Alex was on her fifth cigarette—the fifth cigarette to go with her fifth drink—her dress disheveled and her cheeks sunset red as she spun little Hannah Stratford around in a circle. The lit cigarette left a stream of smoke in its wake; I flinched every time it careened past the drapes.
“Let me take that,” I said, edging closer. “You’re going to burn the house down.”
But Alex just laughed and twirled Hannah again, who was tipsy and giggling and clearly delighted just to have caught Alex’s attention at all. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Felicity. Dance with us.”
“I don’t dance. You know that.” My glass was slippery against my palm; I downed what was left.
Hannah reached for me with her free hand. “Come on, Felicity. It’s fun!”
People were starting to stare. Whispers exchanged behind hands, glances darting between Alex and me.
I shifted closer and lowered my voice to little more than a hiss. “You’re making a fool out of yourself, Alex. Let’s go home.”
Alex stopped dancing. The centrifugal force sent Hannah spiraling, staggering until she was caught by the helpful arms of a senior girl I distantly recognized from Greek class.
Alex’s hair had frayed out of her chignon, tangling wild like a red halo about her face. She looked, in that moment, every bit the role she’d been cast in the papers: mad, aggressive.Violent.
She drew closer, and closer again, until my heart pounded not from the alcohol but because I was briefly certain she was going to kiss me and force me out of the closet right then and there—
But Alex’s mouth just twisted meanly, and she said: “Yes, well, you’d know all about making a fool of yourself. Wouldn’t you, Felicity?”
It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. The party went silent; the feeling of all eyes on me made my skin itch.
“We’re going home. Now.” I started toward the door, but I didn’t get far.
Alex’s voice cut through the thick air between us like hot steel. “Everyone knows you’re crazy,” she shouted. She was drunk, the words coming out slurred and uneven. She was drunk; she didn’t mean it. But she said it anyway. “All this bullshit about witches and magic and dead girls. We all know the truth.”
I spun on my heel and stalked back to where Alex stood, weaving on her feet. I could smell the liquor on her breath from a foot away. “And what’s that, Alex?” I said. “What’s thetruth?”
Alex took in a sharp breath.Don’t say it,I urged her mentally.Don’t say it.
She was going to say it.
I could see it in her eyes, because I knew her—Iknewher—and Alex was the kind of person who was never cruel on purpose but who was inevitably cruel regardless. She just couldn’t help herself.
“You’re obsessed with magic because you can’t stand to live with yourself otherwise. Because if you don’t have witches to blame all yourshiton, if you can’t pretend that you’ve been chosen by Margery Lemont orwhatever,then that means nothing you do is magic’s fault. It’s justyou.”
I laughed. It came out cold and callous, like the laugh of a villain in a children’s movie. “You want to talk about taking responsibility for your own actions, Alex? Really? Or do you just want me to reassure you one more time that you’re perfect and Tes started it, and if you broke her nose, then it’s her own damn fault?”
I went too far.
I knew that before I even finished saying it, but I said it anyway, and it hit Alex like a bullet hitting its target. She reared back, the color drained from her face. All at once she didn’t look angry anymore, orcruel-aggressive-violent-mad.
She just looked scared.
“Alex…,” I started, but it was too late.
She flung her glass onto the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces against the marble. I yelped and flinched back, and that was all the head start she needed. Alex shoved her way past the gathered crowd toward the front door, and I was behind her—too far behind her—so even when I had broken out of Boleyn and onto the quad, she was already a distant pale speck running toward the lake.
“Alex!”
I sprinted after her. It couldn’t end like this; I couldn’t just leave her alone after…after saying something so terrible. She was unstable. I knew that. She’d been off ever since what happened over the summer with that other climber, and if I left her to her own devices, she might—
I didn’t know what she might do.
Alex was a world-class athlete; she was too fast. By the time I made it up to the cliffs, I was heaving for air, one hand pressed to the stitch in my side.
She stood on the ridge, silhouetted against the white moonlight and still. I approached slowly, half-certain that any sudden movements would fracture her.
