“Well, what are you doing here, then, if you knew what this was about?”
Saint turns to meet my gaze as she draws a garment bag out from her trunk. She tilts her head, examining the contents, and then tosses it aside. “My father wants to expand into the States. We’re in real estate. The Remingtons have their fingers in every pie—petroleum, glass, energy, fiber. Things you need to build buildings. And I had this idea… that we should contract with them. We’d pay a reduced price for using them exclusively. And in turn, since it’s a crowded market here, the Remingtons would help us make room. I’m here to lay groundwork. To force this contract and prove that I know what I’m talking about.”
“It all sounds… dangerous,” I mutter.
“Maybe. But I’m a survivor and I have leverage now, being here. Remington doesn’t want to cross my family. I’m in control,” Saint says. She believes it to be true. I’m not so sure.
I don’t say anything. Instead, I move toward the wardrobe, reaching for my wrap dress, which I’m sure everyone will whisper about, when a knock on the door distracts me.
When I come to the door, Saint stands just behind it, lying in wait just in case. I crack it slightly.
“Yes?” I relax minutely when I see only the pale shape of Mr. Caine in his crisp suit.
“Miss Walker, if you would, the mistress of the house took the liberty of providing something suitable,” he says, his eyebrow twitching with impatience, or maybe disapproval. I take a step back, squaring my feet as I open the door a little wider. He offers a garment bag.
The crisp white muslin is just another confirmation of Leighton’s favor. She really does see us aligned in purpose, and it gives me some much-needed confidence going into another night of the unknown. This will be an even more formal night than the past few, and still I haven’t seen a single other girl repeat an outfit except for our riding uniforms, in case a Remington showed their face during dinner. Of course, they never did.
I thank Mr. Caine and then shut the door. Immediately, I unzip the garment bag, revealing the semiformal dress. It’s couture. Black, like my borrowed dress, with the same shape but now with a bustier bodice, sheer netting sleeves, and a black tulle ballerina skirt, all kept modest by its tea length.
“That’s Oscar de la Renta. Classic,” Saint murmurs, stroking the nylon top.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful. I bury my face into the fabric, breathing in. It smells strangely like Leighton, though I can tell it’s new.
“You want to smell it or wear it?” Saint asks.
I roll my eyes at her sarcasm as I strip out of my robe. The bruises on the insides of my thighs are stark. I poke at the yellowing spots and Saint frowns, unconsciously rubbing her own shoulder, the one she fell on yesterday.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. I don’t quite believe her as she distractedly goes through another trunk before pulling out a turquoise silk number, the kind that will spill over every line of her body. “Do you have any gel?”
I snort. “Do I have gel?” I go to my second bag, the one full of my hair products. “Help yourself.”
As Saint goes to the bathroom to get herself ready, I slip into my dress, gasping at the feel of the finery against my bare skin. I try to reach behind me to zip it up but only manage it halfway. Still, it’s easily the best I’ve ever looked. Until I glance over at my casual blocky heels. They’ll look terrible with the dress.
Saint is humming in the bathroom mirror, probably going through her massive jewelry collection, searching for those long dangly diamonds that’ll look nice with the simplicity of the silk slip dress. At least, it’s what I’d pick out for tonight. It’s dramatic, the kind of look that you’d want to see in close-ups. I’ve spent all my life seeing girls dress that way for school dances and sweet sixteens, all working hard for the effortlessness that Saint actually achieves.
As she assembles an armor of makeup, slick black hair, and YSL heels, I envy her just like I’ve envied the rest of them, all these years. But when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, in this dress, I know that I too could be an object of envy. It feels like a costume, but I wonder—just for a tiny moment—what it would feel like if it weren’t. But the memory of Margaret’s purpling face and the soreness of bruised skin banishes the thought, and my confidence erodes. I need to get it back.
“We should go to the common room,” I say, the thought sparking.
“Why?”
“Because that’s where they’ll be. And I want them to see me,” I say firmly.
Saint’s mouth twitches. “Risky, but could have good payoff if you want to unbalance Esme,” she says. “And she needs some unbalancing.”
“Agreed.”
When we enter the common room, I push my shoulders back.
Esme is holding court, dressed like a queen in a red gown with a plunging neckline, with Hawthorne standing at her right hand. Hawthorne has always looked like a porcelain doll to me. Dainty, rose-cheeked, pale, and breakable. She looks even more so next to her best friend, in a sea-green dress that looks more suited for a sixties mod girl, her long blond hair spilling down her back to meet her short hem. But tonight, shockingly, she’s the one in the diamond collar.
“—course is unwieldy, but hold to the right and stay in tight formation and we’ll make it through. Are we clear?” Esme says coldly, tapping on the map she has spread over the coffee table, the other girls, dripping in taffeta, all nodding seriously, like this is a war meeting.
Esme stops when she notices me in the doorway. “Walker, why are you dressed in this season’s de la Renta? Aren’t you poor?”
Aren’t you about to be? I bite my tongue. There are other ways to challenge Esme, to demonstrate that I’m ahead of her in this game.
Instead, I smile sweetly. “Aunt Leighton noticed that I was… lacking in more formal wear. She just wanted to make sure I feel like I belong.” And I do.
“You look like a pretender,” Esme accuses.
“Leighton doesn’t think so,” I say. Esme has nothing to say to that, and I smile wider as I watch her flex her hands into fists, only smoothed out by Hawthorne’s touch.
Saint cracks the tepid silence as she steps around me and sits in the armchair, tugging me along to squish into it together. Our backs are to the wall, giving us the widest vantage point. From here, I can see another group has formed outside of Esme’s merry band of bloodthirsty bitches—a trio of girls, mousy brunettes, whose names I can’t remember except for one—Reagan. They never speak above a whisper, so it’s no wonder Esme hadn’t found them threatening enough to recruit. She picks her battles a little more carefully now. She waits to see what’s underneath before she comes for them. Strategic.
Saint leans in and whispers, “No sight of Pentatonic.”
“Spoken too soon,” I correct as the door cracks open.
Penthesilea draws every eye, but not a single greeting, as she enters the common room. Her pink dress flutters around her shins, dotted with lightly sparkling strawberries. She steps against the wall, smiling when I meet her eyes, wiggling her fingers in a wave. I give a half wave back and watch as she turns to look at Esme and her alliance. Jacqueline is staring at her intently. But no one dares approach.