Witch's Pyre (Worldwalker #3)(13)

That was careless of me, but this place is so nerve-racking, Una replied. And all the perfume is giving me a headache.

You don’t trust perfect, Lily said in mindspeak.

My mom liked to pretend that things were perfect. That we were perfect. I pretended along with her for longer than I should have.

Lily glanced down at the rows of thin white scars on inside of Una’s forearm. They were hidden hatch marks that she’d given herself with a razor blade when she was a little girl—one for every time her mother’s boyfriend had touched her. Una knew she was looking at them.

“I’d like a drink,” Una announced.

“The boys have already started,” Lily told her, needlessly, though. Una and Breakfast were in near-constant contact, always sharing whispers of their thoughts. Lily had that once. It hurt to see it, so Lily made herself stare as they entered the sitting area and Breakfast held up a glass, already poured for Una. Lily didn’t need a razor blade to cut herself.

She caught Juliet watching her watching them, and the sisters shared a sad smile. Neither of them commented. They both knew what the other had given up.

At least I have her, Lily thought to Lillian. She felt her there, distracted, half listening, but not engaged.

Lily’s mechanics were impeccably dressed in the tunic-style of clothes that the men wore in Bower City, and although she was no expert on fashion here, even she could tell that the tailoring and the materials were a cut above what she’d seen so far in the city. The shoulders had crisp lines, the trousers were the perfect combination of structured and snug, and their shoes had the buttery look of the best Italian leather.

Tristan grinned at Lily when he saw her. “That took you half of forever,” he said, gesturing to her kimono.

She shrugged and tried to move away, but Tristan caught her elbow and made her stay with him.

“It was worth it, though,” he whispered. “You look stunning.”

He was too close—too close to her, and too close to being who she needed him to be—but not close enough. She couldn’t look him in the eye. She looked at his hands instead and noticed that his glass was full, and rightly guessed that he was already on his second drink. “What is that stuff?” she said, pointing to the crystal tumbler in his hand.

“Whatever it is, it’s amazing,” Caleb said.

The lights in Lily’s willstone twisted as she looked into the amber liquid and the perfect sphere of ice that rolled in it as if oiled.

“May I pour you one?” Toshi asked.

Lily turned to find him rejoining the group with another bottle. He was wearing a midnight-blue tunic that made him look longer and leaner. She looked away. “I don’t drink,” she said.

“Ever?”

“Once. That was enough.”

Toshi didn’t press her. “I don’t blame you. This stuff will teach you a lesson.” He filled a glass for Juliet. “The first time I had it was at a spring solstice party on the other side of town—a good twenty minutes on the trolley. The party was on the top floor of some rich guy’s apartment, and he’d had the whole floor carpeted with grass for people to sit on like they’re back in nature.” He paused to fill Caleb’s glass. “I take off my shoes like everyone else to feel the grass between my toes and have a few of these drinks. And then a few more. And then I think there were fireworks—either that or somebody hit me.” Tristan chuckled despite himself. “About then I realize it’s probably time to go, so I stagger out onto the street to wait for a trolley. Couldn’t find a trolley if it ran over me. So I walked home.” He refilled Una’s glass, taking another well-timed pause. “I wake up the next day and my feet are just killing me.” His sparkling eyes lifted to meet Lily’s. “I’d left my shoes. I was so stinking drunk I hadn’t noticed I’d walked halfway across the city barefoot.”

Everyone laughed, tipping into a huddle. Everyone except Lily. Toshi didn’t ruin his good story by stopping to bask in his own cleverness. Before the laughter had a chance to get stale, he put down the bottle, his demeanor turning crisp.

“Drink up, everyone,” he said. “Grace will kill me if I get you there too late.”

They finished up their drinks and he swept them downstairs, across the foyer, and through a side door that let out into an atrium. The fountain in the center was large enough to swim in and it was lit so invitingly Lily had an urge to do just that.

The thought of throwing off her clothes and wading into the water pestered her. Lily’s lips twitched as she stifled an upwelling of mirth. So many inappropriate impulses were fighting to come out of her. She wanted to tear off her clothes, break every mirror she walked by, and tell everyone in the world to go to hell.

I think I’m going crazy, Lily said, reaching out for Lillian.

You’re not, Lillian answered. That would be easier, though.

You’ve felt like this?

Sure. Dozens of times, but most acutely when I took the crown.

What crown?

It would be quicker to show you . . .

. . . Rowan raises the crown over my head, and for the first time I get a good look at it in the mirror. The crown of the Salem Witch is made of burnt iron and diamonds. It’s a cruel-looking thing, barbed and jagged, frosted with icy jewels. It’s a thing of gothic beauty, born of fire and pressure. Like the Salem Witch herself.