“Saskia!”
I return the MA treasurer’s smile. “Salvador.” At least someone’s happy to see me.
“Look how beautiful you’ve become!”
My mother makes a face. Well, she would if her face could move.
“Solina,” Salvador says, turning to her. “We must go, the Fae wait for no one. This is their first visit in years.”
The Fae?
With one swift movement, my mother pulls her Ostrich Birkin onto her shoulder.
“You’re going already?” I say. It’s been less than three minutes. I sat on a plane for nine hours for this?
“I have an important meeting,” she says.
Salvador is already on his way out of the office. “We must catch up at the ball, Saskia,” he calls out merrily. “It’s been too long!”
“See you then,” I call back before turning to my mother.
“Is that the only reason you invited me?” I hiss under my breath. “So I can spy for you?”
She dismisses me with a flick of her hand. “Of course not. I’ve missed you.”
Ping. Ping. Bitch.
Wait, did she say the ball was themed? She turns to go but I shout out after her. “What do I wear tomorrow? Where is it? I don’t know anything about this grand ball.”
She doesn’t slow down, so I follow her into the reception room.
“Beatriz will tell you all you need to know.”
“Hola,” says a syrupy sweet voice beside me.
I turn and let out a long sigh. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Nothing has changed in twelve years. My mother is still dumping me with her friend’s kids.
Beatriz smiles dutifully. She’s pure preppy — all long chestnut locks in a high ponytail and a big fake smile. She’s dressed like an extra from Clueless, complete with over-the-knee white socks and extra pearls.
“Remember me?” she asks in her Andalusian accent. “We played together as children in Marbella!”
Beatriz Duarte. Salvador puts a loving hand on his daughter's shoulders.
“Bea volunteered to give you a little tour of the city and take you dress shopping.”
Beatriz nods obligingly. Powerful. Beautiful. Tiresome. And we never played together.
“Oh, wow! So great to see you again,” I lie.
“Enjoy, mis amores!” Salvador calls over his shoulder as he leads my mother away, a hand on the small of her back.
Gross. I suppose everyone is up her ass now that she’s in line to be the First.
“Sorry my mother forced you to babysit me,” I say, turning to Beatriz.
She smiles, although it’s the practiced smile of an actress or politician, switching on far too quickly and brightly.
“Oh, no problem. I’m happy to do it, but coffee first...then shopping,” she says. “I invited some friends. Hope you don’t mind.”
The pinging of her polite lies trails me as I follow her out the door.
Chapter Four
Ten minutes later, we’re in the MA cafeteria, which is more like a hip underground cafe. It’s in a hidden corner of Palau Güell, tucked away behind a statue and down a secret staircase, inaccessible to the wide-eyed tourists permeating the halls.
Despite being underground, the cafe is overgrown with leafy vines. Magical ivy, I note, as the green and red leaves pulsate and swirl around themselves.
We take a table at the back. A moment later, Beatriz jumps up to wave at someone.
“Here they are!”
I look up as two people push their way through the crowd. It’s the boy I saw outside earlier and the girl with short dark hair.
The boy grins at Beatriz and I catch the girl’s eye. She gives me a half-smile, her teeth scraping her bottom lip. Her pixie-cut hair is wild and damp from the helmet, slightly longer on one side, which keeps falling in her eyes. Though her face is young and dotted with freckles, there’s an edge to her I can’t place.
She calls out to a nearby waitress and holds up four fingers. “Carajillos, por favor!”
“I’m Luisa,” the girl says. “Beatriz’s roommate and sometimes friend, and this is Rafeek Amir.”
“Their sometimes roommate and always friend,” the boy says with a wink. “Call me Rafi.”
“I’m Saskia.”
I consider reaching my hand out but think better of it. This isn’t a meeting at The Chronicle and I'm not sure people my age in Spain shake hands. The boy kisses Beatriz on both cheeks, as is customary in Spain, then repeats it with me. The girl holds back and takes a seat.
“We know who you are.” She nods at me but directs the comment to the boy beside her. She leans closer to him and adds. “Mira, another de la Cruz Witch.”
The boy next to me is so close I can smell him — weed and something earthy, like cloves.
“The famous Saskia,” he says to me in Spanish. I detect an accent, maybe Arabic, but it’s faint.
The waitress brings over four tiny cups and a pot of sugar. Carajillos. Only in Spain is an espresso with brandy a daytime beverage. I reach for mine, but Luisa stops my hand mid-air. Our eyes lock, and with a sly smile she lifts the lid from the sugar pot. Tiny white shapes flutter towards me and I nearly duck, then realize they’re butterflies. One settles on the rim of my glass, flaps its delicate wings and dives in. It dissolves instantly in a flurry of bubbles.
I stare at the cup, dumbfounded, but recover quickly. I'm not about to be impressed by sugar cubes. I’m not Seabiscuit.
Luisa smiles warmly, but I don’t care how cute her smile is. These are MA Witch bitches, the most cunning of the toxic lot, and no amount of carajillos is going to make me forget that. I down my drink, wincing as it scalds my throat.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of the famous Saskia de la Cruz visiting us?” Beatriz asks, sipping her own coffee carefully.
The way she says famous sounds less sincere than Rafi. More of a jab. Then I realize what ‘having heard of
