Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(62)

I laughed. “You two had me fooled.”

She leaned in to my ear. “I mean, I like Win, but he isn’t really my type. You’re much more my type.”

“Oh!”

“Generally, yes. But specifically, I like your friend Scarlet. But Trinity’s so boring and Catholic. I can’t wait to be in college. Anyway, I was just trying to help the Charles Delacroix campaign. That Bertha Sinclair is a monster.”

At least I wasn’t passing my days at Liberty.

“She is, Annie. She’s going to let the water run out, and she’s in the pocket of all the big companies and she lets them pollute and not pay taxes, and she’s totally corrupt. Charles Delacroix isn’t perfect, but … he’s good.” She pointed across the room to Win, who was talking to an elderly woman. “He raised that, didn’t he?”

“I suppose.”

Alison started talking about college because apparently there was nothing else in the world worth talking about. She had gotten into Yale early admission and was planning to study political science and environmental engineering. I felt the same seething jealousy as I had with Chai—yes, that’s what it was—rise up in me. I had to excuse myself again.

I was tired of hearing about all my classmates’ plans for next year. I thought about going up to Win’s room to lie down but when I got there I found it in use. The same with Win’s parents’ bedroom—gross. I went back downstairs. I knew that Win’s father’s office was supposedly off-limits. But I also knew that Charles Delacroix was out for the night, so that’s where I decided to go. I removed the gold cord that had been tied around the door handles and let myself in.

I sat down on one of the leather couches. And then I took off my shoes and lay down. I had just about dozed off when someone came in.

“Anya Balanchine,” Charles Delacroix said. “So we meet again.”

I struggled to sit up. “Sir.”

He was wearing a red plaid flannel bathrobe, and he had, indeed, grown a beard. The combination made him look a bit like a homeless person. I wondered if he was going to throw me out of his office, but he didn’t.

“My wife insisted on throwing this blasted party,” Charles Delacroix said. “Now that I am unemployed, my opinions carry less weight than I would like. It is my hope that this infernal affair doesn’t last long.”

“You’re being ridiculous. It’s a birthday party. It’s only one night.”

“True. Little things do seem to weigh more heavily on me these days,” Charles Delacroix admitted. “Look what a wonderful time you appear to be having.”

“I like having your son to myself.”

“That’s the reason you broke into my office?”

“Moving a cord is not breaking in!”

“You would think that. You’ve always had—how to put this?—a flexible attitude toward the law.” I was reasonably sure that Charles Delacroix was teasing me.

I told him the truth—that I was tired of hearing my peers talk about their plans for next year. “You see, I am plan-less, Mr. Delacroix. And you must admit that you had some part in my current situation.”

Charles Delacroix shrugged. “A resourceful girl like you? I bet you have a move or two up your sleeve. Avenging your brother’s death and such. Taking the reins of your chocolate empire from the incompetents who currently run it.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Come now. Did I hit upon a sore subject?”

“You owe me an apology, Mr. Delacroix.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” he said. “These months since we last saw each other have undoubtedly been worse for you than for me. But you are very young, and you’ll recover. I’m old, or at least middle-aged, and the scent of failure clings longer to people in my time of life. And despite my machinations—and mind you, it was never anything against you—you and Win are still together. You’ve won, Anya. I’ve lost. Congratulations.”

Charles Delacroix sounded bitter and hopeless, and I told him so.

“How can I be anything but? You met my successor. How did your release go down? Were you required to grease the wheels or did she just take her pleasure from humiliating me one last time?”

I admitted that wheels had been greased. “Do you know what she said about you?” I asked.

“Only awful things, I suppose.”

“No. She said that her campaign kept hitting the story of Win and me because of how much it bothered you. The voters, she thought, cared much less about the matter than you did.”

Charles Delacroix was silent for a while. He furrowed his brow and then he laughed. “Possibly. It’s a good lesson come too late. So, where were you all these months anyway? Somewhere that was good for you, I see.”

I told him I couldn’t tell him that. “Someday you might use it against me.”

“Anya Balanchine, we have always been candid with each other. Don’t you know that I am nothing but a declawed tiger now?”

“For now, you are. But even a declawed tiger still has teeth, and I’m not counting you out yet.”

“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “Aren’t you angry at me for throwing you back in Liberty? Or have you just buried your anger deep inside the caverns of that ludicrously girlish heart of yours and one night I’ll go to bed and there’ll be a horse’s head in it?”