tricks of time ― grayson hawthorne [the inheritance games]

EPILOGUE

The dance floor was scattered with rose petals and lit by strings of delicate fairy lights that crisscrossed overhead, softly glowing like fireflies in the night. A string quartet played to the left of a kind of cake I would have expected to see at a royal wedding.

Tuxedo-clad waiters carried trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. "What is this?" I breathed.

A soft shoulder that could only be my sisters bumped into mine. "We're calling it the introverts ball."

"There's no one here." I almost lowered my head in disappointment.

"Not true," Leslie replied cheerfully. "I'm here. Nash turned his nose up at the fancy food and put himself in charge of the grill. Mr. Laughlin's running the Ferris wheel, under Mrs. Laughlin's supervision. Thea and Rebecca are stealing a super-stolen moment back behind the ice sculptures. Xander's keeping an eye on your surprise, and here's Zara and Nan!" I turned just in time to be poked with a cane. Grayson's  great-grandmother glowered at me while his aunt looked on, austerely amused.

"You, girl," Nan said, which was basically her version of my name."The neckline on that dress makes you look like a floozy." She wagged her cane at me, then grunted. "I approve."

"So do I," a voice piped up from my left. Grayson.

My cheeks lit up, I'm sure of it. Nan scolded Grayson so loudly I swear servants at the other side of the estate could hear it, too.

"Alisa may have been under the impression that there was going to be a much larger party."But there wasn't. It was just...us.

And it was perfect.

___

At eight, we slow danced. Everyone found a partner of their own. Even Xander— well, it was a dog, but we got the point.

At ten, we headed for the pottery— as in, a room with potting wheels and a kiln. By the time eleven o'clock rolled around and we made our way down the labyrinthine halls of Hawthorne House, to the arcade, our gowns and tuxes had been ripped, spattered with clay, and ruined. I would still treasure the dress forever, though.

There was only an hour till I turned eighteen. Till I signed that will and the money was mine.
I was exhausted, sore, and filled with an exhilaration that defied description.

This was it.

This was the night.

This was everything.

This was us.

In the arcade, four private chefs met us, each with a signature dish to present. Slow-braised beef soup served with pork buns so tender they should be illegal. Lobster risotto.

The first two courses nearly undid me, and that was before I bit into a sushi roll that looked like a work of art just as the final chef set our dessert on fire. I looked to Oren. He was the one who'd cleared the private chefs to come here tonight.

"You have to try this," I told him. "All of it."

I watched as Oren gave in and tasted a pork bun, and then I felt someone else watching me. Jameson.

He was wearing a silver tuxedo with sharp, angular lines, no bow tie, and the shirt buttoned halfway. I thought he might keep his distance, but he strode over to me, expression assessing. "You have a plan."

My heart rate ticked up. I didn't just have a plan. I had A Plan.

"I wrote it down," I told Jameson. "And then I rewrote it, again and again."