Page 34 of Wolfsbane Hall
Dean Ashbrook was touching her.Activelytouching. And it was so bewildering. Celestine’s heart could have stopped from the shock. The touch must have pained him, because he winced—actuallywinced.
One thing was true. Celestine might have been poisoned, but she was his poison. That was how much he hated her.
11
Saturday, November 11, 1939
The Grand Ballroom
The grandfather clock chimed seven o’clock. The official start time for the Ashbrook show. Celestine stood in the ballroom, her head resting against the golden ballroom wall. As soon as she could stand on her own, she got as far away from Dean as she could manage.
The night glowed with enchantment, but it rotted like long left-out fruit—once beautiful and life-giving sustenance, now just a waste of space. The room smelled of roses and aged brandy. Sweet yet pungent. It was a night of contradictions.
None of the guests had arrived yet, so Celestine rested, holding her character card, once again refusing to open it. Apparently, this was becoming a thing. But she didn’t want to open it, because if she did, everything would be too real.
So, like a child, she refused. Celestine was becoming rather defiant. It wasn’t one of her usual traits, and it surprised her.
But in this case, avoidance was the best practice…wasn’t it?
It had to be.
Celestine’s simple red dress shifted around her shoulders as she watched Wolfsbane Hall. The club sparkled and gleamed like a far-off star. Brilliant yet untouchable. Jazz music floated through the halls, calling to thedepths of her soul. Ghost-like illusions danced the jive, emanating laughter and excitement. They were like dolls from a music box, given life and one magical night to live like Cinderella. The light shining through the stained-glass ceiling painted them in hues of purple and magenta, and they looked like a whisper in a dream. Glimmering, beautiful, but ethereal.
The only real people in the room were the cast.
Dean stood off to the side, taking everything in like a brooding prince on the edge of a battlefield, yet he wore modern attire, a cobalt-blue suit jacket, vest, and tie.
James, Everette, Frances, and Babette played a hand of poker at a round dinner table, set off to the side of the dance floor, a ghost dealer handing them cards and telling them scandalous tales.
The ghosts were such terrible gossips. So much so that Celestine sometimes had a hard time believing they weren’t real—the actual dead appearing for a night of terror and debauchery.
At a closer glance, Babette sat on an unopened briefcase, as if guarding it. She kept it away from the rest of the cast, hoarding it like a dragon’s treasure. Per usual, Babette was stingy with her clues. She always refused to help anyone else.
Celestine couldn’t relate. She didn’t see Wolfsbane as a competition. It was an experience—one that could be far more enjoyable with cooperation and friendship.
But they were fundamentally different in this way.
Celestine’s eyes tracked to Everett. He wore a moss-green jacket with a matching vest and tie, while James wore shades of dove gray and ash. All three men looked like a kaleidoscope of bad ideas. Charming, gorgeous, and bound to destroy one’s reputation. Celestine had already fallen prey to that indecency too often—especially with James. He was a tempting disaster, and far too good of a fuck for his own good…and hers.
“You look absolutely atrocious tonight,” a sweet, saccharine voice said from Celestine’s left, and she jolted, clutching her already erratic heart.
“Vivian,” Celestine said, “you scared me.”
“Jumpy tonight?” Vivian Ashbrook, James’s younger sister, asked with a twinkle in her eye. “Does it have anything to do with your sickly complexion and general sad sack demeanor?” Vivian pulled Celestine into a hug and held her tightly. “I am not sure why you look so atrocious, but clearly, you need this.”
Celestine allowed herself a moment of comfort.
Vivian was a life raft in a sea of betrayal. She was both Celestine’s best friend and eternal adversary. They could read each other’s moods down to the smallest microexpression, which was both wonderful and horrible. It was great to be known so deeply by someone, but it also meant she was left vulnerable. Because Vivian saw everything. Worse, Vivian didn’t always handle their closeness well. She had two sides, an angel or a demon. It depended on the day and the moment. She could make you feel so safe and loved, but she could also rip you to shreds. She was one of those rich girls with mommy issues and deep emotional instability. Not that Celestine was much better as the sad little orphan girl with abandonment issues.
“You didn’t answer me.” Vivian pouted.
Because what did one say toyou look atrocious?
“Do you know about the Phantom?”
“Phantom?” Vivian questioned, smoothing out her sleek black dress spun from spider silk. She wore a platinum-blonde wig with a full face of makeup—her real hair color was dark brown. Pearls laced her neck, and rubies draped from her ears. Everything about the girl screamed old money. Except she never wore furs, as an act of rebellion.
“Well, the Specter isn’t—”
