Page 26 of The Whispering Night
Elevated business? Isthatwhat this suit is?
“After this, you’ve got the day free. Tomorrow, though, you’ll need to attend training at the Sunday estate. The Sundays are moving the hours around to accommodate Masquerade events, so only a few days this week will conflict with your schedule. If I may make a suggestion about your wardrobe—”
No, you cannot.
“—you’ll want to wear something jewel-toned for the parade. There will probably be a lot of cameras, and jewel tones show up best on film. If you need to do more shopping, Dryden actually put in a line of credit for you at Falls’ Finest, in addition to Leila’s. Since I guess Fatima didn’t do a good job—”
“Donotbring her into this.”
“Right. Forget I mentioned her.” Darian shakes the papers. “I tried to be as clear as I could in my event descriptions, about what you’ll be doing and how long you have to do them. But, of course, feel free to reach out if you have any questions.”
“‘Feel free to reach out’?” Winnie’s voice sounds less echo-y now. “Are you my brother or my publicist?”
Darian blanches. Then bristles. “Honestly, Winnie, I’m both. And I don’t know how many times I can tell you ‘I’m sorry.’”
It’s rare to behold Darian lose his temper. He and Dad are two calm peas in the same calm pod. Snaps of temper and flares of annoyance—those are more Winnie’s and Mom’s speed. And sure, Winnie has some sympathyfor Darian’s predicament right now. She just got walked around by Marcia and Dryden like a marionette with wood for brains.
Andsure,Winnie can also acknowledge she is using this moment to express her frustration from a different situation—one regarding a certain Martedì fifty feet to her left. But hey, this is why she needs an adult: because right now, she’s flailing and lost and really,reallyalone.
“I see there’s no Saturday Spaghetti Night on the schedule,” she says as she takes the blue schedule from Darian’s grasp and shoves it in her blazer pocket. Shove, shove,shove.The papers crunch and the pocket bulges. “I guess our usual dinner is canceled?Again?”
Darian looks like she just kicked his puppy. And honestly, itwaskind of low for her to bring up their usual Saturday-night dinners—the ones he has repeatedly canceled as of late. His rib cage deflates. His shoulders sag. Winnie would almost pity him if she weren’t so startlingly mad. “I’m leaving, Darian. Don’t try to stop me.”
His mouth works like a fish’s. The publicist side of him visibly wants to keep arguing—to retrieve the schedule from Winnie’s pocket and smooth each page. But the brother part of him…
“Fine, Winnie. Fine. I’ll cover for you if Dryden or Marcia notice you’re gone.”
“Thanks,” Winnie grudges out before spinning on her sneaker heel and aiming for the garden exit. She barely makes it ten steps before she feels a buzz at her collarbone.
Her locket is warming in a familiar way she desperately wishesweren’tfamiliar. Then there’s Signora Martedì, coalescing like a nightmare from the mist. The woman’s eyes are hooded, but in a smug way. In a way that says,You can’t hide from me, so be a good girl and follow.
Nearby, Dryden and Marcia wear smiles so forced, Winnie thinks their eyeballs might pop out from the pressure.
“I wish to try this famed espresso, Signorina Wednesday. Escort me?”
The Crow’s right hand comes to Winnie’s back. Her left hand sweeps toward the doors leading onto the patio. And Winnie’s blood curdles, her skin crawls. She feels like she’s being attacked by a changeling all over again, except now there are all these witnesses… yet no one able to help her.
A scent like lavender tickles her nose. Pleasant and sickening at the same time. The signora is a small woman, and morning light reveals the faintglitter in makeup that has settled into the lines around her eyes. Her arms are bare, save for a golden shawl she has elegantly draped across her shoulders.
Dryden all but thrusts Winnie toward the doors. “Enjoy!” he half shouts, half snarls, and his eyes bore into Winnie’s face as if todemandshe go get that espresso and enjoy it right away.
Winnie does move her bear feet, although not for Dryden’s sake. Not for Mom’s either. And certainly not for this repulsive woman’s, whose pumps click on ballroom tiles. No, Winnie shuffles along like a dog to heel, because while her body is rebelling and her brain is telling herYOU NEED AN ADULT!,the Agent Wednesday part of her senses she’s faced with an opportunity.
The heat in Winnie’s locket recedes as she nears the patio doors. Spring wind purrs against her. She smells beignets and coffee and wet grass.
“Due espressi,”the signora declares once they are beside the food tables. The tuxedoed barista nervously leaps to work. Winnie pities her. If theseespressiaren’t the best things ever tasted, she is going to hear about it.
The signora inhales with audible self-congratulation, opening her arms to the view of the Saturday gardens. “What a beautiful estate, Winnie. Almost as lovely as the Martedì estate in Torrente di Cipresso. That is whereourbranch of the Luminaries is located.”
“I know.” Winnie is amazed words can exit her mouth.
“Signora,” the barista says, and Martedì swirls around gracefully to accept the espresso cup upon its little saucer. She then nods for Winnie to take the second drink—and Winnie wants to. She really does. It’s right there, promising a jolt of caffeine to her veins that she desperately needs.
But she doesn’t take it because listen: even Team Petty needs a win sometimes.
Winnie does feel bad for the barista though as she pointedly turns away, her chin held high.I reject your espresso, witch.
The signora laughs. A sound that is almost impressed, but mostly just amused. “Follow me,” she declares, and she doesn’t wait to see if Winnie does.
