What did Tom mean, there can’t be two? Are he and Oskar going to try to run me out of town? Would Sophie allow it?
And on the subject of Sophie, what did Oskar mean when he said that thing about her enemies ending up dead? About making tonics out of bones?
I wish I had some evidence to exonerate her from these accusations, but I don’t. Because who are those ghosts in her cellar?
Because what if . . . ?
What if the people aren’t wrong to fear her? What if I’m wrong to trust her?
I mean, she’s magic. She has power. So far, she’s used it only for me, I think, but she could just as easily use it against me, couldn’t she? How have I overlooked that?
Could Oskar be right? Could Sophie be manipulating me? Corrupting me?
Am I just an oblivious idiot? Someone who will buy into anything that provides her with an ephemeral hope, a respite from her pain. Someone who will throw herself at anyone who pays her any attention. Someone so desperate for acceptance that it doesn’t matter who’s doing the accepting. Am I someone who would enjoy their time in the socialist utopia before ending up dead with a Kool-Aid mustache?
Yeah, probably.
But I’m also the kind of person who lets fear conquer her thoughts, her actions, rule her life like a callous boy king. My whole life, fear has made me cautious and small. It was only when I met Sophie that I started to feel like I could be brave. Like I didn’t have to sit on my hands all the time being polite, swallowing my own needs and desires so as not to bother or inconvenience anyone else. That I felt like I didn’t have to tolerate a flat, unobtrusive paper doll existence. That I could want more and not feel wrong to want it.
I remember what she told me in the ballroom on the solstice: Surrender everything for everything.
I’m too scared to get bangs. How am I supposed to surrender everything for everything?
It’s all too much.
I crack.
I text Sam.
Do you think I’m the kind of person who would participate in the Peoples Temple Agricultural Project?
As soon as I hit SEND, I remember it’s still Valentine’s Day. I realize he’s probably with her. Shannon.
“This is the longest day of my life!” I shout into a pillow.
I need to put myself to bed. I shovel a few more forkfuls of chocolate cake into my mouth and take another swig of whiskey.
When I’m setting the bottle down, my phone brightens.
Jonestown?
Yeah, I type. Would I drink the Kool-Aid?
It was grape Flavor Aid.
Grape?!?!
You wouldn’t have drunk it because it was grape & we’re leery of people who choose grape.
Why have grape when you could have cherry?
I’m looking it up now. Flavor Aid had cherry, raspberry, tropical punch, pink lemonade, orange-pineapple, strawberry, mango, kiwi-watermelon . . .
MANGO?
Mango and they chose to go out with grape.
No, thank you!
See? You’re fine.
Thanks, I type.
It’s the longest interaction we’ve had in months. It feels so good to talk to someone who knows me. It feels so good to talk to him. Sam.
Also, it’s Valentine’s Day, and he texted me back right away. Maybe he’s not with Shannon. Maybe they’re not together anymore. Maybe.
My stomach flips.
What if?
I miss you, I tell him.
A minute passes. It’s a bleak minute.
Then,
I miss you, too.
SOME DECEPTION
I pass out on the couch, cake crumbs crusting my mouth, my phone clutched to my chest. I wake up there to the sound of a door shutting. I blink into the morning.
“Annie, darling?” I hear, followed by the distinct click of the dead bolt turning. The knob twists, and the door swings open.
Sophie stands there dressed in all black. Feathers and velvet and lace and fur. Her hood covers her eyes and casts a shadow over the rest of her face.
I look up at her, at this hooded figure, and feel an extraordinary, suffocating fear I’ve experienced only since I came to Rowan.
This fear is interrupted by the pitter-patter of many tiny legs clambering in from the bedroom.
Ralph.
Sophie removes her hood.
She’s beautiful, smiling. Amber eyes electric.
“Hello, little friend,” she says to Ralph. She lowers herself to the floor and pats his head with a long elegant finger. He shimmies with satisfaction.
“Annie,” Sophie says, turning to me, “I was worried.”
Panic sits on my chest.
Worried about what?
I prop myself up on the couch, my hangover announcing itself with some feral yelling.
“What do you mean?” I ask, releasing a cloud of my breath. I suspect someone could get drunk from merely smelling it.