uneasy. There are so many secrets and lies to wade through and I have to
believe that there is a reason for all this.
Secretly,
I want that reason to be Lex . But I know that it's a
selfish and vain thought. My parents died for more than a cute boy, if they
died for any reason at all. It's hard to believe that the events of my life, so
far, have just been random, even if it would be easier. I press my fingers to
the heart-shaped stone and it warms, but the sensation isn't comforting. It
rings of warning that the worst is yet to come.
Chapter Seven
I'm not
exactly sure why I care so much what these women think of me, but I wake up at
dawn and dress and change and fix my hair and put on make-up and wipe it off
and reapply and change and change back. I've also downed at least a pot and a half
of coffee, much to Thelma's disapproval, which only adds to the manic jittery
feeling that I woke up with.
So, I'm
standing on the steps of a painfully white two-story house, completely strung
out on caffeine, weighing the pros and cons of bolting. For the millionth time,
I straighten my hair with the palm of my hand and fix the perfectly straight
hem of my dress. I'm violently fighting the urge to call Lex and ask him to take me home. The thought of Lex calms
me slightly, but I'm still nervous as fuck. I'm sure if I don't go in Magda
won't kick me out on the streets, right?
Before
I have the chance to escape the door opens, revealing a squat middle-aged woman
with dark curls cropped close to her head. Her lacquered pink lips are split in
a wide cheery smile. I suppress an eye-roll and climb the rest of the way up
the steps to meet her, my own fake smile painted on my face.
"Evangeline!
My goodness! Mag said you were pretty, but I had no idea!"
" Uhh ," is all I can get out before she pulls me into a
surprisingly painful bear hug.
"My
name is Mary Morris!" she exclaims, giving me another squeeze. Finally,
she lets go and starts to head inside, pulling me with her. "Come in, come
in! Everyone is dying to meet you!" she practically shouts. Everything
that Mary Morris says seems to end with an exclamation mark.
The
house isn't as grand as the Price Estate, but it's sparkling clean and well
furnished. Mary leads me down a short hall into a sunny dining room where there
is a cherry wood dining table set for tea.
When we
step into the room the lively chatter stills. My face burns as a half dozen pairs of eyes look me up and down, scrutinizing every inch of
me. I keep my hands pressed to my thighs to prevent myself from fidgeting or
balling them into fists. Despite my deepening blush, I manage to keep my face
smooth and unbothered.
One of
the women sitting around the table stands. She's tall and painfully thin, in
the way models strive for, and she has bleach blonde hair that she keeps
scraped back in a tight chignon. The skirt suit she's wearing is skin tight and
blood red. I glance at Mary who suddenly seems worried. My pendant begins to
sizzle against the thin skin of my wrist where it's tucked snugly inside of my
sleeve.
"My
word. You are the spitting image of your mother," the woman croons in a
sickeningly smooth voice. I watch in fascination as she walks slowly around the
table until she stands just before me. She reaches out her slender arms and
pulls me into a loose embrace. I can almost feel the cold coming off of her; it
makes my skin crawl in waves. She pulls away quickly, to my relief. "Hopefully,
you're not too alike," she says with a smirk as she glances over her
shoulder and shares a knowing look with a sour looking woman.
Mary
Morris clears her throat nervously, takes me by the shoulders, and leads me to
an empty chair. I manage to sink into the chair gracefully as I fight the
tremble that threatens to erupt through me. My fingers itch to caress the stone
and find comfort in the familiar gesture, but I keep them folded in my lap and
ignore the impulse.
The
creepy woman and Mary both take their seats. Everyone else
believe that there is a reason for all this.
Secretly,
I want that reason to be Lex . But I know that it's a
selfish and vain thought. My parents died for more than a cute boy, if they
died for any reason at all. It's hard to believe that the events of my life, so
far, have just been random, even if it would be easier. I press my fingers to
the heart-shaped stone and it warms, but the sensation isn't comforting. It
rings of warning that the worst is yet to come.
Chapter Seven
I'm not
exactly sure why I care so much what these women think of me, but I wake up at
dawn and dress and change and fix my hair and put on make-up and wipe it off
and reapply and change and change back. I've also downed at least a pot and a half
of coffee, much to Thelma's disapproval, which only adds to the manic jittery
feeling that I woke up with.
So, I'm
standing on the steps of a painfully white two-story house, completely strung
out on caffeine, weighing the pros and cons of bolting. For the millionth time,
I straighten my hair with the palm of my hand and fix the perfectly straight
hem of my dress. I'm violently fighting the urge to call Lex and ask him to take me home. The thought of Lex calms
me slightly, but I'm still nervous as fuck. I'm sure if I don't go in Magda
won't kick me out on the streets, right?
Before
I have the chance to escape the door opens, revealing a squat middle-aged woman
with dark curls cropped close to her head. Her lacquered pink lips are split in
a wide cheery smile. I suppress an eye-roll and climb the rest of the way up
the steps to meet her, my own fake smile painted on my face.
"Evangeline!
My goodness! Mag said you were pretty, but I had no idea!"
" Uhh ," is all I can get out before she pulls me into a
surprisingly painful bear hug.
"My
name is Mary Morris!" she exclaims, giving me another squeeze. Finally,
she lets go and starts to head inside, pulling me with her. "Come in, come
in! Everyone is dying to meet you!" she practically shouts. Everything
that Mary Morris says seems to end with an exclamation mark.
The
house isn't as grand as the Price Estate, but it's sparkling clean and well
furnished. Mary leads me down a short hall into a sunny dining room where there
is a cherry wood dining table set for tea.
When we
step into the room the lively chatter stills. My face burns as a half dozen pairs of eyes look me up and down, scrutinizing every inch of
me. I keep my hands pressed to my thighs to prevent myself from fidgeting or
balling them into fists. Despite my deepening blush, I manage to keep my face
smooth and unbothered.
One of
the women sitting around the table stands. She's tall and painfully thin, in
the way models strive for, and she has bleach blonde hair that she keeps
scraped back in a tight chignon. The skirt suit she's wearing is skin tight and
blood red. I glance at Mary who suddenly seems worried. My pendant begins to
sizzle against the thin skin of my wrist where it's tucked snugly inside of my
sleeve.
"My
word. You are the spitting image of your mother," the woman croons in a
sickeningly smooth voice. I watch in fascination as she walks slowly around the
table until she stands just before me. She reaches out her slender arms and
pulls me into a loose embrace. I can almost feel the cold coming off of her; it
makes my skin crawl in waves. She pulls away quickly, to my relief. "Hopefully,
you're not too alike," she says with a smirk as she glances over her
shoulder and shares a knowing look with a sour looking woman.
Mary
Morris clears her throat nervously, takes me by the shoulders, and leads me to
an empty chair. I manage to sink into the chair gracefully as I fight the
tremble that threatens to erupt through me. My fingers itch to caress the stone
and find comfort in the familiar gesture, but I keep them folded in my lap and
ignore the impulse.
The
creepy woman and Mary both take their seats. Everyone else
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