“With flesh and bone and spirit,” Jasper continued, “we serve the Society of Turnbulls.”
“We serve the Society of Turnbulls.”
Jasper raised his skull cup. “The president says you may rise. The ceremony begins at midnight.”
He tossed back the brandy and grinned, wet-lipped. “Open house rules till then.”
The gong crashed a final time.
On her plate, the otter skull looked up at her in mute appeal. But Emma threw a napkin over it. She was at a party. It was time to enjoy herself.
CHAPTER 13
Soon no one was in their proper seat. Cheeks flushed and laughter reached a wild pitch. They passed a mint around the table, mouth to mouth. Two of the girls lost a forfeit and had to swap underwear. Emma was pitted against Julia to race down the table. Their high heels dodged the crystal and silver, evading the grasp of the Turnbulls who tried to catch their ankles as they ran.
But she’d made a mistake, somehow. The world warped as she ran. Faces shouted up at her, red and leering, like a nightmarish carnival. That punch. Had it been stronger than it tasted? Ahead, Julia wobbled, about to tread on the head of one of the Turnbulls. He had passed out in grand style, forehead down on the table. Emma knew with awful certainty that if she stopped running, she would fall. So she leapt past Julia and on to victory, dropping into Richard’s arms at the end of the table.
The room roared with applause. Emma stood, turned, raised her arms in triumph. She was a marvel. How had she never realized that? She was going to curtsy. But the floor got away from her. It shifted under her feet and she staggered, arms windmilling.Something solid hit her back. A table. It was tilting, a heavy object sliding past her—
The Turnbulls’ bowl fell through the air, smooth and whole. Then it hit the floor. A crash in her ears, a grenade explosion of shards. Chips of stone skittered across polished wood.
Then silence. She knelt. The pieces, could they go back together? They were sharp. Dots of pain on her fingers.
She looked up. They were staring at her, the people. Deadly still. What was in their faces? She lifted her hands to block out the room, but they had blood on them. A long, angry slice on her palm, dripping red.
“My God.”
The voice was a snarl. Emma flinched from the frightening man stalking toward her. But then he was close, and how silly she was, because it was only Jasper. She swayed to her feet, reaching for him.
Richard was herding people from the room. “No problem here, just go on out to the drawing room.” He closed the door on the last of them.
Jasper pushed Emma away, his face hard. “No—stop, get off me. How could you? God, Emma, this was important and you—”
He was shouting. The room was spinning. Why was she so dizzy? The drink. What had been in the drink?
Richard stepped between them. “Jasper! Stop.”
“What am I going to do? Rich, couldn’t we use another bowl? I mean, does it matter for the ritual if—”
Richard was silent.
“It does, doesn’t it? It has to be this one. Oh, God. My father’s going to—”
“Calm down. Jasper, we don’t have to do the ceremony tonight. We get the bowl fixed and do it next time. God’s sake, man, what do you think they did in World War I? Or the Civil War, for that matter? Do you think they worried about getting together on the right date with a war on? That bit’s not the tradition. You won’t be letting anyone down.”
Jasper was hugging Richard. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to get it right—”
But it wasn’t right. Something was wrong. She was. She was wrong all over. Her stomach pushed itself up through her throat. Sick spattered her shoes.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Patch her up, Jasper. Some plasters or something, for the hands. I’ll sort it all for next time.”
Emma stood, shivering with shame. The retches kept coming.
“Come on, mate. I’ll clean up over here. Don’t be too hard on her.”
Someone was helping her over to a chair. It was Jasper, wonderful Jasper, come to rescue her. His warm hands on her back.
