Chapter 7. Ophelia #2
I dare a glance in the mirror, unable to hide the smile that sneaks across my glossy lips.
There’s a little eyeshadow wing on my lash line, and all the blinking was worth it, because my lashes look great.
The purple circles that hang beneath my eyes are gone.
The dress is backless, save for a few thin straps that pull my waist in.
Divya grins. “You look so good, right?”
Colette claps. “Well, with such a pretty canvas …”
“I like that you didn’t cover my freckles.”
“Of course! I would die for freckles like yours.”
Magda and Divya are arguing over some TV show they’re both watching.
Colette is humming quietly as she swipes a final coat of gloss over her lips.
For a tiny, begrudging second, I’m glad she convinced me to come, because this easy, comfortable friendship is everything I’ve been missing the past few years.
I can feel it slipping beneath my skin, making me stronger, nurturing that lonely teenage girl who wanted nothing more than to be included.
When I catch Divya’s eye in the mirror, I realize with great horror that I’m smiling.
I slip my feet into my Converse just as a quiet rumble of thunder cracks across the valley. Perfect weather for a Sorrowsong party, I suppose.
We run across the cobbled courtyard and into Achlys’s Hall, the four of us trying to hide under one jacket. The ball is already in full swing when we arrive, the room bustling beneath the watchful gaze of the painting that has set me on edge since the day I arrived.
Candles line each wall, hanging from chandeliers above us like a twinkling night sky, heels clicking against the tiled mosaic beneath our feet.
The last shards of daylight slip through the high arched windows on the two longest walls, failing to brighten up the place.
A small orchestra play in almost complete darkness at the far end.
The paintings and vases that decorate the near side of the room are all winter themed: frozen landscapes and icy lakes behind white roses and pale blue delphinium that rise from the vases like icicles.
But at the far end of the hall, the lakes in the paintings have thawed, the flowers turning to pastel shades of pink and orange.
A reminder that we are teetering on the edge of spring.
I try to twist it into something clever about fresh starts and new beginnings, but I can’t.
I can’t spin anything positive out of losing Alex.
If I thought Magda’s dress was something special, Belladonna’s is on another level.
In a black gown that looks like it could’ve been plucked from Sorrowsong’s dusty crypts this morning, she’s somewhere between a gothic witch and a regency bride, accessorized with a black spider necklace and the captain of the women’s rugby squad.
“Winters,” she mutters, gazing down at me. Her eyes are unreadable beneath the wing of eyeliner that looks sharp enough to cut someone.
“Belladonna.”
“Glad you came,” she says, like she knows something I don’t.
I open my mouth to ask her why, but she turns and stalks away.
“What is her problem?” Divya says, rolling her eyes. “She’ll regret it when she dies alone.”
I shrug as we head toward the bar, grabbing four cocktails from the tiered silver tray that’s almost as tall as I am. “I find her really hard to dislike. I don’t know why.”
“Me too! I feel like … growing up in that family, she has to have seen some things, right?” says Colette, who may well be tipsy already. “Like Vincenzo—he can hardly fall asleep at night.”
I frown. “Really?”
“Yeah. He definitely has something going on.”
Magda clinks her glass against each of ours. I bring mine to my lips, the welcome burn of whisky sliding down my throat, leaving the honey aftertaste of Drambuie behind. “Well, the Ivanovs keep trying to kill him, so that can’t exactly help.”
Colette scans the crowd, looking for him.
The Nightshade students seem to lurk in the shadows, stolen kisses lingering between hushed conversations and whispered threats.
Hemlock have flooded the dance floor, Snakeroot mingling around the edges in deep and thoughtful conversation.
For those I know in Cortinar, this is just another opportunity to show off their extensive wardrobes and family millions.
Colette is no exception, dripping in jewels and a powder blue, off-the-shoulder tulle dress that has her looking like she might lose a slipper and find a prince this evening.
Knowing her, she probably will.
Or maybe not, I think, as I spot Eike, her driver-turned-bodyguard-turned-killjoy keeping a watchful eye on her from his position leaning over the ornate banister of the two curved staircases behind us, smartly dressed in a black tuxedo.
I doubt he’d let her breathe if her stepfather didn’t allow it.
“Can you ballroom dance?” she asks, face lighting up as the song changes.
“Colette, do I look like a woman who can ballroom dance?”
