Chapter 10 #2
I bristled as my name slipped over his tongue with such derision.
Suddenly, I hated him all over again. I hated everything about him, from his smattering of freckles to the way his mouth twisted to one side when he was dissatisfied, down to his tweed trousers and the stupid sweater vest he wore over a stiff white shirt.
I hated him for his bitter lies, for what he was now implying about my intelligence and Casimir’s ease in manipulating me for his own ends.
After everything he’d done to me, after all the humiliation and loneliness, he truly had the nerve to patronize me?
“If this is your way of persuading me to listen to you,” I began hotly, turning my attention back to the book in my shaking hands, “you should know your methods are about as effective as your pathetic performance in that match against Oliver Hastings last spring.”
Stormy indignation, followed immediately by chagrin, clouded in his dark eyes.
Then, to my surprise, his lips turned up at the corners.
“Okay, I deserved that,” he said, sighing resignedly, breaking the tension.
“But did you know that was the first time Ouverham’s beaten Whitmore at fencing in over a decade? ”
I spied a glint of the old August then, like a phantom coming back to haunt me. I had to remind myself that the old August was gone. He had never been mine to keep in the first place.
“Unfortunately, I do recall.” I bit my lip to stop myself from smiling at the memory. It was impossible to forget the details of that disastrous fencing match.
August had insisted on fencing in the match against Whitmore College despite having a nasty case of influenza.
He’d ended up winning three out of nine matches against Hastings, but only because his opponent was preoccupied with avoiding August’s wayward sneezes.
Otherwise, his performance had been utterly wretched.
August grinned. “It’s not my fault Hastings is a germaphobe,” he reasoned.
I almost smiled, but then reality flooded in. August wasn’t here to catch up; he’d invaded my peace to warn me against trusting Casimir. To remind me how naive and foolish I was. The smile slipped.
“Look, I appreciate you coming here to warn me, but I don’t need a babysitter,” I said. “We aren’t together anymore, so it’s really none of your business who I choose to associate with.” I jerked my chin toward the exit. “You can go now.”
August’s nostrils flared in indignation. “I’ll go when I’m sure the message has sunk in.”
I snorted. “Did Devereaux send you to talk to me? What, are you his messenger boy now?” I may as well have slapped him, the way his face fell, and I felt a tinge of regret at my own cruelty.
“I’m not here to discuss my…situation,” he replied, his voice flat. “I came to warn you. Stay away from them, Arden, even Casimir. Especially Casimir.”
I saw the worry, then, drawn in the tight line of his mouth, before another, more powerful emotion stirred in his expression, one that I did not immediately recognize. Was it… jealousy?
I didn’t know what to make of that.
Without another word, August departed.
I stared after him until he disappeared, my clammy fingers still clutching to my copy of Rebecca.
I stayed curled up in that corner of the library for several long minutes, thinking over all August had said.
The wary, haunted look in his eyes—as if he might shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment.
I didn’t know what to make about his assertion that Casimir was untrustworthy, but I resented the accusation of naiveté where I was concerned.
I couldn’t deny the fact that August seeking me out at all was…
surprising; although, the unpredictability of his character had always been part of his charm.
Just when I’d given on him, he’d do something to make my hope come flooding back.
It was like stepping into the sun after a long hiatus in darkness.
Like when he’d knocked the poisoned cup of wine from my hand to stop me from drinking it.
Against all logic and at great risk to himself, he’d protected me.
Then again, I thought bitterly, August’s moments of heroism rarely outlasted his self-interest.
I felt inexplicably nervous as I headed up the spiral stairs to the third level, where most of the private study rooms were located. There, in a room at the end of the hall, was Casimir, looking both haughty and bored.
“You’re late,” he commented as I threw my bag onto the table.
“I am not,” I argued. “It’s only—” I glanced down at my wristwatch. Fifteen past eleven. I shot him an exasperated look. “Oh, come on. Fifteen minutes—”
“Can’t you ever just admit it when you’re wrong?” he grumbled.
I looked at him sharply. He was different, tonight. He was scowling, and his body language was altered. He began pacing the room with a restless unease that only served to accentuate his already brooding demeanor.
Casimir was in a foul mood.
“What’s up with you?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” he grumbled, ceasing his pacing.
