Lady Midnight
Page 18

“It’s disturbing that you know this,” Emma said. In front of the Institute, stretching to the edge of the bluff, was a sun-dried lawn, edged with sea grass and scrub brush. The family spent little time there: too close to the highway, unshaded, and overlaid with scratchy grass.
“Dru’s into true crime right now,” Jules said. They’d reached the Institute stairs. “You wouldn’t believe how much she told me about how to hide a body.”
Emma sprang past him, up three steps, and turned to look down. “I’m taller than you,” she announced. It was a game they’d played when they were little—Emma always swearing she’d grow up taller than he was, finally giving up when he’d turned fourteen and shot up five inches.
Julian looked up at her. The sun was shining directly into his eyes, overlaying the blue-green with gold, making them look like the patina that shone on the Roman glass Arthur collected. “Em,” he said. “However much we might joke about it, you know I take this seriously. It’s your parents. You deserve to know what happened.”
She felt a sudden lump in her throat. “This just feels different,” she whispered. “I know how many times I’ve thought I found out something and it was nothing, or I’ve followed a false lead, but this feels like something else, Jules. This feels real.”
Her phone rang. She looked away from Jules, fishing it out of her pocket. When she saw the name flash up on-screen she made a face and shoved it back. Jules raised an eyebrow, his expression neutral.
“Cameron Ashdown?” he said. “Why aren’t you picking up?”
“Just not in the mood.” The words came out almost to her surprise; she wondered why she wasn’t telling him. Cameron and I broke up.
The front door banged open. “Emma! Jules!”
It was Drusilla and Tavvy, both still in pajamas. Tavvy had a lollipop in one hand and was sucking on it industriously. When he saw Emma, his eyes lit up and he ran toward her. “Emma!” he said around the candy.
She pulled him close and wrapped her arms around his round little-boy middle, squeezing until he giggled.
“Tavvy!” Julian said. “Don’t run with lollipops in your mouth. You could choke.”
Tavvy removed the lollipop and stared at it the way someone might stare at a loaded gun. “And die?”
“Hideously,” Julian said. “Fatally, fatally die.” He turned to Drusilla, who had her hands on her hips. Her black pajamas were decorated with cartoon drawings of chain saws and skeletons. “What’s up, Dru?”
“It’s Friday,” Drusilla said. “Pancake day? You remember? You promised?”
“Oh, right, I did.” Julian tugged affectionately on one of his little sister’s braids. “You go wake up Livvy and Ty, and I’ll—”
“They’re already awake,” Dru said. “They’re in the kitchen. Waiting.” She looked at him pointedly.
Julian smiled. “Okay. I’ll be right there.” He picked Tavvy up and deposited him back in the entryway. “You two scoot along to the kitchen and reassure the twins before they get desperate and start trying to do the cooking themselves.”
They scampered off, giggling. Julian turned back to Emma with a sigh. “I have been lollipoped,” he said, indicating where Tavvy had managed to leave a blue sugar circle at the collar of his shirt.
“Badge of honor.” Emma laughed. “See you in the kitchen. I need to shower.” She darted up the steps, pausing at the open front door to look down at him. Framed against the blue sea and blue sky, his eyes looked like bits of the landscape. “Jules—was there something you wanted to ask me?”
He glanced away, shaking his head. “No. Nothing at all.”
Someone was shaking Cristina by the shoulder. She woke up slowly, blinking. She’d been dreaming about home, about the heat of summer, the shade of the cool gardens of the Institute, the roses her mother cultivated in a climate not always friendly to the delicate flower. Yellow roses were preferred, because they had been the favorite flower of her most beloved writer, but roses of any color were necessary to illuminate the proud name of Rosales.
Cristina had been walking in a garden, about to turn a corner, when she heard the murmur of familiar voices. She sped up, a smile spreading over her face. Jaime and Diego . . . Her oldest friend and her first love. Surely they would be happy to see her.
She swung around the corner and stared. There was no one there. Just the echo of voices, the distant sound of a mocking laugh carried on the wind.
The shade and petals faded away and Cristina looked up to find Emma leaning over her, wearing one of her crazy flowered dresses. Her hair hung down around her shoulders in strands damp from the shower.
“¡Deja de molestarme, estoy despierta!” protested Cristina, batting Emma’s hands away. “Emma! Stop it! I’m awake!” She sat up and put her hands to her head. She prided herself on not ever mixing up her first language with English while she was in the U.S., but sometimes when she was tired or barely awake it slipped out.
“Come with me to breakfast,” Emma wheedled. “Or it might be brunch. It’s almost noon. But whatever—I want to introduce you to everyone. I want you to meet Julian—”
“I saw him last night from the top of the stairs,” said Cristina with a yawn. “He has nice hands.”
“Great, you can tell him that in person.”
“No, thank you.”
“Get up,” Emma said. “Or I’ll sit on you.”
Cristina threw a pillow at her. “Go wait outside.”
A few minutes later, Cristina—having dressed quickly in a pale pink sweater and pencil skirt—found herself being marched down the hall. She could hear voices, raised in chatter, coming from the kitchen. She touched the medallion at her throat, the way she always did when she needed a bit of extra bravery.
She’d heard so much about the Blackthorns, especially Julian, since she’d arrived at the Institute that they’d taken on an almost mythical status in her mind. She was dreading meeting them—not only were they the most important people in Emma’s life, but they were also the ones who could make the rest of her stay either pleasant or miserable.
The kitchen was a large room with painted walls and windows looking out over the blue-green ocean in the distance. A massive farmer’s table dominated the space, surrounded by bench seats and chairs. The counters and table were tiled in what looked like bright Spanish designs, but if you glanced more closely, they formed scenes from classical literature: Jason and the Argonauts, Achilles and Patroclus, Odysseus and the Sirens. Someone, once, had decorated this space with a loving hand—someone had picked out the copper cooking range, the porcelain double sinks, the exact shade of yellow on the walls.
Julian was standing over the stove, barefoot, a dish towel slung around his broad shoulders. The younger Blackthorns were crowded around the table. Emma came forward, pulling Cristina behind her. “Everyone, this is Cristina,” she said. “She’s saved my life about sixteen times this summer, so be nice to her. Cristina, this is Julian—”
Julian looked over and smiled. The smile made him look like sunlight in human form. It didn’t hurt that the dish towel around his neck had kittens on it, and there was pancake batter on his calloused hands. “Thanks for not letting Emma get killed,” he said. “Contrary to whatever she might have told you, we need her around here.”