Chapter 15 #2
“Here. Hold this.” He passes me the phone and pats his jeans pockets, his jacket pockets, then fishes a hand inside for a wallet, from which he extracts a card that he then holds in his teeth as he replaces the wallet with one hand and gestures for the phone back with the other.
“Thanks,” he says, removing the card and holding it at arm’s length to study the number. He glances at me again. “I’m gonna say…dark colors. Long sleeves.” His gaze drifts to my turtleneck. “High necklines.”
“That’s…what?” I stammer, piecing together what’s going on. “You can’t just…buy me clothes.”
“Me? No. I’m broke as fuck,” Kai says, his grin widening. “But Daddy Pendragon’s got a black card, and was stupid enough to put his foster son on the credit line.”
With one final tap of the thumb, he nods.
“Done. Package from Neiman’s coming to Broceliande Hall by 5 p.m. Wear your favorite and keep the rest.”
I’m too stunned to speak. Too confused to speak, really.
“Better get that R.S.V.P. in, though,” he adds, nodding at the card in my hand. “Don’t want them to give away your seat.”
Finally, I find my voice. “Why would you…why did you do that?”
Kai strolls back to the stationery cart, retrieves his stack of photocopied quizzes. Shrugs.
“To make some people angry. And maybe to make you happy, huh? ”
Papers in hand, he reaches out and gives me a little tap on the top of my head.
“Give ‘em hell, Wednesday.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I cannot believe I’m doing this.
The thought runs through my head like a drumbeat, like a pulse, as I scuttle across campus a few minutes before six p.m. Above me, the sky is a wild orange and purple, the kind of sunset you only get when a day of pounding rain breaks into a balmy, almost sunny late afternoon.
On the colorful backdrop, the full moon is rolling out from behind a tree.
Campus is dark, but alive; figures are moving from residence halls and houses in the slow, considered steps of twenty-year olds wearing tuxedoes and ballgowns after a few pregame servings of Schnapps.
Me, I did no pregaming, and even got ready alone.
Morgan’s nowhere to be found, and I have no way to contact her—no cell phone number, no…
I don’t know, forwarding address?—so I assume I’ll either see her at the formal dinner or she’ll reappear in her own good time.
I hitch up the skirt of my dress so the hem doesn’t drag over sticky, wet leaves, and pick up the pace. Which isn’t easy, in the matching (I think?) high heels that I’m wobbling on.
It’s probably for the best, anyway, that I came back alone, because the order Kai put in for me turned out to be…substantial. Six—six!—plush garment bags hanging to the side of the mailboxes, all so surprisingly heavy that I struggled to get them all up the stairs myself.
But I managed. Got them up. Unzipped the bags. Read the note.
Best wishes for a stellar evening !
—The shopping team at Neiman Marcus Boston
That’s a two-hour drive at least , meaning they’d booked it to get these here in time. And…
Voices come into range as I near the dining hall, snatches of conversation I can distinguish, and I instinctively straighten my spine as I enter the observable area around other people.
That’s the thing. The dress makes me feel…conspicuous. More than I usually do.
All six of them were gorgeous. Luxurious.
Nicer than anything I’d ever owned or worn, and Laura Vale didn’t skimp on her daughter’s wardrobe.
These, though, were next level. Heavy crushed velvet, satin smooth as sealskin, fairy-fine embroidery on yards and yards of tulle. Italian names on silky labels.
But in the end, I knew which one was right. Valentino—a name I know only insofar as it’s synonymous with fancy and expensive. Tiers of red silk chiffon, a swirling collar up to my neck, long sleeves. Layered, almost sculpted in places, yet light to wear. Comfortable.
Almost.
My ankle gives a precipitous wobble, and I stumble a few steps forward.
Can’t say the same for the shoes, though.
The tide of dinner-goers is thickening, more and more bunches of students drawn up the steps like moths to the golden lights of the hall, and the clock on the face of the chapel steeple is inching is iron hands toward 12 and 6.
I suck in a deep, deep breath, pick up my skirts, and plunge in.
Immediately I’m struck by how un like the dining hall it feels.
Granted, Caliburn’s facilities are luxe on a normal day, but this is elevated to a degree I didn’t think was possible outside of Oxford or Cambridge.
Billowing hangings in Caliburn red sweep from the middle of the ceiling to the side wall, catching the glow of candles—candles!
—in the brass chandeliers. The tables have been pushed together from individual islands into four long banquet-style seatings, set with a tablescape of votive lamps, sprigs of olive and rosemary, and bright bunches of marigolds and dahlias.
