“Onward, ladies, or you shall be late for dinner.”
It feels a bit like a parade from then on. We march back down the hallway, heels sinking into the overplush Persian runner, and then clicking on the stairs.
“Careful not to scuff the wood,” Mr. Caine barks when the girl just ahead of Penthesilea trips.
I pay close attention to the sloping walls. There is a lingering layer of dust motes on the windowsills that reminds me of the age of this place, a stately home that has stood for centuries now. Still, the house isn’t as complicated as I previously thought. We’re moving toward what I’m already starting to recognize as the heart of the estate, approaching a pair of tall, heavy wooden doors.
“Have a lovely dinner, ladies,” Mr. Caine says, throwing them open.
We come to a stop in the doorway as I survey the Remington Family gathered inside as a whole.
Pierce Maxwell Remington III is a solid man, the kind whose hair might’ve once been blond but it is now more ash colored than anything else. It’s slicked back, revealing a proud forehead and a sloping brow. The cut of his suit is expensive, tight against the lines of his body. One hand rests on his namesake’s shoulder, and just looking at Pierce, it’s easy to imagine what Mr. Remington looked like in his wonder years.
It’s also easy to see how Pierce’s conservative navy suit would look perfect next to Penthesilea’s golden gown. Gold like she’s already won.
I shake the thought away and turn to the last two members of the Remington Family.
Graham stands there looking bored, while Aunt Leighton looks pleased by something. She whispers something in Pierce’s ear, but her gaze stays on us. Pierce smiles once, and nods at whatever she’s saying. And then he steps forward, arms stretched open wide.
“Ladies… welcome to the Opening,” Pierce declares.
He claps, still nodding, and leads us in applause that feels more for the Remingtons than for us, as they stand tall and powerful, basking in it all. Pierce steps back into the fold of his family, and for a moment they are a four-headed monster.
Then they scatter, leaving us to divide and conquer.
Margaret darts forward, smiling brightly. “Dr. Remington! Or should I call you Aunt Leighton?” she asks cheerfully.
“Pierce, darling, can I steal you for a second?” Esme drawls, stalking forward, her clique all falling over themselves to join her in speaking to the son of honor.
They leave Saint and me in the dust, and there’s a brief moment of confusion as we’re swept up in a sea of movement when at least five servants march between us, all balancing silver platters with bubbling champagne glasses.
“Look alive, Adina,” Saint hisses, just as I’m trying to decide where to go. She’s right. The competition starts now and I have to be smart about this. I grit my teeth, searching for my target. I’ve already met every other Remington. It’s about time that I acquaint myself with the one I haven’t.
“Let’s talk to the father.” I gesture. “He looks like he’d want to talk to us, right?”
Saint snorts. “Sure. He’s probably drawn to the ‘exotic.’？”
I roll my eyes at her, so pointedly that she laughs behind her hands, but straightens as we near him.
“Mr. Remington, pleasure to see you,” Saint says, and suddenly, she sounds older.
“Mr. Remington, it’s good to meet you,” I say, standing tall. I treat it like a college admissions interview. It’s all the same. This is someone I need to impress. Someone I need to convince of my worthiness.
“Roo-lan, how is your father?”
He says her name strangely, without any of the care Leighton used. It sounds wrong, and he seems oddly proud of it despite himself.
“He’s well, sir. And please, call me Saint,” she answers delicately.
Mr. Remington nods. “Yes, yes, I do remember that you chose an English name. Cute. But I can pronounce your name, Roo-lan.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Saint says through a pretty smile, full of teeth.
I hold my breath, waiting for Mr. Remington to snap back. Instead, he looks pleased. “Then… Saint,” he says. “You’ve graduated, haven’t you? Any idea of where you’ll be going?”
“I’ll be attending Princeton,” Saint says, sounding rather put out by the fact. “I wanted to go to uni back home, but my parents believe that the Ivies will suffice.”
“Princeton isn’t Harvard, but not much else is,” Mr. Remington says. “You know, I went to Harvard.” We all know he went to Harvard. We get it, Remingtons go to Harvard. “I rowed. What’s your sport?”
“Fascinating.” Saint somehow makes it sound true and like an insult all at once. “I’m afraid I don’t play any sports.”
“You must have padded that résumé somehow. After all, Asians don’t really count as minorities anymore, do they? Do you play any instruments?” Mr. Remington asks. I wince. He’s on his third glass of bourbon since we’ve entered the room. Each time he drains the glass in one swallow, a server is there to exchange the empty crystal for a fresh one. “Piano?”
Saint stares at Mr. Remington “No, I don’t play any instruments. I’m not that sort of Asian,” she says very coolly.
I expect Mr. Remington to blanch or turn red, but he does nothing of the sort. Instead, he laughs, like he’s delighted by the casualness of his racism, and by the casualness of Saint’s quick comeback.
“Oh?” he challenges.
“No. I understand that you selected some of these ladies based on skills like that, but I can’t claim musicianship,” Saint says loftily. “I don’t have the time. I’m deeply invested in the success of my family’s business.”
“How so?” Mr. Remington interjects now.
“I’ve been attending meetings with my family’s investors from the time when my n?i nai still ran our company. We’re in real estate development,” Saint says with a proud smile. “So, no, I did not have time to learn my scales. I was in the business of learning the stock market instead.”
“Oh. Very good,” Mr. Remington says, and now he sounds impressed. He licks his thin, dry lips like he’s hungry, even greedy. “So, you’ll know all about your father’s stance on moving into the American market—”
“Ah, ah, Mr. Remington,” Saint says with a placid smile. “That’s insider information. For now.” She turns and plucks two champagne flutes off a passing platter, then offers one to me.
I take it, knowing the bubbles will take off the edge that has me wary, but it’s exactly that wariness that tells me I need my wits about me. I hold the flute close to my lips and mime taking a sip. I can taste the champagne on my tongue, but I don’t swallow.
“And, Miss Walker,” Mr. Remington begins, finally turning toward me. “Oh, I’ve heard about you.”
“Have you?” I ask, my voice pitching higher with my rising discomfort.
Mr. Remington looks thoughtful. “Yes. My boy says that you were very kind to him at the bonfire, when you didn’t have to be. You listened. Kindness is harder and harder to come by, the higher you ascend. Pierce knows that better than anyone. You must have made quite the impression.”