A Lesson in Vengeance(68)

Fortunately for me, Quinn takes that moment to step in. “Mental illness in genre,” they say. “Are you more interested in accuracy of portrayal? Or the significance thereof?”

“Mostly how depictions of mental illness are used to build suspense by introducing uncertainty and a sense of mistrust, especially with regard to the narrator’s perception of events, and the conflation of magic and madness in female characters.”

“See?” Ellis says, returning with two of the cocktails in hand. “I told you she was brilliant.”

Heat rises in my cheeks, and when she hands me one of the drinks, our fingers brush. Does her touch linger a beat longer than necessary? Or am I imagining things?

Quinn glances down at their drink and lets out half a laugh. “Old fashioneds? Really, Ellis? You’re seventeen, last time I checked.”

“Are you going to turn me in?” Ellis says.

Quinn shakes their head. “No, but I am going to mock you mercilessly. When I let you try one of my whiskey sours over the summer, you hated it so much you puked in the hydrangeas.”

Ellis turns a delicate shade of rose; I’m fascinated. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her embarrassed.

I relate far more to the old Ellis than the new one, but I take a sip of my old fashioned anyway. I can tell intellectually that the sweetness is balanced perfectly by the bitters, that neither overwhelms the heat of the bourbon—that it’s an objectively good drink—but I still hate it. I set the glass aside on the end table and hope Ellis won’t notice if I don’t finish.

“What else?” Quinn presses me. “Where are you from? Where did you go before Dalloway?”

“Jesus, Quinn,” Ellis says, her tone sharp—still ruffled by Quinn’s taking her down a peg, I imagine. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” I say.

Quinn allows me a slight smile from across the room. Maybe I’ve won myself some credit with them after all.

“I’m from Colorado originally,” I tell them, “but I went to the Fay School before Dalloway. That was a long time ago now; I’m a senior.”

Senior plus, really, but Quinn doesn’t need to know this is my second attempt at finishing my prep school career. Assuming Ellis hasn’t already informed them of my flaws.

I decide not to give Quinn the chance to guide the conversation, by asking the next question. “My mother’s Cecelia Morrow. Of the Boston Morrows.”

Not that it needs to be clarified; my mother’s flight from the East Coast, unmarried and pregnant by a stranger, had been what passed for a scandal back in the aughts. Everyone knew all the nasty little details, no matter how fiercely my grandmother had tried to obscure them.

Quinn performs a dramatic shudder. “New Englanders.”

“You’re such a snob,” Ellis says affectionately. She has curled up on the sofa, long legs flung out along the floor and crossed at the ankles. Her trousers hitch up high enough that I can tell she’s wearing sock garters.

“What about you?” I shoot back before Quinn can resume the interrogation. “I already know where you went to university. But I don’t know what you studied.”

“Statistics.”

“Quinn’s a poker player,” Ellis elaborates.

“If my trans-ness didn’t murder our parents, the gambling certainly would have.” Quinn’s slow smirk suggests they don’t mind that at all. “Ellis has always been the darling child, although I can’t imagine why. She’s just like me.”

Ellis rolls her eyes, but it seems good-natured. She leans over, and Quinn hands her their cigarette.

“I think it’s almost time for bed,” Ellis says, blowing her smoke toward the ceiling. “It’s getting late, and you had a long drive.”

“Kicking me out already?” Quinn’s grin is slow and mischievous; I don’t have the impression they mind being bossed around by their little sister.

But I am surprised Ellis is attempting it in the first place. I get the sense she’s trying to reassert some kind of dominance after Quinn called her out for the fake whiskey habit.

“Oh, we’ll see quite enough of each other over the next few days, I’m sure,” Ellis says. She stabs out the cigarette and gets to her feet, finishing off her cocktail in a few long swallows.

It means I have to gulp down the rest of my old fashioned as well, and I waver a little when I stand. I tell myself that’s fatigue; I’m not such a lightweight as to be thrown off balance by one drink. “It was nice meeting you, Quinn. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early,” they say, clapping Ellis on the shoulder one last time before heading for the door. “I’m staying at a hotel in town. Not far at all; feel free to call if you need anything.”

And then they’re gone, as quickly as they arrived. If I were alone, I might wonder if the whole thing had been some bizarre drunken fever dream.

Ellis stands in the hall with her arms crossed, staring at the space where Quinn had stood.

“What?” I say, a teasing edge creeping into my tone. “Sick of them already?”

Ellis shakes her head. “Of course not. Although I do wonder why they bothered to come all this way if they’re only going to make fun of me.”