Every word comes out like cracked porcelain. And all of it and none of it makes sense with what I know about Pierce. Pierce, who picked me because he believed in me, who wanted to help me but found himself trapped. Pierce, who was simpleminded and really did believe in his whole “level the playing field” schtick. Pierce, who put clothes on me that I would never wear and told me again and again that I was something that I’m not. Pierce, who, for all he talks about being different, is just like his father in a different font.
“That’s not—”
“I know he gave you that dress, too,” Penthesilea continues. “Or did he send Graham to do it? Always doing what his beloved little brother, Four, asks. If Four asked him to let you die, he would, you know. It would hurt, but he would do it.”
Penthesilea says all of this clinically, like it means nothing to her that she’s devastating the small oasis of peace I’ve found in a world that is trying to kill me.
“He wouldn’t. He—”
“Graham would. I know him. Just like I know Pierce and all the worst parts of him. There’s a lot of them. That boy is rotten,” Penthesilea says.
“Why are you here, then?” I demand.
Penthesilea’s smile breaks for the first time. “Because… I have nothing else,” she whispers. “You have your dreams. Your future you want restored. I have Pierce. I have this. This is what I was bred for. To grow up, get a liberal arts degree, marry well, elevate my family to new heights with that marriage, smile and shake hands, have babies, and pick out the fine china. Be a good influence on the wretched Remington boy. Lead him to success, not yourself. Keep him from doing harm or damaging his reputation. The family reputation. Our class’s reputation. ‘Shrink yourself, Penthesilea, so that he never looks small. So that he never feels wrong.’ That’s what they’ve told me all my life. This is what I’ve always had. I can’t go back now. There would be nothing to go back to.”
And finally, I get her. What makes her uncanny and strange.
Penthesilea is not nice. Penthesilea is not sweet.
She is seething. In the gaps between her teeth, she holds bitterness and rage, the kind that has built with resentment for years. Penthesilea is not the rays of the sun. She is a moon, tethered forever to a planet that she does not want anything to do with but can’t exist without.
Penthesilea has found purpose at an altar, and it is made of Pierce’s skin, his hair, his eyes. She adores him, but wants to destroy him, one kiss at a time.
“Pierce wants a girl who’s finished. One who’s broken, that’s why he keeps you here. And he will break you,” Penthesilea whispers, staring at the ceiling. “What he needs is someone who cannot be broken by him.”
“What is… so awful about him?” I ask, voice catching in my throat.
Penthesilea smiles. “Adina… have you ever said no to him?”
I still. “What?”
“Have you ever said no to him?” she asks. When I don’t answer, she continues, “Try saying no and see what he does. That’s what’s wrong with him.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said no. Not meaningfully or forcefully. Even the no to Widow Maker was spun into a choice that he’d like. “Integrity,” he called it. So he wouldn’t feel rejected.
“They want to make you a killer because that’s what being a Remington is about. Kill to keep what you have. Kill to keep others from having it. Kill to keep the status quo. Kill to keep it perfect. Kill others. Kill yourself. All to keep them from harm, even of their own making. And we can call it a metaphor, and maybe it is, out there, but in here, it’s real,” Penthesilea says, her tone severe. “And if he chooses you, you won’t be able to do it. You won’t be able to do what needs to be done to keep things perfect. But I have sacrificed everything to make sure that I can. So I’ve kept you alive to placate him, but if I need to put you down to keep him in check—to keep it perfect—I will.”
Every word is one I need to hear, because it makes my future very clear. It makes everything clear for me, especially the fact that I can’t do what they call necessary.
But Penthesilea smiles at being the source of this revelation, like she’s being compassionate. Then in that same sweet voice she finally whispers, “Now get out.”
CHAPTER 27
“LADIES, TONIGHT IS YOUR DEBUT. Welcome to the final Repartee.” Any other day Leighton Remington would be met with applause. But it is not any other day. It is today, when we are all brought so low that any moment could be shattered by a hard edge. Leighton continues as if she is unbothered by the atmosphere.
She looks otherworldly, her hair curled to perfection, burnished gold in the light of the fireplace. She smells wealthy and she looks it too, wearing couture like she was born into it. She doesn’t have her glass of wine tonight, but leaning against the piano, she brings me back to the day of our arrival, all of us dressed up in white Edwardian lace for that group photo.
Now there are only five of us in the common room.
It feels too big. Saint and I sit on the love seat pressed against the far wall, our masks in our laps. Hawthorne and Esme are opposite us, on the piano bench. And finally, Penthesilea, in the middle, sits alone.
“Put on your masks and form a single-file line,” Leighton commands. “Who you were no longer matters. Who you will become is all there is.”
We do as she bids, because we are conditioned now. I secure the mask over my face with silver ribbons.
“This is weird,” I mumble, my voice muffled by the porcelain.
Saint casts me a pointed look as she secures her own half mask. “Is it weirder than the death games?”
“Almost.”
We fall in line, and even Esme seems too tired to say something caustic or snide, instead quietly allowing Hawthorne to secure her mask before we’re whisked from the room.
Tonight there are no eerie shadows. Everything is cast in so much light that even the dark wood looks alien. The stale smell that I’ve grown used to has been replaced by the smell of Pine-Sol and the unique scent of burning wax. The carpet looks like it’s been gone over with a vacuum about a dozen times, though I can’t recall having heard it. There are whispers in the walls, and if I didn’t know better, I might believe they were ghosts.
In the moment before we enter the ballroom, I steel myself for what feels like the millionth time. I remind myself that this isn’t the Royale yet. I have survived a deadly horse race and a combat treasure hunt. The Remingtons—despite what they stand for—should not scare me more than that.
But when the doors open, all my thoughts are wiped away as we’re met with thunderous applause. The only reason I don’t turn away is the sharp bite of Hawthorne’s nails at my wrist, stilling me.
The Remingtons have invited guests. There are at least two dozen people here, and for a moment I am lighter than air, choking on my giddiness. There are people here. People who don’t know anything about all of this. People who will believe me if I tell them what’s been done to us, if I show them the still-healing bruises on my sides and my thighs. If I tell them about the girls who were here, who are all now gone.