Then she looks at me and her expression flattens. “She’s asking for you, Walker,” she says primly.
I don’t quite pause in my game of Solitaire—I’m losing. Badly.
After lunch the games were laid out for us to pick from—the same games that I’ve seen before: Go, Monopoly, Catan—and an added stack of cards. Decision-making games, specifically. I chose to go back to a deck of cards. Solitaire seemed right, since I could do it solo, but I’ve already lost twice, made too many shitty decisions.
Saint looks up from her own deck, frowning over at me. “Since when did you have a meeting with her?”
“I don’t,” I say absently.
“Well, don’t keep Aunt Leighton waiting,” Jacqueline says sharply, finally shaking me out of my game. She twists back to smile toothily at Esme.
“Wish me luck,” I say to Saint.
“You think you need luck?” Saint asks.
“No,” I say with a tight smile. Whatever Leighton wants, I’m sure it’ll be good. It’s close to the Raid and I haven’t spoken to her privately yet. She’ll have something for me, something that’ll help Saint and me. “Protect my game. I’m going to finish it when I’m done.”
I stand and pretend that I don’t feel everyone else’s eyes on me. At least I’ve gotten a lot better about acting like it doesn’t affect me. I ascend the stairs, then walk down the hallway, moving as quietly as a breeze, my bare feet sliding across the wood.
I probably should have stopped to put on shoes, I think as I approach.
I mean to knock the second I reach her door, but in a mockery of the night I tried to escape, I hear that same voice first.
“…indifferent. Do you understand why that’s a problem?” Third demands.
“I fail to see how it’s my problem. Third, you need to leave. I have one of the girls coming to speak with me,” Leighton says. It’s strange, hearing the pair of them speak. She sounds caught between exhaustion and the kind of coldness that women get when they want someone like him to leave them alone and he doesn’t get the hint.
“About?”
“Does it matter?”
“It’s that girl. You’re plotting—” Third accuses.
“No one’s plotting anything. You’re paranoid,” Leighton says carefully. And then, in her lilting voice, she asks, “Are you frightened, Third?”
“Of what?” Third snarls.
“Your eldest son is a failure. And your heir… well, he’s not doing as he’s told. Yes, I know you’ve had the winner of this Finish handpicked from youth. Penthesilea Bonavich is perfect on paper,” Leighton drawls. “But the heart wants what the heart wants, and he wants… what was it you called me all those years ago? ‘Working-class gar—’？”
“Now you listen to me,” Third says, his voice so quiet, I have to strain to hear. Leighton falls silent with a sharp inhale. “You were never my first choice for my little brother. I would’ve rather you ended in the gutter with the rest of your kind in that disgusting little town. But you are one of us now. Barely. But you are. Even after the death of my brother, I allow you to live here, year after year, leading the Finish. But make no mistake, it is only because I allow it. And I will not extend the same to her. She doesn’t have the mettle. This is what happens when we let diversity lead our decisions.”
Great. I’m the diversity pick.
I expect her to stick up for me, but Leighton doesn’t say anything. I swallow. Perfect Leighton, with her beautifully curled blond hair, her sloping nose, her defined jaw. Gutter trash. Working-class garbage.
And then she says: “Come in, Adina.”
I take a step back, stunned. There are two heavy steps and then the door is thrown open.
Third looms above me, his expression so cold, my lungs freeze.
“Little girls shouldn’t be privy to conversations between their betters,” Third says carefully as I walk in. “Eavesdropper.” It’s almost childish.
“Classist.” The word drops from my mouth before I can stop it, and I slap my hand to my lips.
Third sneers. For a moment he looks like he might actually try to attack me, and then Leighton is there. But she’s not looking at Third. She’s looking at me.
“What is wrong with you, Miss Walker? You are a guest,” she condemns.
I look at her, shocked. I thought she’d be pleased with my quip, defending us both, but she stares at me with none of the same pride from before. Third stares for one more moment and then exits, shutting the door quickly. Somehow, it feels like he’s stealing the last word.
“Miss Walker,” Leighton says, waving toward the seats. I swallow hard as I enter what feels like a confessional that I am too restless for.
“Aunt Leighton.” I shuffle closer, sliding onto the velvet couch. She doesn’t sit in the adjacent chair today, just leans against her enormous wooden desk, a glass of wine in hand despite the early afternoon sun filtering through her half-shuttered windows.
“Are you ready to behave?” Leighton asks.
I nod slowly, even though it seems an absurd question. Something’s different. Whatever just happened has made it different.
“Well, then, my dear, how are you?” Leighton asks as if it isn’t, but “my dear” has never sounded so damning.
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly.
Leighton purses her lips and lets out one of her deep laughs, the ones that sound like dark chocolate, rich and bitter.
“You are quite the popular character, I’ll have you know. You’ve made an impression,” she says, wanting me aware that every one of the other girls has me on her tongue. Like I don’t already know.
“The Raid is almost here,” I murmur, staring out at the maze that dominates the grounds. It’s the kind of thing that belongs to fairy tales. But eight-foot-tall hedges full of dangers don’t promise childlike dreams.
“Yes. I hope you feel ready, Miss Walker,” Leighton says like a command after a sip of red stains her tongue purple.
“Does anyone ever feel ready for danger?” I sigh.
Leighton raises an eyebrow. “Do you feel like you’re in danger, Adina?”
“I haven’t stopped feeling like I am in danger since the moment I stepped through those front doors,” I admit, my fingers digging into the fabric of my leggings. “And that’s gotten worse in the past few minutes. Did I do something wrong?”
Leighton straightens, slowly setting her wine down. “My dear, do you feel as if you did?”
“Don’t call me ‘my dear’ or answer my question with a question,” I say, dropping all pretense. I evaluate her soft blond waves, the plushness of her purple-painted mouth, the way the skin of her throat looks thinner than it should. She is physically perfect, kept that way by the wealth she’s acquired, that she’d do anything to hold on to. “I’m not stupid, you know. Or… or so blinded by the prize that I don’t know that I’m being used as a pawn. Your pawn. You only like me or help me when I say or do what you demand. I didn’t react the way you wanted me to with Third.”