to take my mother’s crown she fought back. I could fight back, too—hell, I’m stronger than my mother, braver, and I can handle a knife better. But she doesn’t care. Thinks I’m weak. Says she’ll just arrange the marriage herself if I don’t pick someone soon.”
“Would she really do that?” I ask.
“Damn straight,” Flannery says. “She can’t just leave well enough alone.” Flannery spits on the ground and walks away. I follow her; we cross back into the more populated area of camp, though most people are inside now, silhouettes in their lit windows. There’s a group of men drinking around a small fire in a pit; one points us out to the others as Flannery and I grow closer.
“Oy, there she is! The Princess of Kentucky herself, and her prize!” He waves a bottle of liquor at us so emphatically that he topples over and nearly rolls into the fire.
“Better watch out, Flannery,” another one yells. “Them boys won’t forget about this. Might be inclined to teach you a lesson.”
“They’ll have a hard time doing that from the ground,” Flannery says coolly, and we keep walking. The men are too drunk to be insulted, laughing and whistling. We’re nearly out of earshot when one man calls out, loud enough that his voice shoots across the camp.
“Should’ve killed the buffer girl straight out. I bet we have to, to settle this whole thing.”
Flannery keeps moving, while I struggle to keep breathing. She glances back at me, dark hair flying into her face from a breeze.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t let them kill you.” I nod meekly, feeling at least mildly comforted until she adds, “If you need to be killed, I promise I’ll off you myself.”
Everyone has a memory they treasure. A bright moment in the past to return to when things are too dark to live in the present. When I was small, it was a memory of dying Easter eggs with my mother. Then, when I needed something bigger, more powerful, it was the memory of finding the rose garden with Kai. Thousands of blooms in front of a graying twilight sky, a summer breeze, the feeling that we’d found our very own version of Narnia.
But now all I can think of is Kai destroying the roses, the things he said to me, the way Mora sneered at my pain. So in the ever-darkening present, I turn to a different memory instead, one that’s still pure, beautiful, perfect.
The second time Kai and I kissed.
The first time we kissed, we were excited, dreaming about the music intensive, about New York and the adventures we’d have there. Everything felt big, everything felt grand, and it was like kissing was the only way to get the joy out of our hearts and into the world.
But the second time, we weren’t distracted. There was no letter, no dreaming, no plans. There was just me and Kai, and the knowledge that one kiss was a simple diversion, but two kisses was a pattern. It was evening in the autumn, the trees red and fiery and the air crisp. We were on the brick bridge leading into the park, watching the dogs in the fenced area below roughhouse. There were dogs barking, and there was the sunset, and then there was Kai’s hand taking mine. He turned me toward him, and I reached up, wrapping my arms around his neck without thinking, and we were kissing as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
The memory is enough to light the darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I’m given a sleeping bag on the floor of Flannery’s bedroom. It’s old, but admittedly warm and comfortable, all things considered. Flannery has a twin bed that’s pressed up against a wall, which she leans against as she sleeps—I know, because I lie awake for hours. I think back to the hotel, how eager I was to someday tell Kai about lying my way in. Flannery snores loudly and rolls over. All this is going to make for a much more interesting story, if I escape.
I wake up the following day to Flannery tying her hair in an elaborate series of braids and buns and knots. She casts me a rather disdainful look as I stretch and stand. My hair is a mess of tangles, and finger-combing doesn’t do much good. Flannery watches me, then sighs.
“Here,” she says, handing me an elastic. “
“Come on,” she says. “There’re scones in the kitchen. Maybe.”
I sigh and follow her. The knife is once again tucked against her waistband, threatening me if I don’t.
There are, in fact, scones—spotted with raisins and delicious, clearly made from scratch. We eat them, then walk outside. It’s still cold, but the ground is soggy from melted snow and the sun is bright—it’s nearly midday, I realize. I follow Flannery across the camp, a far less threatening place in the daylight. Children are playing freeze tag, and women are lined up inside RVs, talking among themselves. I suspect the topic of conversation is Flannery and me, based on the hush that falls over people when we walk by. Most of the men, I notice, are gathered around a few RVs near the back of camp, running in and out like bees at a hive. They’re repairing them—patching the roofs and ripping up carpet, arms elbow-deep in engines.
“Almost done?” Flannery shouts out to a woman standing near the closest RV.
“Two days!” she answers. She can’t be much older than me, but there’s a baby bundled in a knitted blanket on her hip. “Jolie can’t want to be out of the tent.”
“Wager that’s true, in this weather,” Flannery answers, grinning as we take a sharp right.
A few moments later we reach a massive structure that’s part tent, part camper—like the owner built an addition onto the place out of tarps and metal rods, with a few moving blankets on the interior for insulation. We duck through the makeshift doors, growing warmer as each layer is pushed aside. Five layers deep, we reach the center—a room illuminated by camping lanterns, covered in beaten rugs and cheap furniture. Three people sit at a table in the center—Bracelets is among them, along with another boy I think I recognize from yesterday. They welcome Flannery and offer her the last empty seat at the table; Bracelets rises, grabs a chair for me, and drags it over without a second glance.
“Ginny, this is Callum,” Flannery says as I sit down. She points to Bracelets. “And all you need to know about him—well, all of them, really”—she motions to the other two at the table—“is that they’re the Kentucky nobles, and their money is about to be mine.”
The other two boys jeer at Flannery for a moment, then introduce themselves—Declan and Ardan—Ardan is one I recognize from yesterday at my car. Bracelets—Callum, rather—pulls out a battered deck of playing cards and begins to distribute them among the others, passing over me.
“All right, bastards: Aces are high, lucky hearts, and bets in before the drop. And I swear to god, Ardan, if you’re opening your mouth to suggest one of your candy-ass rules, we’ll throw you out and let the buffer play instead. What the hell, Declan, already?” Callum says when Declan passes him a beaten thermos. I can smell the alcohol inside from across the table.
“What? It’s almost noon,” Declan says, grinning.
Callum rolls his eyes. “You make us look bad. But I can’t have that shit anyway. You know that.”
“Then pass it here,” Ardan says, lunging across me to reach for the thermos. Callum sees me watching the exchange as he shuffles the deck again.
“You drink, buffer?” he asks.
“Ginny,” I say firmly, patience worn. Callum raises his eyebrows at me. “My name’s Ginny, and I’m getting tired of being called
Flannery snickers, and Callum, for a moment, looks as if he’s going to mock me again. Instead, he shrugs. “All right, then. You want a first name, that means you want to be like us. People like us play cards.”
“What’s the game?” I ask, trying to sound bold. I
“Widow’s Lover,” Callum says, dealing me six cards.
“I don’t know that one,” I say.
