"Maman, this is hilarious. Can't you even—?"
"Non," she says, steel in her voice. The red envelope is the only thing she's been looking at since the last forty-eight hours. And I don't like that. Don't like that at all.
"It's still October," I groan, knowing all this is fruitless. "Can't you tell something's wrong with all this? Why on Earth would the French Association call me today? Why on Earth would they call me at all?"
"Because," Maman says, setting out my white evening dress, "today is a regular day. And it might have been convenient for them. Honestly, Em, you need to stop applying some vandal's logic to everything. Two whole weeks have passed."
It isn't just some vandal, I wanted to say. But nobody would appreciate that. Once forgotten, forever forgotten.
To be honest, I don't understand the deal. The French Association in Callenfield's simply a joke. Just a bunch of septuagenarians who talk about shit like lexicography and that sort of thing. I'd been to a 'cultural get-together' with Papa once and all they spoke about was the phrase 'quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boir.' Ugh.
Maman thinks they'll get me a language scholarship or something, and that's why she's so worked up about the whole deal. I know they won't, but it's hard to convince parents when they've got an idea in their head. Which is sad.
Maman exits the room, leaving me alone with the dress and a pair of ridiculously high heels. I chuck them out in the corner and set a pair of white Adidas shell-tops in front of me.
I sigh, and then realize that what's got to be done, is got to be done.
I get in the dress.
***
I check the clock on my wall. A good thirty minutes to go.
I'm in my dress, and if I wasn't so pissed, I would actually appreciate how nice it looks. It's sleeveless and off-white, and ends just a few centimeters above above my knees. Maman tied my hair back in a semi-messy bun and for all I could say, I look like the models you see holding balloons on birthday cards. Not my idea of nice, but pretty, all the same. I brush a stubborn lock of hair behind my ear and steady myself.
I can't hear a sound. Maman and Papa are probably fixing up the car so it looks showy when we drive in Calleja manor's driveway. Works to my advantage at the moment.
I tiptoe across the hallway and take a few sharp turns, and voilà, I'm in the basement store. I shuffle through the dust, which is disgustingly caking at the borders of my feet, to get to the drawer I'm aiming for. I'm not supposed to be here, but — honestly, there's no way around it.
When I get there, the light is so dim I can hardly see. But it's adequate. I pull on the handle, hoping desperately for it not to be locked...
And it opens. Amazing.
I shuffle through the contents. Pill bottles, pill bottles, and still more pill bottles – Maman was definitely lying about not needing migraine medication anymore. But that isn't what I'm here for.
My fingers clasp round a little black, molded box; and with a subtle smile on my face, I pull it out and stuff it in the sling bag round my shoulder.
***
Calleja manor is definitely a long way off from where I live. Papa's taken us enough twists and turns in the path enough to last a lifetime, and I'm not sure if our little Honda is going to make it.
I think I've heard the name of the place before, but I don't remember where. If I did, it must've been a long time ago. It was, apparently, a grand, luxurious sort of mansion owned by Torrez-level people, but then something happened and it started falling to pieces. I guess someone came along with a huge stack of money and decided to redo the place. Nobody knows who, and in true Callenfield fashion, nobody cares.
At least not in public.
I sink into the very uncomfortable leather seats, sweat on my hands. Just for good measure, I feel around the contents of my sling bag, to make sure the box is still there. Good, it is.
Today's an abnormally beautiful day. I doubt Callenfield has had one like this in years. You're probably not going to take me seriously, but the sky is violet and pink. It looks exactly like the candy we used to gobble back when we were younger and didn't have to equate bulging waistlines with social status.
My arms instinctively circle my waist. I don't particularly enjoy that attitude, but...I guess I'm just lucky I can keep myself away from fattening food.
I look back up at the sky. It's winter, so it's no real surprise that the evening is already settling in. Tiny puffs of cloud drift across the horizon, adding a touch of white to the cotton-candy sky. It's soothing, and I think I would agree with myself more if I didn't have that prickly feeling in my gut. That feeling that tells you something is going to go wrong, but with no explanation.
I shut my eyes and squeeze them tight, wishing the thoughts would go away. It's not very nice to be bothered by something you don't even know about. And Tejada's drama had the curtains closed on it for a long while. I'm not saying that it isn't possible for the curtains to rise one more time, but I'm just...
I guess I want to believe that they won't. And that isn't wise, but it's hauntingly comfortable – and I give in to it.
In a few more seconds, I feel the worn tires of our car crunch on gravel, which means we might have arrived. I lean out of the window to get a better look at things, as the manor casts a discreet shadow over its surroundings.
And what a sight it is.
It's like a castle. Maybe it even is a castle, just add a drawbridge and a moat and there you have it. Gothic spire-like turrets crawl upwards from a majestically large, rectangular-cylindrical building. They're coated in elegant ivy and violet flowers of a creeper-ish plant I don't know the name of, and at their points, where they poke lightly into the sky, are sculptures of harped and winged angels. The gate is in itself a complete majesty – it's about nine feet tall, and impossible to climb over. It's black and has intricate carvings of the very same flowered violet creeper around its surface, ending in a gentle twist of metal at the top. Against the backdrop of the evening light, it looks like a proper stock photo.
In other words, beautiful – but so, so unreal.
***
We step out of the car and onto a cemented pathway that's bordered with blush-pink roses that are as big tennis balls. If more people knew about this place, it would soon become an Instagram hotspot. It looks like a movie set.
I look around from where I'm standing, hoping to spot some life around, but the only other human beings I'm able to catch sight of are my parents. No guards, no escorts, no nothing. I look around once more, just to be sure.
Suddenly, I hear movement, and I turn around.
A middle-aged woman with a kindly smile races up to Maman and Papa, a bunch of flyers in her hands. When she reaches us, she tries to speak, but she can't — she's huffing way too much.
Three minutes later, she finds her voice.
"Emilie Badeaux?" She pronounces my name in a perfect French accent, which disappoints me because I might just have lost the pleasure of proving my parents wrong. I nod, but only slightly.
"Bien," she says, and Maman's smile widens in proportion to hers. Which pisses me off.
She shuffles through a green file in her hands, and I'm really starting to believe this isn't a farce. If it is — whoever's doing this is either some rich cult or is someone with too much time on their hands. Too much time, and just the same amount of money, too.
"Emilie Badeaux, you're in Stellabrooke tower," she says, not looking up. "I'll have you seated there, and you can wait till you are called into the hall."
"Okay," I say, looking at my parents. "I'll go? Are you coming in?"
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mademoiselle," the lady says, smiling. "Désolée, but your parents will have to stay outside. Only the invitees may enter. Is that okay with you, Madame? Monsieur?"
I give Papa the best puppy-dog eyes I can manage, but they don't work. He simply points to Maman and shrugs.
"Oui, bien," Maman says, nodding her head and smiling at the lady. "Call us when you're finished, okay?"
"This may take a while," the lady explains. "More than an hour. We need to get her particulars in order. Vous savez."
What particulars? What in order?
Maman smiles radiantly at the French, and kisses me on my forehead. "Bonne chance," she whispers.
"Maman, look, are you sure this is real? Like, I don't know, something seems off here..." I let my voice trail away into nothingness as the smile on her face pushes me to breaking point. "I think everything's fine," she says, smoothing my hair. "And you can call us if anything goes wrong. Good luck, now, hurry."
I've no idea what's going to happen to me. My only consolation is that I'm — for some part of the deal — ready. Kinda. I nod at Maman and follow the lady into the manor.