Their Vicious Games(48)

For a moment I think she’s talking to me, before I realize that she’s staring into her own reflection, reassuring herself that she’s in control. I don’t have the heart to tell her that she isn’t anymore.

And then she deflates, and I realize that she already knows.

Saint declares. “I… I should’ve let you run. I should’ve run with you.”

I want to leave too. I want to tell her, Let’s run now. Let’s run when they don’t expect it. And then I think about the threat against my parents. Saint has money to protect her from the threat of ruin or retribution. I don’t. My parents don’t.

So instead, I try to smile.

“The day is almost over and we are so beat, we couldn’t walk, let alone run. We’ll try again tomorrow,” I say, careful and measured.

Saint—dependable, never-bothered Saint—reaches for me this time instead of the other way around. It’s one thing to witness violence. It’s another to be in the thick of it. I grab her hand and squeeze hard before I let go, leading us into the common room as the other girls hurriedly slip in as well. Esme pettily steps on our heels just to remind us that she’s right behind us.

Leighton is already there.

“Ladies. Finally,” Leighton says. Her calm smile contrasts horrifically with the tension that racks through each of us, a collage of exhaustion and pain. “Are we ready for lunch?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “All right. Line up in order of rank.”

I bite my tongue to stop the vitriol I want to spit.

Instead, we do as we’re told. Reagan Mikaelson heads to the tail of the line. She keeps her head down, in hopes of her dark brown hair covering the livid cut along her jaw, jagged and newly stitched, but it’s clear as day. She’s pathetically lonely without her allies—friends, maybe. From what I gather, one’s facedown in a mud pit and the other lies broken in the Taxis Ditch. Gone, like Hannah R.

Jacqueline lines up right in front of her. Then Hannah G, myself, and Hawthorne.

I’m surprised when Esme is called third and not Saint. I guess she really did fly off ahead of her. Saint flinches when she’s called for second place, like it has cost her something.

And finally, at the head of the line, having “demonstrated resilience and ambition,” in the words of Leighton, or as I would put it, “years of experience as a horsewoman,” is Penthesilea Bonavich.

The first-place prize is one that Penthesilea is long used to—private, one-on-one dinners with Pierce nightly until the Raid, when her ranking might shift. Second place comes with a private brunch with Pierce and prime seating during common meals. Third, to Esme’s chagrin, comes with nothing but the pleasure of not being dead.

As we’re shuffled along the halls, I keep my eyes on the back of Hawthorne’s head. I find a strand of hair to focus on. I try to get myself to move on. My stomach feels hollow, but I know I need to eat. To act as if nothing has happened.

As if three more lives weren’t suddenly snuffed out for the Remingtons’ egos. I know not to ask about the dead girls this time. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. I won’t let them drive me crazy too.

We enter the dining room to Mr. Caine’s self-important proclamation of “Dr. Leighton Remington and the Ladies of the Finish—”

Pierce is right next to Mr. Caine, and he offers his arm to Penthesilea with practiced ease. She takes it. For once, they look like a proper couple, heads tilted toward each other, whispered words passing back and forth between them. For once, Penthesilea looks real instead of the hazy version of herself that she’s been since the start of the Finish.

He leads her to the seat immediately to the left of the head of the table, and we fill in behind.

Esme and Hawthorne sit next to Penthesilea. Saint sits far away from them, at the other end of the table, where Third sits, and I’m quick to find a place next to her. I try my best not to look directly at Graham, who sits beside me, or at Pierce. I will never put another target on my back.

The rest of the girls fill out the table to the end, Leighton placed somewhere in the middle.

Saint engages in conversation with Third immediately, like she’s determined to make this matter.

“What a day,” Saint says, smiling broadly. “Did you enjoy the race, sir?”

“It went better than I thought it would. You did well, Saint. I am impressed,” Third compliments.

“Thank you. My father taught me how to ride,” she says. “In the South of France, at a friend’s villa.”

“Oh? That wouldn’t be Villeneuve, would it?” Third asks. That must mean something to Saint, something good, because she straightens, leaning in and nodding.

I look down at the table grain.

“You didn’t want to sit with your father?” I ask Graham. Slowly, I look at him from the corner of my eye.

“He’d much rather speak to any one of you than me,” Graham says with a shrug. He steeples his fingers, balances his chin on the joined tips of his fingers. “You did well today.”

“Thanks. I don’t feel like it,” I say gruffly.

“Well, I do. That first jump was clean,” Graham says.

“I had a good teacher and a good mount. It wasn’t me at all,” I say. I look down at the plate. Salad to start. I pick at it, shredding kale to pieces with my fork. When I finally do take a bite after staring for a long moment, the raspberry vinaigrette explodes on my tongue. It’s delicious. It’s also hard to make myself swallow. Graham doesn’t say anything for a while, not even something smart-ass, and when I look over at him, he’s watching me try to chew. “What?”