Their Vicious Games(79)
She looks otherworldly, her hair curled to perfection, burnished gold in the light of the fireplace. She smells wealthy and she looks it too, wearing couture like she was born into it. She doesn’t have her glass of wine tonight, but leaning against the piano, she brings me back to the day of our arrival, all of us dressed up in white Edwardian lace for that group photo.
Now there are only five of us in the common room.
It feels too big. Saint and I sit on the love seat pressed against the far wall, our masks in our laps. Hawthorne and Esme are opposite us, on the piano bench. And finally, Penthesilea, in the middle, sits alone.
“Put on your masks and form a single-file line,” Leighton commands. “Who you were no longer matters. Who you will become is all there is.”
We do as she bids, because we are conditioned now. I secure the mask over my face with silver ribbons.
“This is weird,” I mumble, my voice muffled by the porcelain.
Saint casts me a pointed look as she secures her own half mask. “Is it weirder than the death games?”
“Almost.”
We fall in line, and even Esme seems too tired to say something caustic or snide, instead quietly allowing Hawthorne to secure her mask before we’re whisked from the room.
Tonight there are no eerie shadows. Everything is cast in so much light that even the dark wood looks alien. The stale smell that I’ve grown used to has been replaced by the smell of Pine-Sol and the unique scent of burning wax. The carpet looks like it’s been gone over with a vacuum about a dozen times, though I can’t recall having heard it. There are whispers in the walls, and if I didn’t know better, I might believe they were ghosts.
In the moment before we enter the ballroom, I steel myself for what feels like the millionth time. I remind myself that this isn’t the Royale yet. I have survived a deadly horse race and a combat treasure hunt. The Remingtons—despite what they stand for—should not scare me more than that.
But when the doors open, all my thoughts are wiped away as we’re met with thunderous applause. The only reason I don’t turn away is the sharp bite of Hawthorne’s nails at my wrist, stilling me.
The Remingtons have invited guests. There are at least two dozen people here, and for a moment I am lighter than air, choking on my giddiness. There are people here. People who don’t know anything about all of this. People who will believe me if I tell them what’s been done to us, if I show them the still-healing bruises on my sides and my thighs. If I tell them about the girls who were here, who are all now gone.
And then I begin to put names to faces. One of the senators of Massachusetts is here, along with his wife. The headmaster of Edgewater Academy, with a glass of brandy in hand. The CFO of one of those charitable foundations that partners with Edgewater’s community service department; it’s the same foundation that our senior class had to work and volunteer with for twenty-five hours to graduate. The kind of people the Remingtons call to give keynotes at the Edgewater fundraisers every year, whenever we need a new but unnecessary update to the chem labs or the library.
They all know.
I try not to cry beneath my mask as Esme marches forward, leading us around and into the crowd, which parts like the Red Sea. As we approach the Remington Family, Pierce is brimming with pride, his smile bright, while his brother fights off a grimace, strain tightening the lines around his eyes.
“Congratulations,” Leighton murmurs, passing down the line, drawing each of us into a chilly hug. As she reaches me, I stiffen in her hold.
Leighton steps back and then moves to hug Saint, who extricates herself from the embrace as soon as she finds herself in it. When Leighton turns from us, I expect her to address the room at large, but she melts back into the circle of the Remingtons, and it’s Third who steps forward. Of course.
“My dear friends,” he begins, with far more enthusiasm than he’s ever shown any of us. “Tonight we celebrate the penultimate night of the Finish. The Finish is a long-standing tradition, and a mighty one, in which we determine the mettle of the ladies in our modern society. In certain years—the best years—we go a step further, searching the cream of the crop for a diamond. A new member of the family to bring forth its next generation. It is an important moment for us, to bring someone into the fold, and we treat it with the utmost sincerity and seriousness, as do these young women. Some ladies are sacrificed in this noble pursuit, and though we think fondly of them, we come together to celebrate those who remain.” What a nice way to say that girls have died under their watch. “May your evening be merry, my friends. Let the games continue.”
He toasts them with a half-finished glass of bourbon. And everyone raises a drink with a monotone Salut. I twist in disgust and turn to Saint.
“There are so many people. Why are there so many people?” I whisper. This changes things. This changes everything. I didn’t expect any more curveballs to be thrown, but the Remingtons, as always, love to show their winning hand right before they summarily beat you into submission.
“Just… smile and nod if anyone speaks to you,” Saint murmurs. “We should try to avoid accepting anyone’s challenges. Even without knowing what the Royale is, there’s nothing left to gain. I’m going to get a drink. You want anything?”
I almost decline, but I am tired and bone-achy and angry. “Yeah. Liquor.”
“There we go,” Saint says without humor, and prowls through a crowd that parts for her.