Instead of trays, chairs are individually set with places: gold-rimmed china, linen napkins, a dutiful array of flatware, place cards.
And at the far end of the room is a dais: a high table—for faculty, presumably.
I stand like a rock in a stream, taking it all in, as people swirl around me—waving to friends, jostling to places, laughing. It’s all very…convivial, very collegiate, despite the formalities.
There’s enough free wine to keep everything nice and lubricated, socially speaking.
Kai’s voice springs unbidden into my mind, and I grimace in acknowledgment. If I’m going to make it through the evening, I might have to avail myself of some of that.
As I stand there, I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure gliding in through the arched entryway: tasteful purple gown, expertly smooth chestnut-colored updo.
Elena.
I fist the chiffon of my skirt, then let it go.
Yep. Definitely having the wine.
Before Elena can notice me—thank God—a bell sounds from somewhere unseen, and the murmurs and laughter dwindle down to a soft hum as people weave their way to their seats.
They’re divided by year, I quickly realize, and the first-year table is farthest to the right, so I pick my way over, reading over shoulders and scanning for the capital G and V of my names like I’m reading minuscule in Emrys’s class all over again.
At last, I find it—almost all the way at the end, which is when I realize (of course) it’s alphabetical by last name.
Which, unfortunately, puts S just a few Ts and Us away from V.
Across the table and two seats over, Elena stares at me. No narrowed eyes or wrinkled nose, just pure…astonishment, I suppose. I choose to ignore her—as much as you can ignore a heat-seeking missile, anyway—and pull my chair out.
That, for whatever reason, gets a reaction. Elena laughs, at once harsh and musical, and I stop, freeze in place.
Did I mess up already?
I don’t need to wait for an answer. Another bell rings—deeper, this time—and that’s when I realize everyone is still standing.
Motion stirs at the front of the room, and I slink awkwardly out of my half-seated position and stand behind my chair as a pair of figures emerges to stand on either side of the head table platform.
Familiar figures, I realize, my breath catching in my chest.
It’s them.
Kingston, Kai, Lanz, and Callahan. Not dressed in tuxedoes and bow ties, but in some sort of…
black doublets, with high necks and wide epaulets.
Wordless, they each take a side, in pairs—Kingston and Lanz on the left, Kai and Callahan on the right—and draw swords high into the air.
They stand like that—silent, still, one hand held firm at the small of the back—and hold the blades up as the faculty and deans to process to the head table, the whole room silent but for the shuffling of academic robes.
“Benedictus benedicat,” comes a sonorous voice from the head table. It’s the dean of the undergraduate college—a serious-looking man in dark-framed glasses who I only know from brochures.
Around me, heads bow.
Grace. Of course. I duck my head as whichever dean finishes his brief prayer.
“…Dominum nostrum, amen.”
All at once, life returns to the hall, movement and sound.
But when I look up, the four of them are gone.
Not something befitting us holy rollers of Camlann .
So they can come to hold up swords, but not stay longer than that?
I don’t get it.
I don’t get a lot of things about this place.
Immediately, a flock of stewards appears from the side doors, interrupting my thoughts: some bearing tureens of soup, others with wine decanters.
“Crema de Mariscos con Azafrán,” one says to me, suddenly at my left elbow, and proffers his holdings. “Saffron seafood bisque with cream.”
“Thank you,” I say, self-consciously, as he serves me a portion, sliding a thin slice of garlic toast beside it, and again when a different steward appears at my right and pours my glass neatly half-full with white wine. Drinking age be damned, I suppose.
Conscious of my earlier faux pas—but in fairness, who the hell would’ve expected a sword ceremony before dinner?
—I look around at everyone else to follow their lead.
But things appear to have relaxed somewhat, with conversations springing up between seat partners and music—faint, Andalusian-sounding—playing from somewhere.
I gulp the wine and pick at the soup. The food’s not bad—it’s excellent, actually—but my stomach is too twisted with nerves to have much appetite.
Wine, though…
I take another healthy sip. It’s not like I have to drive anywhere, right? And it’s not like anyone’s really going to talk to me. I take another. And another.
A prickle of realization creeps over my skin, and I turn. Across the table, Elena seems to have noticed me.
But all she does is smile.
“It’s so nice to see you out here, Gwenna,” she says, her tone as warm and bright as the sun-colored marigolds dotting the tablescape. “I didn’t think you’d be here. ”