“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 bringher, 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 ofThe 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.”