Page 59 of The Black Table
Kai strolls back to the stationery cart, retrieves his stack of photocopied quizzes. Shrugs.
“To make some people angry. And maybe to make you happy, huh?”
Papers in hand, he reaches out and gives me a littletapon the top of my head.
“Give ‘em hell, Wednesday.”
I can’t believeI’m doing this.
I cannot believe I’m doing this.
The thought runs through my head like a drumbeat, like a pulse, as I scuttle across campus a few minutes before six p.m. Above me, the sky is a wild orange and purple, the kind of sunset you only get when a day of pounding rain breaks into a balmy, almost sunny late afternoon. On the colorful backdrop, the full moon is rolling out from behind a tree.
Campus is dark, but alive; figures are moving from residence halls and houses in the slow, considered steps of twenty-year olds wearing tuxedoes and ballgowns after a few pregame servings of Schnapps. Me, I did no pregaming, and even got ready alone. Morgan’s nowhere to be found, and I have no way to contact her—no cell phone number, no…I don’t know, forwarding address?—so I assume I’ll either see her at the formal dinner or she’ll reappear in her own good time.
I hitch up the skirt of my dress so the hem doesn’t drag over sticky, wet leaves, and pick up the pace. Which isn’t easy, in the matching (I think?) high heels that I’m wobbling on.
It’s probably for the best, anyway, that I came back alone, because the order Kai put in for me turned out to be…substantial. Six—six!—plush garment bags hanging to the side of the mailboxes, all so surprisingly heavy that I struggled to get them all up the stairs myself.
But I managed. Got them up. Unzipped the bags. Read the note.
Best wishes for a stellar evening!
—The shopping team at Neiman Marcus Boston
That’s a two-hour drive atleast, meaning they’d booked it to get these here in time. And…
Voices come into range as I near the dining hall, snatches of conversation I can distinguish, and I instinctively straighten my spine as I enter the observable area around other people.
That’s the thing. The dress makes me feel…conspicuous. More than I usually do.
All six of them were gorgeous. Luxurious. Nicer than anything I’d ever owned or worn, and Laura Vale didn’t skimp on her daughter’s wardrobe. These, though, were next level. Heavy crushed velvet, satin smooth as sealskin, fairy-fine embroidery on yards and yards of tulle. Italian names on silky labels.
But in the end, I knew which one was right. Valentino—a name I know only insofar as it’s synonymous with fancy and expensive. Tiers of red silk chiffon, a swirling collar up to my neck, long sleeves. Layered, almost sculpted in places, yet light to wear. Comfortable.
Almost.
My ankle gives a precipitous wobble, and I stumble a few steps forward.
Can’t say the same for the shoes, though.
The tide of dinner-goers is thickening, more and more bunches of students drawn up the steps like moths to the golden lights of the hall, and the clock on the face of the chapel steeple is inching is iron hands toward 12 and 6.
I suck in a deep, deep breath, pick up my skirts, and plunge in.
Immediately I’m struck by howunlike the dining hall it feels. Granted, Caliburn’s facilities are luxe on a normal day, but this is elevated to a degree I didn’t think was possible outside of Oxford or Cambridge. Billowing hangings in Caliburn red sweep from the middle of the ceiling to the side wall, catching the glow of candles—candles!—in the brass chandeliers. The tables have beenpushed together from individual islands into four long banquet-style seatings, set with a tablescape of votive lamps, sprigs of olive and rosemary, and bright bunches of marigolds and dahlias. Instead of trays, chairs are individually set with places: gold-rimmed china, linen napkins, a dutiful array of flatware, place cards. And at the far end of the room is a dais: a high table—for faculty, presumably.
I stand like a rock in a stream, taking it all in, as people swirl around me—waving to friends, jostling to places, laughing. It’s all very…convivial, very collegiate, despite the formalities.
There’s enough free wine to keep everything nice and lubricated, socially speaking.
Kai’s voice springs unbidden into my mind, and I grimace in acknowledgment. If I’m going to make it through the evening, I might have to avail myself of some of that.
As I stand there, I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure gliding in through the arched entryway: tasteful purple gown, expertly smooth chestnut-colored updo.
Elena.
I fist the chiffon of my skirt, then let it go.