She pouts, but Magda gladly takes her hand.
Of course Magda can ballroom dance. I’m content to stand and watch them, unable not to let Colette’s infectious joy tease a small smile out of me when she swaps partners to dance with her friend Hattie, the daughter of a princess and a famous dressage rider.
Divya gets tugged away by some medical student friends, and immediately, I become hyperaware of another presence beside me, a Scottish accent softened at the edges.
“It feels like no time at all since we met in this very spot.”
I glance up at Achlys, at the way she sneers at me in the darkness of the hall, painted in such great detail that it looks like she might reach out from her frame and stroke her dirty fingernails down my cheek. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
“Isn’t it quite peculiar how time passes so differently for each of us?”
Carmichael is looking right at me when I glance his way, eyes burning into my soul.
He’s always creeped me out. He feels like an extension of Sorrowsong Castle, rather than an employee of it. If I look hard enough, I find him at every event, every rugby game, every exam, watching me with that lifeless stare.
“Time would pass faster for me if you hadn’t let my parents’ murder slip through your net.”
His smile is cold, eyes colorless. The flowers that peek out of the breast pocket of his merlot-colored waistcoat are dead and dried up. “I would be careful not to wish for your life to pass too quickly, Miss Winters.”
I wish he’d just leave. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to convince Alex to come back to Sorrowsong.”
That takes me by surprise. “Why?”
He runs his thumb and forefinger over his mustache, deep in thought as he watches a couple waltz across the polished tile. “For a friend.”
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to piece a jigsaw together with a feeling that I don’t have all the pieces. “His mom? Elise?”
“I told her I’d watch over him.”
“Why?” I ask, following his gaze back to the couple that twirl under the candlelight. “Oh my god. You’re in love with Elise.”
“I was, once. But she was young, and I was old. She is all the good in the world, and I am the bad. Cain Green covered her wings in oil, caught her in a trap. When her health started to spiral and Cain’s intentions for Alex’s future became clear, she asked me to keep an eye on him.”
I chew on my lip, unsure why this man sets me so on edge. “You cannot convince me you’re a good man, that you’re doing this because you care about what happens to us.”
He chuckles, fiddling with his pocket watch. “I’m not a good man at all, Ophelia. But I am a man of my word.”
“Is that what you think? That you’re protecting Alex?”
“I told the police that Clint Bancroft had suggested to me multiple times last year that he intended to kill himself. They lost all interest in his death after that.”
My breath catches in my throat, lungs stalling under his lifeless stare.
He knows we killed Bancroft.
My phone burns a hole in my hand. Carmichael could’ve taken the photo and sent it to me. Carmichael could’ve posted the article to remove Cain from Alex’s life.
I make a note to suggest it to Mack when we speak next.
The cocktail slips down my throat so easily, stoking the dwindling fire in my soul. “Alex and I aren’t together. Convince him yourself.”
“He only listens to you and the psychiatrist.”
I drop my empty tumbler onto the silver tray of a passing waiter, meeting Carmichael’s eyes with my shoulders back and my head high. “Alex’s decisions are his own to make, and I owe you nothing.”
I shove through the crowd of students toward the double doors that lead to the hallway, desperate for some air.
The atmosphere shifts as I near the staircases, the loud buzz of chatter quieting to a hum.
The sea of people seems to part, a few murmured sentences filtering through the crowd.
I turn around and strain my neck, trying to see what the fuss is about.
People glance at me, then back at whoever it is who’s just entered the hall.
And I just know.
I know it’s him before he comes into view. I know it’s him from the way people look at him. I know it’s him from the way the oxygen in the air seems to fizzle up and burn.
But I’m still not prepared when he stops in the middle of the dance floor, looking at me like I’m his only hope at a happy ending.
Alex in a suit is a sight for sore eyes. Droplets of rain glisten on the black fabric of the jacket, drip from the lock of hair that curls over his forehead, trickle over the curve of his bottom lip, glue his white shirt to his skin.
I stumble backward, the whole room waiting on my reaction. He gives me an infinitesimal shake of his head. Don’t run from me.
He clears the space between us in a second, a hand running through his hair as he takes in the green gown that clings to my upper body like a second skin. He looks like he’s forgotten whatever it was he was here for. “Fuck, Ophelia. I had a whole speech planned.”