Cackle(39)

“Yes,” Sophie says, “we have.”

Rose holds open a bag for Deirdre to set the box inside. It’s difficult for them because their hands are trembling.

“Thank you,” Sophie says, taking the bag. “Enjoy your day. Annie, let’s go.”

“Thank you!” I tell Deirdre.

“You’re welcome. Come by the store anytime!” she says. Rose is still cowering behind her.

“Do we need anything else?” Sophie asks me.

“I don’t think so,” I say. I shrug.

Sophie shrugs. “Let’s go home and eat treats and run around like maniacs.”

“Let’s do it!”

I follow her through the woods. This time, when we get to the well, to the graves, to the hut, Sophie explains them to me.

“I used to get my water from that well,” she says. “They were always threatening to throw me down it. And they did a few times! But I could always get back up. That’s the thing about me. I’m quite resilient.

“I didn’t mind the hut,” she says. “Would be hard to go back now, though.”

At the circle of headstones, she simply says, “Old friends.”

I leave it alone.

When we get to her house, it looks even bigger than I remember. Like there’s an extra turret or an extra wing. Sophie holds the door open for me, then leads me into the dining room.

“Let’s eat our donuts on fine china,” she says, “like proper adults.”

The dining room is distinctly medieval. There’s a behemoth wooden table surrounded by too many chairs to count. Intricate tapestries hang on the stone walls, and there’s a fireplace at the other end of the room. Actually, there are two fireplaces, identical twins, standing side by side. Above the table, chandeliers hang from long chains. Each one is wrought iron with multiple tiers holding what I assume are fake candles. Maybe not. I stand around for a moment bewildered by the room’s extravagance.

Sophie sets the table with porcelain plates, linen napkins and large glass goblets etched with roses. She fills the goblets from a decanter that looks like a snake.

“It’s cider,” she says as she pours. She sets the decanter aside and pulls out a chair for me.

“You sure know how to treat a lady.”

She raises an eyebrow. She sits across from me, then offers me the box of baked goods. I select a blueberry donut.

“Our first course,” Sophie says, choosing a muffin.

Just as I’m about to take a bite, my phone dings.

Text message.

I take it out of my pocket to check.

“No,” Sophie says. The phone is plucked from my grasp by an invisible hand and set screen down on the table. “It’ll spoil our fun.”

“I want to see who it’s from,” I say. I flip my phone over. It’s a text from Sam. It reads Hey.

I go to unlock my phone with my thumb, but before I can, it slides across the table out of my reach.

“Annie,” Sophie says with a reprimanding intonation, “I told you.”

“It’s Sam,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “Here you are having a perfectly lovely Saturday morning, and here he is ruining it.”

“He didn’t ruin it,” I say. “It was just a text.”

“Reminding you of his existence and the pain he caused you. Continues to cause you,” she says. “Look, pet, I understand it must be hard to sever ties with someone you loved for so long. But he’s not in your life anymore. You’re building a new life. Why let him poison the well? Take it from me, who has actually poisoned a well. From inside that well.”

I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. I turn away, shoving some donut into my mouth.

“I was kidding about the well. Well, sort of. I don’t want you to think I’m being insensitive.”

She puts her hand on my hand. When she pulls it back, there’s a ring on my index finger. Silver with a rough pink stone.

“Look,” she says. “Something shiny.”

“Sophie! It’s so pretty!” I hold it up to the light.

“You like pink, yes?”

“I like pink.”

“Thought so,” she says. “It doesn’t really suit me.”

“Every color suits you,” I say.

She basks in the compliment. I decide one of the things I like most about Sophie is how much she enjoys a compliment. I wouldn’t think someone so beautiful would feed on compliments the way she does. It makes me feel less pathetic for my need, to know that someone could be so completely self-possessed and still savor validation.

“This muffin tastes bad,” she says, pushing her plate away. “What in this world is more disappointing than a bad muffin?”

“A lot, Sophie. A lot of things.”

She sulks, dramatically slouching in her seat.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s very, very disappointing. You want some of my donut?”

“No, that’s all right. I wanted all of this,” she says, tapping the box, “but I think I wanted for the sake of wanting.”

“So you are human.”

“Bleh,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “Don’t insult me.”