Iron Cast(30)

Corinne snorted. Her parents’ refusal to attend a play at the Mythic Theatre had nothing to do with their schedules and everything to do with its less-than-grand premises and reputation for attracting uncouth artistic types.

Madeline’s smile was beatific, making a matching set with her husband’s.

“It’s perfectly all right, Mrs. Wells,” she said. “We understand.”

“Thank you so much for the invitation,” James said.

“Of course,” Mrs. Wells said, waving her hands in a way that Corinne thought resembled a frenetic bird. “But you’ll have to excuse me. I think the maid mixed up the place settings.”

Mrs. Wells glanced toward the dining room in distraction and moved off.

“So wonderful to see you,” Madeline said with a dainty wave. She waited until Mrs. Wells was out of earshot, then smacked Corinne on the shoulder.

“What was that for?” Corinne asked, rubbing her arm reflexively.

“Why didn’t you come to Glass Staircase in November? You promised you would.”

“No I didn’t!”

“You said you would try, at least.”

“I believe my exact words were: I’d rather jump off the Custom House tower.”

“She’s right, Maddy,” James said musingly, resting his chin on top of her dark hair. “Those were her exact words.”

“Oh, hush,” Madeline said. She batted him away. “I’m trying to win an argument here. I was a positively thrilling Lucinda.”

“I don’t know who Lucinda is,” Corinne said. “No one has ever heard of your ghastly plays.”

Madeline’s lip puckered into a pout, and she crossed her arms. She glanced around, but none of the other guests showed any interest in eavesdropping on their conversation.

“James and I are good enough to keep your secret, Cor,” Madeline said, dropping her voice to a forceful whisper. “The least you could do is support our theater.”

“No,” Corinne said as the dinner bell rang. “The least I can do is not tell anyone your secret.”

“Another excellent point,” James said, still unperturbed.

Madeline rolled her eyes but didn’t seem to have a retort. Corinne took that as a victory and led the way into the dining room with a smile.

The dinner portion of the evening was more or less predictable. Corinne was an expert at having food in her mouth every time someone asked her a question about school. Madeline was called upon to regale the table with tales of her studies in Paris, which Corinne was grateful for. Not only did it distract the guests, but it kept Madeline from provoking her—one of the older girl’s favorite pastimes. James did lean over at one point during a particularly flamboyant segment of Madeline’s story and ask Corinne about Ada and Saint.

“Ada’s fine,” Corinne said, and frowned. “I thought Saint would have been spending his time at the Mythic. He hasn’t been around much since—”

She cut herself short, and James raised an eyebrow. Before he could ask anything further, Madeline called on him to do his impression of the French prime minister.

“He’s better at being Clemenceau than Clemenceau is,” she told the table, eyes bright with laughter.

James winked at Corinne and obliged, donning a ridiculous French accent and somehow capturing the essence of a walrus mustache with just his expression. Their conversation was quickly swept away by the merriment of the guests.

Once the party had adjourned to the parlor, Corinne took her usual spot in the northwest corner, which was the farthest from any iron and kept her headache to a dull roar, easily silenced with some aspirin and a few swigs from her hip flask when no one was looking. She was in the middle of a furtive sip when someone slapped her back roughly.

“Please tell me that’s medicinal,” came the booming voice.

“Phillip,” she said through her coughing. She barely had time to stash the flask before her mother breezed across the room, arms wide to embrace her son.

“Phil, when did you get here?” Mrs. Wells cried. “You slip in without even a word? Where’s Angela?”

Her questions went unanswered for a few minutes as the other guests noticed the new arrival. There were handshakes all around and congratulations on his upcoming nuptials. Corinne was trapped in the corner behind the tall bulk of her brother, and she eventually just sank onto an ottoman to wait it out. After declining dinner and wine and cheese and everything else their mother tried to shove at him, Phillip finally took a seat. He shared their mother’s brown hair, though his eyes were blue like their father’s. He’d inherited all the height in the family as well, towering even over Mr. Wells. When she was younger, Corinne had started a game with herself, trying to keep count of the number of times people told the Wellses how dashing their son was. She’d lost count somewhere in the hundreds.

“Angela’s staying with her parents until tomorrow,” Phillip said, completely comfortable under the weight of the entire party’s attention. “She wanted me to come early to help Mother with the final preparations.”

Corinne couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter at that.

“And to spend time with family that’s coming in,” he continued. He leaned over to muss Corinne’s hair with just a little too much force to be tenderly affectionate. She jerked away from him and almost fell off the ottoman. He knew how much she hated when he did that.