“Who the hell did she invite?” I whisper as she passes me.
Sybil shrugs, swiping angrily at a tear. There’s a splash of red on her pale skin, her hair messy where Evelyn grabbed her. I try to smooth it down for her, but she knocks my hand away.
Jeez. Isn’t PMS supposed to bepremenstrual syndrome?
I almost say something, but we moved past empty platitudes long ago. We’re at the ‘grin and bear it’ stage of our traumatic childhoods, where we’ll likely remain until we extricate ourselves from this house.
We have a plan.
As soon as Billy turns sixteen, she’s applying for emancipation. By then I’ll be old enough to get a job and providefor both of us. She’s tried convincing me to emancipate ever since I told her it was possible, but I could never leave her alone with The Witch, and if she ran away with me, sure as shit Evelyn would track us down and put Sybil into the system as punishment.
Three more years, and we’re free.
“What if it’s one of our dads?” I ask Sybil as we go downstairs.
“Please,” Billy scoffs bitterly. “Like they’d risk being forced to take care of their bastard children?”
“True,” I mutter. “What about her publisher? That’s supposedly who she’s always running off to meet. Think we’ll actually…”
I trail off as we step into the kitchen. It feels like I just walked through a fairy ring.
I’ve never seen so much food in my life. A golden-brown turkey. Mashed potatoes swimming in butter. Stuffing studded with chestnuts. Cranberry sauce. A pie cooling on the counter.
Sybil gazes at the turkey like it’s the second coming.
“It’s like the wedding at Cana, Bash,” she whispers.
Wedding? We’ve never been to a wedding.
Shit.
Is my sister losing her mind?
“We’ve never been to?—“
She grabs my sleeve without taking her eyes off the food. “Itis, Bash. It’s just like when Jesus turned water into wine. God was testing me, and now…this is his reward.”
Oh. Right. She’s referring to some religious parable.
I read a lot, but there’s one book on my sister’s TBR that I’ll never crack open, and it’s the Bible. And those glossy-paged recipe books. My sister reads them like guys read porn.
I assume.
“This isn’t a miracle, Billy. It’s a trap.”
She glances at me, a sparkle of what might have been happiness in her eyes, before reality sinks in and the light fades.
“Right,” she murmurs, blinking. “No, you’re right.”
I help her set four places at the table with the good china while outside, snow drifts and wind gusts.
Sybil runs her finger along the gold rim of one of the fancy plates while her gaze dances over the food. “I feel strange, Bash.”
“Can you actually feel your uterus shedding its lining?”
She looks up at me with a hard frown. A blush makes the fading handprint on her cheek flare again. “Stop talking about my ovaries,” she hisses.
I pause midway through folding a napkin. “You just said you feel?—”
