And then I begin to put names to faces. One of the senators of Massachusetts is here, along with his wife. The headmaster of Edgewater Academy, with a glass of brandy in hand. The CFO of one of those charitable foundations that partners with Edgewater’s community service department; it’s the same foundation that our senior class had to work and volunteer with for twenty-five hours to graduate. The kind of people the Remingtons call to give keynotes at the Edgewater fundraisers every year, whenever we need a new but unnecessary update to the chem labs or the library.
They all know.
I try not to cry beneath my mask as Esme marches forward, leading us around and into the crowd, which parts like the Red Sea. As we approach the Remington Family, Pierce is brimming with pride, his smile bright, while his brother fights off a grimace, strain tightening the lines around his eyes.
“Congratulations,” Leighton murmurs, passing down the line, drawing each of us into a chilly hug. As she reaches me, I stiffen in her hold.
Leighton steps back and then moves to hug Saint, who extricates herself from the embrace as soon as she finds herself in it. When Leighton turns from us, I expect her to address the room at large, but she melts back into the circle of the Remingtons, and it’s Third who steps forward. Of course.
“My dear friends,” he begins, with far more enthusiasm than he’s ever shown any of us. “Tonight we celebrate the penultimate night of the Finish. The Finish is a long-standing tradition, and a mighty one, in which we determine the mettle of the ladies in our modern society. In certain years—the best years—we go a step further, searching the cream of the crop for a diamond. A new member of the family to bring forth its next generation. It is an important moment for us, to bring someone into the fold, and we treat it with the utmost sincerity and seriousness, as do these young women. Some ladies are sacrificed in this noble pursuit, and though we think fondly of them, we come together to celebrate those who remain.” What a nice way to say that girls have died under their watch. “May your evening be merry, my friends. Let the games continue.”
He toasts them with a half-finished glass of bourbon. And everyone raises a drink with a monotone Salut. I twist in disgust and turn to Saint.
“There are so many people. Why are there so many people?” I whisper. This changes things. This changes everything. I didn’t expect any more curveballs to be thrown, but the Remingtons, as always, love to show their winning hand right before they summarily beat you into submission.
“Just… smile and nod if anyone speaks to you,” Saint murmurs. “We should try to avoid accepting anyone’s challenges. Even without knowing what the Royale is, there’s nothing left to gain. I’m going to get a drink. You want anything?”
I almost decline, but I am tired and bone-achy and angry. “Yeah. Liquor.”
“There we go,” Saint says without humor, and prowls through a crowd that parts for her.
I can read the intense scrutiny from the horde of the rich. They don’t bother with being discreet, staring at my curls, at the shadow of bruises hidden underneath foundation on my shoulders, at the brown of my skin. They know who I am, at least, which brings it down to four—Who are the four other girls? they wonder. Only one is brave enough to approach me.
“I miss the black dress,” Graham says.
“Good for you,” I say bitterly, Penthesilea’s words still ringing loudly in my ears. “Nice speech from your dad.”
Graham scoffs, rubbing over his jaw. “Yes, it was very much his brand. Self-congratulating. Self-important. Self-obsessive. An unholy glorification of the Remington name.”
“Your name.” I can’t help the jab.
Graham stills. “Did I… do something wrong?”
It’s not what he’s done, per se, but what he might do. I sidestep the question, unwilling to get into it here.
“There’s a senator,” I observe, looking at him covertly as Third schmoozes him, all smirks and smiles. The Bonaviches are across the room with someone I might’ve seen in the news once or twice. Maybe something to do with oil. Esme’s parents are at the periphery of their little group. The rumors have clearly made their way to the adults, too.
The senator most definitely isn’t the only political piece they have in their stranglehold, ensuring their secrets are kept. Graham nods like he can hear my every thought. He whistles to himself. “This is fuck—”
“Graham, give us a moment.”
It’s like we’re being visited by goddamn Apollo. He swings out of whatever conversation he’s having, his lips pulled into his permanent smile. But all I can think is, Penthesilea calls him a monster.
When Graham gives him his full attention, my mood sours entirely.
“We were talking,” I say roughly.
Pierce looks back at me, wounded, like I’ve honestly hurt his feelings.
“You said you would save me a dance,” he says quietly. His tie is the same emerald as my gown, proving Saint right. Everyone’s eyes track him, making the connection. There’s a new sense of curiosity now, divorced from a Who is she? Now it’s Who will she be? I look down at his offered hand, then past him at Penthesilea where she stands, tall and frigid, between Leighton and Third.
She looks like she belongs. But she doesn’t have the same indulgent expression as Pierce’s father. Penthesilea is still as a sentry. A jail guard that is allowing her prisoner a privilege.
“You should dance with him,” Graham says, subdued. He’s so easily dismissed by his brother, like he can’t help but give him everything, like I’m something to give, and it makes me resent him, too.
“Don’t dismiss people like that, Pierce. And ask nicely,” I insist.
Pierce smiles, suddenly delighted again. It’s exhausting.
“May I have this dance?” he asks, bowing with a flourish, like I expect ostentation. Like I want the show, for everyone to see me take his hand, when I just wanted him to be fucking polite, like a normal human being.
But still, I take his hand and let him draw me onto the dance floor.
My silk skirts are made for dancing, swirling around my shins as we whip across the floor to the waltz, a dance that I don’t know but that he guides me through, one hand low on my back, the other holding my limp hand tight.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning in with a teasing smile. I don’t feel up to smiling, but I force out laughter, suddenly grateful for the mask. “You do look really lovely in that dress. Green is your color.”
“Looks like it’s yours, too,” I point out.
Pierce nods. “Do you like it?”
I stare hard at Pierce, tilting my head. “Pierce, you have been very kind to me throughout this entire… journey,” I begin, unsure of another word to describe it. Pierce nods, like he’s agreeing. “You’ve given me clues and assistance and answers. May I ask another question?”
“Always.”
“Why did you want a Finish?” I ask slowly.
Pierce stares down at me, blinking owlishly. “What do you mean?”
“Your brother didn’t have a Finish, did he?” I insist. “But you wanted one. Everyone has told me why you did. But I want to know from you. Why did you have one?”