Rigid against the cold, I slip off the bed and stand in the early morning shadows of the dorm.
The drape falls shut behind me.
I throw a dazed look around.
My brow furrows, my head sways, but even still, I can make out the other curtained beds around the room.
A mirror of my dorm.
Eric’s bed is where Courtney’s is in my own dorm room, and so I’m on the wrong side for the nightstand.
The draught from the window brushes over my legs, bare from the thighs down, and my skin pebbles.
I look down my body—
And it’s only now I remember that Eric gave me his clothes to wear.
A soft, grey t-shirt that’s too pricey for his wallet, too costly to be ruined by sleeping in it, and a pair of plain black boxers.
He must have changed me into them.
I don’t remember doing it myself, and as I strain to think on it, a sudden burst of nausea erupts in me.
I bring the back of my hand to my head, as though the pressure will ease the thumping. It doesn’t, and those warped thuds follow my heavy steps around the foot of the bed.
The fireplace has dwindled, too low, but the imps should be coming to fix it soon. I know because, as I turn around the foot of the bed, I find the nightstand—and the clock on it reveals the viciously early hour.
Ten minutes past six.
Too early for a Saturday.
Between me and the clock is a pile of my things. The dress I borrowed from Serena, the fluff-strappy shoes, and the scraps of my underwear.
I scoop up the pile in one arm, pinning the bundle to my chest, as I drag myself to the nightstand.
I reach for the handle of the drawer—but as I tug it open, my heart bolts.
The bottle of cologne is in the drawer.
But I brush it aside to reveal the photographs stacked together and bound with a ribbon.
That stupid, dense frown furrows my face again, too thick, too sleepy—and I stare down at the faces in the photograph.
What the fuck is Eric Harling doing with pictures of Amelia, Dray and Harold Sinclair?
My brain is slow, just like the reach of my hand as I scrape out the pile of photographs and lift them to the faint, fractured firelight.
I stare at the photo for a long moment.
Amelia, Harold and Dray, all in their matching sweaters, Amelia’s tradition, and since I don’t recognise the sweater design, I know this must have been taken just this New Year.
I flick to the next picture.
My family.
The Cravens.
Oliver’s face is sour as he pours amber liquid into a tumbler on the terrace at Thornbury Park, and Mother wears a tight smile that doesn’t reach the hardness of her inky eyes. Father doesn’t even smile at all, doesn’t try.
