophony of knives and forks scraped. Teeth ripped into ragged strips of flesh. Down the endless table, silver candelabras threw back distorted reflections of jaws working, throats swallowing. There were spatters of red on the damask tablecloth. Emma’s skin crawled.
“Why’re you not eating?” Francis scarfed down a mouthful. “Venison tartare. S’gorgeous.”
“I’m vegetarian,” Emma managed to force out, between lips shut as tightly as possible to hold in the nausea.
Julia looked up, appalled. “They’ve given you the same as us? Didn’t you tell Jasper?”
“He must have forgotten.”
“Bad luck for you,” said Francis. “It’s a running joke for the annual dinner that the president designs the menu with every kind of meat he can think of.”
