There’s a target on Penthesilea’s back now, even if she acts like she doesn’t feel it, a thin veil that separates her from the rest of us.
Finally, after what feels like a century too long, Mr. Caine opens the door. “The Repartee awaits.” And we are shepherded off, all good little lambs brought to the slaughterhouse. No, wait, I guess that’s tomorrow. It doesn’t have to be. It won’t be. Get it together, Adina.
On the walk down the hall, I track Hawthorne as she falls back from standing at Esme’s side until she’s right next to me. Saint shoots her a wary look over my head.
“Nicely done,” Hawthorne decides, allowing herself to look mildly impressed.
Smugness tugs at my lips. “Thanks. I learned from the best,” I say, keeping my eyes on Esme’s back. Jacqueline has quickly wormed her way into Hawthorne’s abandoned place, whispering to Esme. Esme doesn’t even look at her; it’s how I know she’s seething.
I state the obvious: “Esme doesn’t look happy.”
“She doesn’t want me talking to you. But I want to talk to you,” Hawthorne says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because… I don’t like just talking to people that are afraid of Esme. Fearful people make boring conversationalists. And they don’t talk to me. They talk to her,” Hawthorne says plainly. Then her brow furrows. “She’s too distracted to pay them attention, though. And these kinds of girls, they’re needy for attention. That’s how you can gain their loyalty. But if I’m here talking to you, instead, she’s going to watch you all evening and spend the rest of the night asking me what we talked about, poring over every word.”
“Why do you report to her?” I ask. “Is she holding something over you?”
Hawthorne barks a laugh that doesn’t belong to her, a high-pitched sound that rings animalistic. Like a hyena. It’s a pitch-for-pitch match with Esme’s. A not-right tingle zips up my spine once more.
Hawthorne slaps her hand to her mouth and shakes her head. “I’ll tell her you said that. She’ll find it funny,” she says inexplicably.
“Ladies,” Mr. Caine calls again, far ahead of us. His impatience is obvious as he looks down at a slightly dented, glinting pocket watch. He snaps it shut.
No one speaks any more as we descend and pick up the pace. I grow tenser. Leighton has told us a few details as to what a Repartee is, but we know now not to take words at face value.
And then we’re at the doors.
“Announcing the Ladies of the Finish,” Mr. Caine says.
“Let the games begin,” Saint taunts in my ear.
I square my shoulders. “Haven’t they already?”
CHAPTER 14
THE PHONOGRAPH IS PLAYING LIVELIER music tonight, a big band record that’s meant to make the room feel fuller but instead has the effect of sucking the air right out of the parlor. The room is slightly on the side of too warm, probably from the unseasonal fire roaring in the enormous fireplace, for ambiance and aesthetic over practicality. The chandelier overhead is lit with candles, like this is the seventeenth century. But the wood is warm and there’s no gold filigree wallpaper or wide windows, just long slotted ones. This is a room that’s used, and frequently.
Leighton and Third are a united front, giving off a surprisingly welcoming feel. She smiles proudly, looking at all of us, her eyes flitting around in search before she finally finds me—and nods her approval. Pierce stands to his father’s right, like a good son. And Graham… well, Graham is harassing the bartender in the corner for another drink, despite the three servers standing at attention with trays of champagne.
“Ladies, welcome to the first Repartee,” Leighton says, her husky voice reaching deep into my chest. “The Repartees—of which there are three—are timeless moments of the Finish, in which a young lady can further determine her fate through hard-won advantages. A Repartee is meant to reflect the skills required to conquer the challenge that she faces the next day. During my Finish, the first Repartee preceding my Ride was a round of charades. It was a moment in which the purpose of the Ride was further illuminated—a moment where our bodies had to speak louder than our voices. Our bodies, the strengths of them, were weapons. But as your Game Mistress, I have gone a different course. We will be playing cards. The cards, much like your horses, are a tool. It’s what you do with that tool that determines your success. Let this night begin with light fare in anticipation for tomorrow.”
No one moves toward the collection of card games waiting on the table. Instead, we surge forward, each of us vying for the attention of a Remington. Hawthorne tears herself from my side quickly to join Esme as she approaches Leighton, being sure to get there before I can. Jacqueline and the Hannahs are like puppies, clamoring for Pierce’s eyes. Penthesilea is welcomed with an outstretched arm to join Third’s side.
“I’m going to get a drink. Circle the room before I have my conversations. I’d advise you to do the same,” Saint says with a nod toward Third, and suddenly, I’m alone amongst the wolves.
I walk slowly toward the games. It’s not a wide variety. It’s all cards, as promised. And yet I still feel the looming threat of a curveball, one shaped by violence. A server finds me, offering a glass of champagne.
I take it without the intention of drinking. The sharp scent of bubbles stings my nose and I clear my throat. I’ve never been good at standing alone. It makes me feel like I’m backed into the corner, like the only way out is by being wild, and I’m not supposed to be wild, not ever again.
“Adina Walker, as I live and breathe, you look like a goddamn funeral.”
I glare at Graham, but the heat of it is gone. I’m not his biggest fan, but I can’t forget that he is actually helping me.
“Thanks, it’s mine. Scheduled for tomorrow evening. Hope you can make it.”
Graham’s smile slips. “That’s not funny, Adina.”
“I wasn’t trying be,” I admit, looking down at the champagne.
“I’ll finish that off for you if you want,” Graham says.
“Should you really be drinking more?” I ask.
Graham scoffs. “I’m not drunk.”
“No, but you want to be,” I retort.
Graham’s entire demeanor stiffens. “I don’t think you know me well enough yet to cast that kind of accusation.”
“Probably not.”
“You can’t waste a hundred-dollar glass of champagne,” Graham tries again.
I promptly throw the entire champagne back like it’s a shot out of pure spite. It tingles on its way down and I regret my brashness. But I don’t regret the look of sheer delight on Graham’s face at my audacity.
I roll my eyes and look back over at Leighton. She looks bored with her conversation, despite her attentive nods. I can tell from the way her eyes glance over at Third every thirty seconds. It’s the opening I need.
“Excuse me,” I say brusquely, ignoring Graham’s startled noise.
“Adina, wait, I wanted to tell you about—”
But nothing he could tell me is more important than Leighton’s signal. I look for Saint and find her at the fringes, arms folded as she sips her champagne, smirking at the rest. I come up behind her, hooking my arm through hers and herd us toward Leighton.