“You know exactly what. Whenever Ellie and I used to fight, you’d agree with both of us to keep from picking sides.”
Poppy doesn’t deny it. “Sometimes it was the only way to keep the peace.”
Her smile is faint, her eyes sad. The mention of Camellia has shifted the mood. Subdued, Shea rolls onto her side and watches Poppy pick at a snit in the fabric.
“Who’s that for, anyway?”
“Ellie. The temperature is dropping a little bit every day. She must be freezing.”
Outside, the snow has stopped, but frost still clings to the glass in feathery whorls. No one could survive in this sort of cold for long. She doesn’t say it. It feels too cruel to point it out, even if it’s true. She owes it to Camellia to believe she’s still alive.
“We’ll find her,” says Poppy, pulling the snarl loose.
“I know,” says Shea.
But it tastes like a lie.
She doesn’t know when she drifts off, but she must, because she’s woken by Poppy shaking her awake. It’s dark, moonlight silvering the ice on the windows. Blanketed in sleep, Shea fumbles under her pillow until she finds her hearing aids. Sound hammers into her skull, loud and obtrusive.
Someone is knocking on the door.
“You’re being summoned,” mumbles Poppy, and draws the blanket over her head.
With a groan, Shea rolls out of bed, snatching up a knitting needle as she goes. When she wrenches the door wide, Tristan is there. His hair sticks out every which way, exhaustion shadowing his features. His eyes drop to the needle, wary.
“What’s that for?”
“I thought you were Asher.”
“You were going to stab him with a knitting needle?”
“I haven’t ruled it out. What’s happening?”
“There’s a package,” says Tristan.
She blinks, unsure she’s heard him correctly. “Okay. And?”
“It’s for you,” he clarifies. “Someone has sent a delivery to Mercy Ridge with your name on it.”
•••
Tristan leads her to the basement, where the ceilings dip low over salons full of bar-height tables and backless stools. A felted pool table sits in one corner, surrounded by bodies. Lys is among them, his face lit from beneath as he racks the balls in starting position. Cyrus watches, chalking his ferrule. A few feet away stands Asher, looking out of place. Of the three of them, he’s the only one to acknowledge Shea’s sudden appearance. He gives her a grim nod, and nothing else.
She finds the package in question right away. It’s a sleek black garment box, longer than it is wide. Someone has opened it already. The crimson ribbon trails loose over the edge of the table, and from out of the interior puffs black wrapping tissue. Inside is a dress. She lifts it out by the shoulder straps, letting the rich red silk spill away and away from her. The gown is cut like a slip, overlaid with sheer black lace. There’s a note on the inside, handwritten. She sets the dress aside and plucks it off the tissue, her heart in her throat.
For the revel. I think red is your color.
XO an admirer
“Our cover is blown,” says Lys as she sets the note back into the box. “Keeling knows we’re coming.”
Cyrus shoves the pool cue into his hand. “Are you going to make us go over it again, or are you going to break?”
“I’d rather play without him,” grumbles Tristan. “He’s too good. It takes all the fun out.”
Shea runs the silk between her thumb and forefinger and reads the letter again.An admirer.
“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” puts in Asher. “We don’t know for sure that the dress came from Keeling.”
