“I knew it.” Taylor gave a definitive nod. “Some women are so competitive. She probably thought you were going to try to steal him or something.”
“Yeah.” I felt guilty letting this narrative take hold, but it seemed too complicated to correct her. “You know what? I hate talking about this. I don’t want to turn anyone against her or anything. But I wanted to be honest.”
“Hey.” Poppy clasped her hands. “I just had the best idea. Why don’t you take my room? I’ll stay in here with… what’s her name?”
“Wren.”
“Of course it is.” Taylor’s low, dry voice made all of us, even me, laugh.
“That’s sweet of you.” I shook my head. “But I don’t want to make you give up your own room.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I’d actually like it. I get scared on my own.” Poppy jumped up, smirking. “Which I know is super ironic, based on what I read and write.”
“Great.” Taylor jumped up and went to my suitcase. “Let’s make the switch.”
“Are you sure?” A giant wave of relief crashed down on me as Poppy confirmed. As she and Taylor walked out, I leaned back in the plush chair and sighed.
Keira observed me, her face calculating. I felt a flutter of fear—did she think I was being dramatic, or petty?—but then she smiled.
“Should we check out your gift?” She went to the desk and brought back the box. I opened it, feeling ashamed, though I wasn’t sure why. I hadn’t done anything wrong. If Wren had arrived before me, she surely would have told everyone about our history. And I hadn’t even gone into detail.
Because if you had, they would know. About that night, and about the other night. What happened before.
I shoved the thought away, lifting out the necklace. Dangling at the bottom was a heavy gold spider.
“It’s beautiful.” Keira pulled it closer, touching the diamond eyes.
“It’s gorgeous. Even though normally I’m scared of spiders.” I laughed uneasily. Maybe it was the unearthliness of being there at Blackbriar, but it felt like a message or a clue.
Keira smiled. “Maybe this will keep them away.”
Chapter 8
Dinner with Roza was at 7:30 p.m. sharp, Ian the editor had told Taylor and Keira. After my freakout, everyone decided to use the extra hour to unpack. I told myself it wasn’t my fault, that I hadn’t ruined the festive mood. But I still felt embarrassed as I lay back on the bed, gazing at the wallpaper. Thick vines of red flowers twisted on a pink wallpaper background, but from even a few feet away they looked like fat intestines sliding down the wall.
Suddenly, someone was knocking at the door. I sat up with a gasp. The room was pitch-black and I struggled to find the lamp on the bedside table.
“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Taylor cried as I pulled open the door. She wore a tight patterned blazer and slacks. Behind her, Poppy and Keira waited in dresses and bright lipstick. Their new necklaces glittered from their chests.
“What time is it?” I muttered.
“Seven twenty-five,” Keira said.
“Shit,” I muttered. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but I must’ve passed out immediately.
“Hey.” Taylor leaned in. “You get ready and we’ll tell everyone you’re coming. Okay?”
Once they left, I ran to my suitcase, picking hopelessly through my clothes. I hadn’t even thought to bring cute dresses. I cursed my lack of foresight and pulled on a sweater and dark jeans. I swiped on more makeup and hurried out, my ankle boots squeaking on the marble staircase.
Where was I going? I found myself turning automatically to the left, towards the library.
“Whoa!” I stopped short to avoid crashing into Yana. She’d been waiting for me.
“Wrong way.” She walked past me, unsmiling. Now she wore a chic blue sweater dress and thin leather flats. The backs of her bare ankles were red and she took quick steps. I tried to think of something to say as I followed. But my abrupt awakening from a wine-addled sleep, combined with the winding, luxurious hallways, left me reeling.
A delicious scent wafted towards us. It grew stronger until we entered the dining room, centered on a long wooden table laden with china, glasses, flickering taper candles, and plates of appetizers. It looked like a dinner party photo from a home decorating magazine, complete with chatting, elegant attendees.
At one end of the table, a man with slicked-back hair gestured with a too-full wineglass, shouting a triumphant punch line. Taylor, Poppy, and Keira, all sitting on the far side of the table, burst into guffaws. The head of the table—presumably where Roza would be—was empty. Yana gestured towards an empty place setting nearest the man.
The next seat was taken by Wren. I forced myself to look at her. The back of her glossy head shone above her thin shoulders. She’d always had excellent posture.
As if in a trance, I stepped up to the table. In the split second before she noticed me, I took in every detail of her profile. While I’d seen her briefly, horrifyingly, at Ursula’s book reading, I was now able to study her closely. Her eyebrows were heavier and she wore a nude lipstick instead of her usual trademark red. Her bangs were shorter and more piecey. But otherwise she looked the same as she had a year ago, when we’d been living together. Or maybe even younger, as if she’d been siphoning my life force, using it to plump her cheeks while I grew more listless and depressed.
She was grinning but not laughing. Then she noticed me and her smile drained. She righted herself and curved her lips politely. Her hazel eyes shone.
“Hi, Al,” she said quietly as I sat beside her. The low, familiar voice stunned me. In my dreamlike state, sitting in Roza Vallo’s dining room, it felt as though I’d slipped into an alternate universe, one in which Wren and I were still best friends.
Something on her neck sparkled: a gold necklace against her green silk dress. I squinted to make out the creature resting against the slight swell of her breasts.
It was a coiled snake.
“Alex!” Taylor raised her glass. “You made it!” Her eyes gleamed from the wine.
“Hi.” I was still standing over my chair. In a kind of daze, I realized I’d left my spider necklace upstairs. Yana pulled my chair out roughly, and as I sat she pushed it in too fast. My knees buckled and I fell onto the cushion heavily. It took me a moment before I could look at Wren again, but when I did, she was sipping her wine, ignoring me.
“Well, hello there.” The male editor had a clipped English accent. He was probably in his late forties, handsome in an unseemly kind of way. Someone who’d hang out at clubs buying drinks for twentysomething girls. “I’m Ian, Roza’s editor and, dare I say, friend. Pleasure.” He turned back to the rest of the table. “So this is the full crew, yeah?”
“We need a team name or something.” Poppy giggled.
I was about a foot away from Wren, so close I could smell her familiar perfume: roses, incense, and smoke. Smooth dark hairs glistened on her arms. Wren was Egyptian on her mother’s side, and she’d told me that in junior high the cool girls had followed her around one day, lumbering and wailing in guttural tones. They tossed a note onto her desk that afternoon, a crude drawing of a woolly mammoth. She started shaving her arms that night. She didn’t stop until college.