I face my brother, who realises the mistakes I’ve made—the confusion in the gifts, pricey and not meant for Eric fucking Harling of all people.
And I will soon face my father…
Who will have all sorts of consequences for me.
This reaches beyond a few nights at Grandmother Ethel’s or a week of confinement to my bedroom.
I did it to myself.
But what else could I have done?
I did the worst because it’s all I had left.
But now that Father will probably be on his way, called by Oliver or a master, my resolve is wavering.
Serena exhales a whooshing breath. “You haven’t read this, have you? Want to hear Courtney’s concluding paragraph?”
I get the feeling she’s going to read it to me either way.
I’m right.
“In a society ruled by men, women and currency are interchangeable. Even the quiet deadblood who sits alone at lunch is a commodity to be exchanged from hand to hand. But then the great sin occurs—a man is told no. The girl tells him she does not love him. The girl begs to be left alone. So he will take her, as men do. This world is not for aristos, made ones, elites or halfbreeds. This world is not for witches. It is for men who have never been told no.”
The rustle of the paper lures my watery stare to Serena.
Inky strands of hair frame her face.
“That was certainly a choice. I can’t sugarcoat it. I don’t know how anyone comes back from this.”
The newsletter is folded in her hands, the heading angled up at her, and it still hooks her gaze. “But that’s the point, I suppose.”
And I suppose she’s talking to herself.
The watery glare I aim at her fades and I turn my cheek to rest on the cold bite of the wall.
I stare at the cupboard doors. One is crooked, hanging slanted off the hinges, and doesn’t close all the way.
The gap is dark, shadowy, but the longer I stare at it, the clearer it becomes. A lot of phials and syringes and IV bags, toppled baskets of black bandage rolls and I think the glitter up a few shelves is shattered glass never cleaned up.
“I didn’t expect it,” Serena folds over the paper one final time, shielding the headline from herself. “I thought you were in two minds about it. The desire to be accepted by him, by us, while grappling with your pride. I underestimated you... and your mask.”
Out the corner of my filmy gaze, I see that she tosses the paper aside. It rustles and thuds and slips over mounds of fallen boxes.
I don’t turn to look as she stretches out her legs, then rolls back her shoulders. Her snowsuit rustles with the practiced stretch—and I guess her plans for the slopes are out the window.
I bring my wrist to my sore face. The delicate watch jingles faintly before my teary gaze can settle on the time.
It’s one in the afternoon.
I loosen a weighted breath, it puffs my cheeks, and the stings are quick to spear through me, like hot iron.
A wince cuts through me.
I can feel the silvery stare from Serena running me over as I gingerly touch my fingertips to my sore face.
Asta really walloped me.
But the remnants of Dray’s strike is among the ruin of my face that I’m sure is purpled in spots, bloody around the corner of my mouth, and in dire need of balms.
