‘Okay.’ I had to tread carefully. ‘There is a lot to unpack here. What exactly are you talking about?’
‘It doesn’t even matter. Not really. Not this, anyway.’ Miriam sighed deeply and tore herself from the sofa. ‘Let’s head home; it’s getting cold.’
Though she walked ahead of me, she vanished into the shadows just before we reached the door. I hoped she wasn’ton her way to hurt Michael. Sure, he was annoying, but he wasn’t that bad.
The estate was surprisingly quiet. Peaceful.
I walked in and stepped on a crimson envelope with black writing addressed to Princess W & A. My head spun. Nobody knew Willow lived here.
When a slut and prude begin to rule, I wonder where we all end up.
One sentence.
Enough to know who sent it.
Enough to make an impossible situation worse.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Avari
For a while, I stared at the letter, waiting for the familiar wave of nausea or anxiety. Nothing came. I kept staring, certain it would hit at any moment. Minutes slipped by as I traced the elegant cursive until eventually I forced myself to move.
I grabbed my favourite glass and poured some cold orange juice. Just as the pulp settled at the bottom, I downed half in one go.
Why didn’t this letter worry me? This calm wasn’t me.
I sipped some more.
Was this how normal people reacted to problems—level-headed, thinking instead of fighting off panic?
The pulp at the bottom of my glass splashed into the sink just as Willow entered the kitchen to rummage through the ready meals. She didn’t even acknowledge me. Our sisterly bond was thriving.
She grabbed a box, holding it so my name on the lid was clearly visible. Did she expect me to fight her over pasta? Myimagination ran with it, and she shot me a cold look. I must have chuckled.
‘What’s funny?’ she asked, chucking her dinner in the microwave.
The smell of the food heating up was seriously tempting; I hoped there was more than one portion stashed among the veggie options. ‘Nothing. We got a letter.’
Willow whipped toward me. ‘Wegot a letter?’
‘Imagine my surprise. Though it’s obvious who it’s from,’ I said, removing it from my back pocket and passing it over.
Her widened turquoise eyes assessed it before she read the contents and sighed. ‘Lilian’s and mother’s handwriting are eerily similar. Tough to tell who wrote it.’
‘Which one’s more likely to call you a slut?’
‘Which one do you think is more likely to call you a prude?’ she retorted instantly.
My mind travelled to their gracious personalities. ‘Either, really.’
The microwave beeps echoed around us, yet Willow didn’t move. ‘Exactly. I don’t know how they would even deliver this letter here. It’s not like they know where we are, right?’
Weighing how much to share with this particular spawn of the devil was difficult. She was impossible to read, and I could never quite understand what drove her to act the way she did.
‘Mother’s been here.’ I held her gaze, waiting for it to land.
‘Excuse me?’ Her ruby-red lips parted. ‘Did you have her over for a tea party?’
