“Felicity, this is Quinn. Quinn, Felicity,” Ellis says at last, a saving grace. “My friend from school that I told you about.”
“All lies, I’m sure,” I say, and when Quinn offers their hand, I shake it.
“I imagine Ellis didn’t talk about me very much at all,” Quinn says.
There’s no good response to that; it’s true, after all. Ellis only mentioned them twice. I know they’re much older than Ellis, by about ten years. I know from Ellis’s use of gender-neutral pronouns that Quinn is nonbinary. And I can tell by looking that, aside from their basic appearance, they have a lot of other things in common with their sister—at least if the blazer and flamboyant gold cravat are anything to go by.
“I know a little,” I end up saying, and Ellis folds her hands behind her back, smiling like a proud gallery curator who has just introduced a patron to a brand-new work of art.
Quinn gestures to the house. “Shall we go in and get to know each other, then?”
We head inside and to the common room, Ellis pushing me down into my favorite plush burgundy armchair. Quinn takes the seat opposite, lounging on the chaise and lighting a cigarette. I find myself unsurprised they’re smoking indoors; Ellis does it often enough that the shock has worn off. Perhaps she got the idea from Quinn.
For her part, Ellis heads directly to her hidden stash of bourbon—the bourbon, I recall, that Quinn had gifted her. My gaze lingers too long, watching her elegant hands move to drip bitters into three crystal glasses. I manage to look away only when I realize Quinn’s watching me, assessing.
I clasp my hands together in my lap and attempt a smile. I feel like I’m trying to impress someone’s parents on a first date. Not that I’ve ever had one of those. Not really.
“Tell me about yourself, Felicity,” Quinn says.
What is this, a job interview? I dig the side of my thumbnail into my hand to keep from saying something I’ll regret. “I don’t know how much there is to say. I’m not a very interesting person, I’m afraid.”
“Felicity’s being modest,” Ellis says. “She’s the best academic in Godwin House, and I include Housemistress MacDonald in that assessment.”
I don’t blush easily, but I blush now. I hope the light here’s dim enough that Quinn doesn’t notice. “That’s not true.”
“What is your favorite class?” Quinn asks.
“English literature, broadly,” I say. “But I’m doing my thesis on the portrayal of witchcraft and mental illness in genre novels.”
Ellis frowns over her shoulder at us. “I thought you said you were writing about horror novels or something.”
“I am, but…I did so much work before, when my thesis was still about the Dalloway witches. It seemed a shame to let that all go to waste.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ellis says, stirring one of the drinks. “After…”
Fortunately for me, Quinn takes that moment to step in. “Mental illness in genre,” they say. “Are you more interested in accuracy of portrayal? Or the significance thereof?”
“Mostly how depictions of mental illness are used to build suspense by introducing uncertainty and a sense of mistrust, especially with regard to the narrator’s perception of events, and the conflation of magic and madness in female characters.”
“See?” Ellis says, returning with two of the cocktails in hand. “I told you she was brilliant.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and when she hands me one of the drinks, our fingers brush. Does her touch linger a beat longer than necessary? Or am I imagining things?
Quinn glances down at their drink and lets out half a laugh. “Old fashioneds? Really, Ellis? You’re seventeen, last time I checked.”
“Are you going to turn me in?” Ellis says.
Quinn shakes their head. “No, but I am going to mock you mercilessly. When I let you try one of my whiskey sours over the summer, you hated it so much you puked in the hydrangeas.”
Ellis turns a delicate shade of rose; I’m fascinated. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her embarrassed.
I relate far more to the old Ellis than the new one, but I take a sip of my old fashioned anyway. I can tell intellectually that the sweetness is balanced perfectly by the bitters, that neither overwhelms the heat of the bourbon—that it’s an objectively good drink—but I still hate it. I set the glass aside on the end table and hope Ellis won’t notice if I don’t finish.