My brother sighs as we start toward Tarian and Calanthe’s glowing mansion. “College isn’t a punishment, Elle.”
“Oh, I’m aware that it’s a diversion.”
“You’re only twenty.”
“How old were you when you became a guardian?” My question is rhetorical since I know Dorian was eighteen. “Maybe I’ll just bring it up with Mal tonight, since he heads the Council.” I scan the small crowd beyond the dining room’s open French doors but don’t see the Hadez in question. “Is he still in Boston?”
“Yes. He went to visit Saul.”
The mere name of Malachi’s father upsets my stomach. Before I can ask Dorian why Malachi would subject himself to that, my brother walks off toward Tarian and Mom, whose hushed voices and strained expressions make my brow dip. I’m guessing my mother came for more than a family reunion.
A grinning Calanthe strolls toward me, her glittery espadrilles crunching on the gravel. “Are my eyes deceiving me or are you wearing color, Elle?”
“All my black tops were in the wash.”
Since she knows that’s not true, she doesn’t even bother rolling her eyes at me.
“Probably wore it for her beau,” I hear Fiona say, as she moseys toward us on Diego’s arm.
“I’m not wearing it for a man.” My cheeks tingle. “I’d never dress up for a man.”
“And she wonders why I had to help her land a date,” Fiona says with a grandiloquent sigh.
Diego grins so wide it presses his dimples deep. “What would we do without you, Fi?”
“Doubt we’ll ever find out, seeing as Fi refuses to go back to her Irish castle,” I mutter.
That only makes the persistent matchmaker beam.
“I heard you introduced them, Mrs. Murphy,” Mom says, apparently done chatting with Tarian. “You’ll have to tell me all about him.”
Calanthe flashes me the sort of smile a crocodile reserves for zebras wading into the river it haunts.
“Dorian’s already told you all about him, Mom. What’s for dinner? I’m starving,” I say, trying to divert the conversation away from Cillian.
But Fiona just has to give Mom a play-by-play of how she met Cillian, sparing usnodetail. “I was introduced to him by my friend Celia. After she got herself some butt implants—that look real nice by the way. I’m thinking of getting some. What d’you all think?”
“Fi, you donotneed butt implants,” Calanthe promises her.
Fiona pivots on Diego’s arm to show off her backside. “I do have a cute tush.”
While her rapt audience grins, I grumble, “Let’s not push it.”
Fiona flashes her veneers.
“So, this friend introduced you to Cillian…” Mom says, steering her back on track.
“Yes. So after her surgery, Celia decides her body’s better suited for Latin dancing. So she asks our Irish jig instructor for recommendations on Zumba classes, and he says he has a friend who just started teaching Zumba at a neighboring gym. She books a private with him, and the rest is history. And don’t worry, Elle. I’ve told her Cillian’s off the market.” She adds a wink.
“Why? Was she also trying to set him up?” Why am I investing myself in this conversation?
Fiona smiles. “Yes. But with herself.”
I can’t help but grimace. “Isn’t she like, seventy?”
“Wait till you get to our age and see what we have to work with.” After a beat, she adds a tad wistfully, “That said, you’re never going to look our age, so you’ll probably be spared old geezers.”
Even though Fiona swears she doesn’t want runes, because she doesn’t care to live forever, Calanthe and I believe she just doesn’t want to live forever looking seventy.