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
But my eyes followed his right hand as he raised it to scratch at his left bicep. The exact spot where the eye was burned into his flesh.
“Is your brand bothering you?”
He glanced up sharply. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Fine,” I snapped. “I won’t bother pretending to care.” I let out an exasperated huff. “So, are we going to start, or would you rather trade insults all night?” I knew I would pay for the snide remark, but I didn’t care.
His gaze was steely as it landed on me. “Whenever you’re ready, Farrow.”
I knew it was a terrible idea to practice resisting glamours when I was this emotionally volatile, but before I could lose my nerve, I thrust my arm across the table toward him.
I had seconds to comprehend the feeling of his hand clasping around my wrist, his touch colder than usual, when my vision swam out of focus.
I felt several pairs of cold, judgmental eyes on me. And then, a tinkle of laughter.
“Why did you bring her, Auggie?” Margot Penbury asked in a loud whisper.
A group of us were gathered in the local pub, a cold beer clasped in my hand, the condensation wet against my fingers. It was noisy, and the room smelled of sweat, smoke, and alcohol. August weakly laughed off Margot’s rudeness.
“Come on, Margot,” Bryce Yu-Ri cut in. “Don’t be such a bitch.” Her light tone didn’t match the scolding words. She turned to me, a polite smile curving her full lips. “I’m glad you’re joining us tonight, Arden.”
“My apologies,” Margot simpered. “I just didn’t know you and Sinclair were so well acquainted.”
Why the fuck had I agreed to come tonight? Internally cursing myself, I shifted on the balls of my feet and forced my lips into a polite smile.
August winced. “We have Skinner’s class together, Margot, you know that.” Turning to me, he added, “Arden, how’s Gwen doing after that drama in theater class? I heard Professor Jacobs went ballistic on the entire freshman class for that performance of The Young and Reckless.”
“Yeah!” I smiled, grateful for the change of subject, “It was so—”
“Where are you from, Arden?” Bryce cut in. “You never said.”
I bristled at the interruption, though I’d been expecting it. Most of the Gilded Circlites had grown up together—had spent many summers on the isle, sailing their parents’ yachts or hosting dinner parties at their family estates.
August coughed to cover his discomfort as they waited for my response.
“I’m from Amherst,” I replied, managing a strained smile.
“Oh.” Bryce’s eyes widened. “So, you’re not from the isle, then?”
I offered her a weak smile to avoid answering directly. Was it so difficult to imagine that people hailed from places other than this damned island?
August sidled a bit closer to me, almost protectively. “I’m not from Ouverham either, Bryce,” he reminded her.
Bryce laughed in surprise, the sound like the tinkling of a bell. “That’s right, I’d nearly forgotten! Sorry, I’ve had a bit too much to drink tonight,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing. “You’re from Boston, right August?”
“Cambridge,” he corrected.
Margot whispered loudly, “Not the good Cambridge, the other one.”
Hugh Langburg chucked appreciatively.
August’s returning smile was tight–lipped. “Yes, thank you for that, Margot,” he clipped.
“I’m going to get some air,” I announced to the group.
August’s friends ignored my departure, which was just fine with me.
I leaned against the wall outside the pub, relishing the cool summer air after enduring the stifling heat of so many bodies in the bar.
Summers on the Isle of Lorn were mercifully mild—a sharp contrast to the harsh winters.
I closed my eyes to listen to the hum of cicadas in the distance.
I was debating my chances of sneaking back to campus when I heard the door swing open, then the click of a lighter.
August brought the flame to a cigarette held between his lips as he leaned against the wall beside me.
“I know what that look means,” he informed me, dragging on his cigarette.
August only smoked when he drank, which was more often than not this summer.
A social smoker, he’d once said. In the world of the Gilded Circlites, the bad habits of the underclass were often seen as occasional, harmless indulgences.
When practiced by trust-fund babies, sex, drugs, and partying were rendered glamorous, rather than heathenish.
As a scholarship student, I would not be allowed such indulgences.
I folded my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied.
“You’re thinking about doing a runner. Ducking out. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Can you blame me? It’s like the Spanish Inquisition in there.”
“Don’t exaggerate.” August huffed. “They’re trying, Arden. You have to give them a chance to get to know you.”