Chapter 37 Sutton
SUTTON
Jean-Louis invites Beckett and I to brunch at the manor, but when I show up, only Mother is there to greet me. I’m not sure where Beckett is at all—haven’t seen him since he left the apartment this morning, saying he was going to work out in the student gym.
I’ve been seeing a lot less of him lately, but I’m choosing to chalk it up to the fact that he’s gotten some of his color back and seems to be going out more.
And the fact that there’s a certain brunette student who’s been occupying most of my free time as of late. Especially now that she’s aware of Death’s Teeth and practically a part of it.
Fuck, I still can’t believe I did that, pulling her into this mess when all I wanted was to keep her out of it.
The only reassurance I have is that they don’t know exactly who the offerings were that night.
My goal is to convince them I’ve picked Sabrina as my Maiden and some poor unfortunate soul as the sacrifice, sating the members’ desire for bloodshed and carnality at the hands of their Incarnate while keeping Elle from their actual reach.
Regardless, Elle is stuck with me now. Whether I can make her my Maiden officially or not, my mind’s made up.
But she’s not here at the moment, so I focus on this random encounter instead. I typically don’t visit the manor much during the semester, but the invitation seemed important.
Color me surprised to see Jean-Louis couldn’t be bothered to attend.
Mother had the chef make a spread of my favorites—pain au chocolat, Boursin omelets, asparagus-and-zucchini frittatas—and spends the afternoon trying to get me to eat everything on my own.
“Mother, honestly.” I hold my napkin to my mouth, pushing away the tofu scramble she’s sliding in my direction. “I’m quite full.”
She pouts, taking a sip of her mimosa. “You look a bit thin, darling. I’m simply trying to make sure you get quality meals and don’t rely solely on vending machine subs the way you did when you were an undergrad.”
“Well, coming home back then felt a bit weird, so that certainly played a hand in my dietary habits.”
Her green eyes find mine over her glass. “Yes, I suppose it did.”
I wrap my fingers around my water. “Beckett told me you cleared out her room.”
“Eight years is more than enough, Sutton. Are we supposed to remain stagnant forever? It never brings anyone back.”
Sadness tinges her voice, and she downs the rest of her drink, signaling for a member of the kitchen staff to refill it.
Chopin fills the courtyard, lilted notes filtering through an open window from an old record player in the main sitting room.
I prop an elbow on the table and rest my chin on my fist, trying to identify the exact feeling within me.
Shame and misery, maybe, to an extent—those are nothing new when I think about my twin’s death. But there’s something else, a kernel of confusion surrounding all the mystery, that hovers close behind the rest of the emotions, preventing me from feeling the others fully.
I glance at Mother as she busies herself with the sourdough pancakes before her, spreading marmalade over top and cutting a bite off. She dips it in syrup but never quite manages to bring the piece to her mouth.
Perhaps she’s as stuck as I am and clearing out Bellamy’s old room was an attempt at pushing herself through the sludge. I’d venture a guess that moving on is much easier to do when you don’t have constant reminders smacking you in the face every day.
“Her things are boxed up in the attic if you’d like to pick through them.” Mother folds her napkin, placing it on her plate. “I’m not sure what you’ll find there, but if the dismantling of her room bothers you the way it does Beckett, you’re free to look for mementos.”
“Beckett’s upset about her room?”
She sighs. “Darling, it’s very difficult to tell with that boy. Everything seems to upset him these days.”
I pause, considering. “Well, he was almost beaten to death in the fall.”
“Almost,” she notes. “And as a consequence of his own actions. I hardly think he has the right to be upset about that.”
“Whether he has a right to is beside the point. The brain and the heart don’t always operate with logic at the forefront.”
Sitting back in her chair, she presses the backs of her hands to her cheeks, as if trying to cool herself down, as the courtyard has two mirroring fireplaces providing warmth to the area. “Are you suggesting he see a therapist?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “If that’s what he wants.”
“You didn’t need therapy after what happened to you,” she says, waving one hand. “Besides, what would the Blackwaters and Westwoods think? The Abbotts and Julie Ouellette? Our social reputation around Fury Hill has taken enough of a beating recently without adding crazy people to the mix.”
“Beckett isn’t crazy,” I say. “He said Father was the one who convinced him to lure those people into the caves. Speaking of, where is Father? I thought he was too sick to leave the house, yet he doesn’t appear to be here.”
“He has good and bad days,” she says.
“Well, I’m just not sure any of them should be spent on campus. I have a hard enough time keeping Beckett from him as it is. I don’t think—”
“On campus?” Her eyes widen, and she sits up straighter. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s been there multiple times this semester.”
She frowns, fear seeping into the lines on her face. “The rumors about the Anderson children… Are they true?”
“The curse? You know I don’t—”
“No, that the three descendants are on Avernia soil this semester.” She looks at me, her eyes pleading. “Tell me it’s not. That you haven’t been there this entire time while they run amok.”
“Jesus, Mother, you act as if they’re out to get me.”
“It isn’t you I’m worried about,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s them.”