Hawthorne has stopped breathing next to me. Esme didn’t call for her.
There’s a moment where the girls hesitate. They aren’t sure after what she’s done. Her absence this morning, coupled with Hawthorne mentioning that she’s been disciplined, seem to be confirmation of what she is capable of. They also know that whether or not Esme did hurt Margaret, she’s the one who’s still here, still in the running, having taken one of their competitors down. I can see the choice before they even make it.
The girls rush to her side, dogs to their master. Vassals to their liege.
I recognize each of them as enemies officially. At least I finally know what Hannah R looks like—very New York, the vibes definitely different from Hannah G, so I can see why she doesn’t want to be mistaken for her.
“You weren’t at breakfast this morning. Did you eat?” Hannah R says attentively.
“Aunt Leighton says that she spoke to you. Are you in trouble?” Hannah G asks.
“I did eat, Hannah R, thank you for asking. One of the maids brought me breakfast in bed,” Esme says carefully. “And Aunt Leighton speaks to all the girls. The Finish is quite taxing on the mind, and as a licensed psychiatrist, she’s most equipped in handling the emotional challenges that the Finish creates.”
“You mean emotional challenges that you create.” I don’t regret speaking aloud for once. Now everything’s in the open. It’s useless to pretend.
Esme’s cold gaze flits over to me. She slowly sits up on the chaise.
“Whatever do you mean, Adina?” she asks sweetly.
“You killed someone yesterday,” I insist.
It’s like I’ve spoken something unforgivable, the way they redirect their gazes to the floor. Hannah R swallows a sniffle and Esme casts her a warning look. Pretending is easier when it’s something you’ve done all your life, and confronting the truth is too ugly for pretty girls. Margaret was a pretty girl too, and that did not serve her at all.
“What a cruel accusation,” Esme simpers with a pout. “Hawthorne shares a room with me. If I wanted to hurt someone, wouldn’t she have been an easier target? Right, Hawthorne?”
“Right,” Hawthorne says weakly, but also with a touch of odd relief. Like she’s been waiting to be addressed.
Hawthorne marches over to her without a backward glance. She sits gingerly on the chaise next to Esme and Esme giggles, leaning into her side.
“How was training?” she asks, just for Hawthorne. This is the Hawthorne I remember. The Hawthorne who was always Esme’s friend first and never mine at all.
I stalk away, glaring down at the spread in front of me, the charcuterie of meats and cheeses and fruits becoming an abstract painting. A platter of dainty sandwiches swims in front of me.
“If you’re going to go at her, go at her with a purpose,” Saint hisses.
“She murdered a girl and no one was going to say a word to her. She thinks she got away with it and telling her she didn’t is my purpose,” I say, seething and piling my plate full of the rich meats and expensive cheeses.
“She’s watching you,” Saint warns. “She’s pretending that she isn’t, but she is. She wants you to get mad and come at her so no one will blink an eye if she does it to you.”
Well. As usual, Esme’s gotten her wish.
CHAPTER 13
I WAIT FOR ESME TO make her move over the next two days. She doesn’t.
The day after our lunch altercation, she joins us for training. It’s then that I realize that the real punishment, besides her morning “time-out,” was having less time to prepare. Not that she needs it. She fits in effortlessly with the more advanced group, and as Graham rides beside Hannah and me, I catch glimpses of her. Esme’s not as talented as Penthesilea, who rides like she’s Artemis incarnate, but she’s right behind her, out of sheer will. Whenever they race in groups of three, Esme leans forward in her saddle, her eyes narrowed into slits as she chases Penthesilea.
But she always comes in second. And it always enrages her.
The day after, I learn to jump for the first time. It terrifies me. Starlight knows what to do far more than I do, so I try to just trust her, but still, I fall off the first time. It doesn’t hurt so much as shock the fuck out of me. But after I get back on and do it successfully, Graham calls it progress, and I see my ease and confidence building, even though it’s slow. There’s no way for me to feel ready in time—they don’t want any of us to be ready, they want us frightened—but I gain a single-mindedness. It’s only the first event. Winning for me will be getting through it alive.
After falling time and again through hedges and fences, I’m achy all over, but getting used to it. Graham recommends ice baths, but I’m too nervous to call Mr. Caine for the ice, so I take two freezing showers a day.
That night after the latest, my teeth chatter and I tug my robe tighter around my body where I sit with Saint, the cool air prickling my skin despite the warmth of the setting sun cutting through the glass windows. I briefly cast a cursory look over at the map we taped to the inside of the wardrobe. We found the map to the Ride sealed in a heavy cream envelope along with an invitation to this evening’s Repartee, our first, when we came back from training.
“Come on now, Adina. Pay attention,” Saint says sharply.
I jolt, flicking my eyes back over to her. She sits across from me, glaring, closely guarding her cards. I look down at my hand, refocusing on our game. “What’s it called when I have three cards with the same suit? Is that three of a kind or does it have a special name?”
“Tā mā de, you can’t tell me your hand!” Saint barks.
“I didn’t!”
“What suit do you have? Hearts?”
“Maybe.”
“See, you just did,” Saint says, throwing her cards down. “God, you’re terrible at card games. What’s going to happen if Esme challenges you to a game tonight?”
I purse my lips. “The person challenged always picks the game, anyway. We’ll play Old Maid or something.”
“Okay, Adina, if you don’t know how to play real card games, why do you have a deck?” Saint asks.
I swallow and slowly turn my head. I stare at her ear. “They belong to my best friend, Toni. She gave them to me to keep me occupied…” I hiccup out a laugh, remembering when I thought there might be moments of boredom. “I was supposed to go to Yale, but something happened. She feels responsible. She’s not, but… she encouraged me to come out of guilt and now…”
Saint flops back on her comforter and sighs, folding her hands over her belly. She stares up at the canopy of her bed, probably studying the stray patterns up there. I lie next to her, searching for whatever she’s staring at. For a moment it feels like lying on the carpet with Toni, and I miss her like an amputated limb, a haunting.
“Well, if your friend is from Edgewater, it sounds a little like she might have set you up here,” Saint says as she slips off the bed, jutting her chin at the wall clock—we’ve only an hour to get ready.
“No, she didn’t. She’s not like that. She… she was on the outside looking in too,” I defend. Saint snorts and it incenses me, her dismissal. “She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known. She would’ve never told me to come here…，” but I trail off, startled to find I’m not sure even if I trust my own conviction. Not anymore. Charles is Pierce’s best friend. Did he…？ No. I shake it off.