I haven’t been—
“It’s beneath you, Vivienne,” snapped her mother, before she could finish. “More than that—it’s not fair to him. Do you remember what happened to Mikhail? How horribly he died?”
Don’t, she signed. The water dripped faster.Don’t talk about him.
“Someone has to.” Her mother’s voice came out in a hiss. “Someone has to remind you what you are.”
The words were a gunshot, through and through. An old metallic bitterness seeped out from the wound. She thought of coming home Other—of watching her formerly doting mother pull slowly away. Thought of tiptoeing to her bedroom door during sleepless midnights and finding it locked. No chance of being rocked or held. No lullabies, no loving touch.
I’m your daughter, she signed, dropping her hand into the crook of her forearm. Her mother stared at the cradle of her arms, some of her anger allaying. In its place crept grief, cold and untouchable.
“That’s right,” she said softly. “You’re a Miller. And Miller girls are survivors. So, you’ll clean up your face, you’ll get back out there, and you’ll do whatever it takes.”
In the sink, the water ran freely. The basin was nearly full. Vivienne’s mother held the handkerchief between them.
“Take it,” she said. “When Philip comes looking for you, I expect you to cooperate.”
Vivienne snatched the napkin and stuffed it into her dress. Rubbing her palm across her face, she made further ruin of her lipstick, smearing the stain up to her cheeks in a garish joker’s grin.
Her mother didn’t bother to chastise her. She’d made her point. She knew Vivienne would play her part perfectly when the time came. She always did. It was a little bit funny. Even when she wasn’t the girl in the mirror, she was still in a cage. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry, laugh, or scream. Perhaps some combination of the three. She settled for leaving without a goodbye, her curls mussed and her makeup ruined.
Gone was the effervescence that fizzed through her veins. Gone was the quiet euphoria burning bright as a flame. She was firmly rooted to the ground, her throat pinched shut, her chest a gaping hollow. Behind her, the water splashed to the floor.
So this was how it was to begin—tonight’s unraveling.
“And, darling,” called her mother, just before she escaped into the hall. “Thomas Walsh is here to do a job. Let him do it, and then leave him alone. It’s the kindest thing you can do.”
Vivienne meant to walk away with her head held high. Instead, she fled.
She made it as far as the hallway before the tears found her. Collapsing into a shallow alcove, she tugged the napkin loose and set to cleaning her face, scrubbing her cheeks until they stung. A breeze drifted through the open windows, rustling her gown. Outside in the courtyard, the party unfolded beneath a glittering web of tea lights. The sight of the crowd was broken up by a neat row of crabapple trees. The wind picked up, silvering the leaves in their branches.
Beneath the soft symphony of strings, she heard a single footfall. She glanced up, hurriedly dashing tears from her cheeks, and caught sight of Thomas in the wide open doors. He looked deceptively casual with his jacket unbuttoned and his hands in his pockets, but there was a tightness in the way he held himself. An anticipation. The lights of the party streamed in behind him, gilding his profile in gauzy streaks of gold, and she thought, faintly, that he’d never looked more perfect than this.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, his voice unconvincingly mild. He drew closer, quietly cataloging her as he approached. “You okay?”
Fine, she signed.
“You’re lying.”
She met his gaze, startled. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled. It would rain soon, though a passing summer storm was the least of the Turners’ concerns. Their party was already going to be ruined. She’d seen to that.
“It’s because of me,” guessed Thomas. “I overstepped.”
She pinched her fingers.No.
Lightning lit the hallway white just as he came to a stop before her. “No?”
It’s not you, she added.You’re perfect.
“Perfect?” His cheek dimpled and he mimicked the sign, touching his index fingers to his thumbs. “That’s a pretty big compliment coming from you, Miss Farrow.”
Don’t tease me. It’s not nice.
“You want me to be nice to you?”
His gaze bored into her, dark and expectant. Her mother’s voice pinwheeled through her head.Leave him alone. Leave him alone.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she signed,I want you to kiss me again.
