When I see a nearby assistant wrinkle her nose and scoot a little farther from our table, I know that our plan is succeeding. We need to blend into the background of the room.
The soup ingredients are gathered and chopped, unevenly, with a big heap of carrot tops left sloppily on the counter and a few potato peels scattered around on the floor in a way that I can tell makes Harper cringe. But it's necessary to build up our incompetence. Herbs are measured and set out. And then...we have to brown the meat.
Glancing from side to side, I slide the jar surreptitiously out of my apron pocket and across the counter to Harper. As she drops chunks of meat onto a cast-iron pan, I grab a pitcher and head to a nearby sink to fill it with water for the "broth" we're never going to get to make.
Slow breaths, Brylee. Slow breaths. Keep it casual.
I look furtively over at Harper and notice that there are now gleaming dollops all around the cooktop. If I sniff carefully, I can smell the foul scent of old grease, which Harper dutifully gathered after cooking classes the past several days.
I scan the rest of the kitchen to see if anyone has noticed.
The servants all appear bent over their own work.
Apparently we've been bland enough to lose their interest. Thank fuck.
I breathe out a sigh of relief just as water splashes across the back of my hand. I startle, realizing I've overfilled the pitcher.
Stay focused, Brylee,I scold.
My throat dries out as I turn the faucet off and spin, trying to walk casually and not slop everywhere.
Harper flicks on the burner, which has a lovely dollop of grease dribbled right down one side because she’s an artist.
The fire jumps and flares. And I "trip," stumbling forward and sending a wide arc of water right onto the grease.
BAH-HOOOM.
We both screech and duck as a fireball rolls up the sides of the pan, three feet high. The heat flares across my face, and Harper and I go scrambling backwards as her little dollop sprinkles of grease also catch fire. Tiny flames and columns of smoke pepper our workspace. A conveniently placed paper towel roll also catches fire on the metal countertop.
Exclamations of surprise and irritation go up around us.
"Cover that with a lid!" someone yells.
Sliding to one side, I grab a metal lid and then, with all the grace of my preschool T-ball experience, I launch it in an arch that sends flaming grease flying.
"Ahhh!" Harper screams and clasps my hand, and I can't tell if her panic is real or not for a second as she yanks me toward the exterior door and slams through it.
She shoves the door closed and leans back against it with a wide grin. "I'd like to thank the Academy…"
Heaving out a shaky laugh, I yank Harper's car keys out of my apron and wrestle it off just as my twin, dressed in an identical white dress and wearing an absolutely stunning blond wig, slinks around the corner of the castle with an expression fit to kill.
His arms are crossed, he stands duck-footed, and his tone is the epitome of sulky as he says, "I'll never pass."
“Here.” Harper steps forward and smears a little grease down his cheek, masking his alpha scent. “That will help.”
I scan him up and down. His illness has stolen away a lot of his bulk, which rips me apart. But it also means my plan will work because our facial features have always been similar. And with that smear of pink lipstick he’s got going…
With a cringe and a chuckle, I throw the apron over him. "Sorry. But you definitely pass." I nearly gag as I smell the grease. “And no one will come close to you when you smell like that.”
"Fuck yo?—"
"Omegas can't curse," Harper interjects in a sweet, sing-song tone as I start to sprint across the patio.
"Brylee!" Teddie's tone is pure alpha snarl.
"Thankyousomuch! You'rethebest! Nowgetinside!" My words slam together, not a wisp of breath between them as I bolt for the nearest tree, which I know for a fact—due to some youthful pranks—blocks the security cameras.
Once I'm underneath the branches, I shimmy out of the white dress, which is bright as a beacon. Underneath, my tights and short shorts and black tank are a little racier than I'd usually wear, but still less likely to draw the eye of any roaming guards as I book it beneath the tree line.
