That’s blood.
His lip is split, and there’s a trail of crimson at his left nostril.
The rest is cream and jam and a pair of deadly emerald eyes glaring at me.
My lips curl around my teeth, an ugly look I aim right at him. “I hope you and Father feel every ounce of my dowry you make. I hope you feel every flake of gold from your body. I hope it takes from you both as you both take from me.”
Oliver kicks off the couch, then boots aside the coffee table. It shudders, the teacups and saucers rattling, before he storms through the chamber.
Muttered insults and curses follow him out the door, and it slams shut behind him so hard that the wall shudders.
7
I am not brave enough to go out there. I’ve made too many enemies in my family.
I stick to my bedchamber and finish packing. When I’m done, and the mess is tidied up, and I have nothing else to do, I call Nonna.
I wish I didn’t.
Slouched, I sit on the cushioned windowsill, those stray, silent tears falling down my cheeks.
Nonna’s voice is tight, like violin strings, “I was looking forward to spending more time with you at the ball. It’s not every year my grandchild is a debutante.” It is not said warmly. It is a passive aggressive tone that chills me through the receiver. “Then Vittoria tells me you had an outburst the morning of the ritual—and I won’t be seeing you at New Year. I travelled all that way to Thornbury Park to be stuck with Ethel. And Mila made your favourite cake, but that’s gone to waste, hasn’t it? Those women won’t finish a whole cake, and it was hard as a rock by the time I got home. It had to be thrown out.”
I don’t interrupt.
I sit, sagged and silent as she berates me in rambling, rapid Italian—and I can just picture her, head tilted to wedge the phone receiver between her ear and shoulder, keeping her handsfree to flail around and point at thin air as though the accused, me, stands in front of her in the flesh.
It’s not often enough I get to practice my Italian, and while I’m fluent, I’m rusty enough that I miss some of her ramblings before I start to tune out.
I wipe at my damp cheeks.
And Nonna is done with me. Finished chewing me up and spitting me out, she snaps “Someone is at the door”, then hangs up.
Slumped against the windowpane, I hold the receiver for a while. It dangles limp on my fingers as I stare out at the dark winter sky.
If I was an elemental witch, I might think my power great today, that my mood touches the world and turns it grey.
Finally, I peel myself off the windowsill, set down the receiver, then sneak out of the bedchamber.
Oliver and Father are nowhere to be seen as I rush to the pianoforte, but Mother passes me in the foyer—and doesn’t say a word, just watches me skitter by like a mouse.
No one disturbs me as I play.
And when I return to my room, I learn I am not invited to dinner, because it’s here already, set out in my lounge.
The phone doesn’t ring.
Either no one is calling, or my calls are being blocked at the main house phone.
I don’t fester on it.
I fester on Bluestone.
Tomorrow morning, before dawn kisses the sky, I am heading back to that hell.
If I was dimmer, I might think my secret engagement to Dray will protect me this semester. Oliver did suggest as much. But that protection only extends to everyonebutDray.
No, this semester will be different for me. It might be a taste of the life I was meant to have, the academy experience I should have had—before Dray decided otherwise.
