Blue Bloods by Melissa de La Cruz

tapestries and stuffiness of the rest of the house.
    She whistled for Beauty, and a friendly, gorgeous blood hound ran to her side. “Good girl, good girl,” she said, kneel ing down and hugging the happy creature, letting it lick her face. No matter how bad a day she’d had, Beauty always made it better. The beautiful animal had followed her home from school one day last year. The dog was a purebred, with a glossy dark coat that matched Schuyler’s blue-black hair. Schuyler had been sure her owners would come looking for her, and she had put up “Found Pet” signs in the neighbor hood. But no one came to claim Beauty, and after a while, Schuyler stopped trying to find her rightful owner.
    The two of them loped up the stairs. Schuyler walked inside her room and shut the door behind her dog.
    “Home so soon?”
    Schuyler nearly jumped out of her coat. Beauty barked, then wagged her tail, galloping joyfully toward the intruder. Schuyler turned to find her grandmother sitting on the bed with a stern expression. Cordelia Van Alen was a small, birdlike woman—it was easy to see where Schuyler got her delicate frame and her deep-set eyes, although Cordelia usually dismissed remarks about family resemblance. Cordelia’s eyes were blue and bright, and they stared intensely at her granddaughter.
    ” Cordelia, I didn’t see you,” Schuyler explained.
    Schuyler’s grandmother had forbidden her to call her Grandmother, or Grandma, or as she heard some children call them, Nana. It would be nice to have a Nana, a warm and chubby maternal figure, whose very name spelled love and homemade chocolate chip cookies. But instead, all Schuyler had was Cordelia . A still-beautiful, elegant woman, who looked to be in her eighties or nineties, Schuyler never knew which. Some days, Cordelia looked young enough to be in her fifties (or forties even, if Schuyler was being honest with her self ). Cordelia sat ramrod straight, dressed in a black cashmere cardigan and flowing jersey pants, her legs crossed delicately at the ankles. On her feet were black Chanel ballet slippers.
    All throughout Schuyler’s childhood, Cordelia had been a presence. Not a parental, or even an affectionate one, but a presence nonetheless. It was Cordelia who had changed Schuyler’s birth certificate so that her last name was her mother’s and not her father’s. It was Cordelia who had enrolled her at the Duchesne School . Cordelia who signed her permission slips, monitored her report cards, and provided her with a paltry allowance.
    “School let out early,” Schuyler said. “Aggie Carondolet died.”
    “I know.” Cordelia’s face changed. A flash of emotion flickered across the stern features—fear, anxiety, concern, even?
    “Are you all right?”
    Schuyler nodded. She barely even knew Aggie. Sure, they’d been going to the same school for more than a decade, but it didn’t mean they were friends.
    “I’ve got homework to do.” Schuyler said, as she unbut toned her coat and shook off her sweater, peeling each layer of clothing until she stood in front of her grandmother in a thin white tanktop and black leggings.
    Schuyler was half afraid of her grandmother, but had grown to love her even though Cordelia never showed any inclination of reciprocating the sentiment. The most palpa ble emotion Schuyler could detect was a grudging tolerance. Her grandmother tolerated her. She didn’t approve of her, but she tolerated her.
    “Your marks are getting worse,” Cordelia noted, mean ing Schuyler’s forearms.
    Schuyler nodded. Streaks of pale blue lines blossomed in an intricate pattern, visible under the skin’s surface, on the underside of her forearms all the way to her wrist. The prominent blue veins had appeared a week shy of her fif teenth birthday. They didn’t hurt, but they did itch. It was as if all of a sudden she was growing out of her skin—or into it—somehow.
    “They look the same to me,” Schuyler replied.
    “Don’t forget about