The doctor cleared his throat. “Today should be a joyous occasion, with the masquerade tonight. But I think we should discuss the elephant in the room. We’ve lost two students to the dark forces. There are only seven of you now.” His shirt was a sickly green color, like the pale green of hospital walls.
Jonah scratched his cheek. “Do you really think Connor was a terrorist though? I mean, I’ve known the guy for a while.”
“Do you think Connor is a terrorist?” asked Dr. Mellior.
Jonah hunched his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess, if you think he is.”
Dr. Mellior nodded. His chair creaked as he leaned back. “As unfortunate as it is, a smaller family can be a closer family.”
Alan’s spoon clanged as he dropped it in his bowl. “But where have you taken them?”
“That’s none of your concern, Alan Wong,” Mrs. Ranulf snapped. Her red dress matched the rubies in her chalice pendant.
Alan continued to glare, and Fiona had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t going to back down.
“I thought we were going to talk about the elephant in the room,” said Alan. “The elephant is that you kidnapped two teenagers based on rumors and superstition, and you’re holding them somewhere without a trial.”
Mrs. Ranulf pointed at Alan. “You people think you can come into our country—”
The psychiatrist shot her a hard look, and silence descended.
Munroe shrugged. “Who cares where the witches are? If they’re trying to destroy our way of life, they should be killed.” She pursed her plum-colored lips.
Fiona’s bile rose. Killed? She wanted to jump over the table and smash Munroe’s perfect face into the remains of her cucumber soup.
Dr. Mellior pushed up his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let’s take a step back. The circetomaniacs are receiving appropriate treatment for their condition as determined by our new laws. Their location is a secret for your own good. They are dangerous until rehabilitated. If they can be rehabilitated.”
“Not everyone can,” Munroe’s mother added. “The evil runs too deep in some, and we deal with them in our own way.”
Fiona swallowed hard. What way? By Munroe’s side, Tobias’s expression betrayed nothing, his face and shoulders a mask of composure. Only his dark eyes hinted at unease, darting to the door every few seconds. He was waiting for something—Fiona was sure of it. Munroe inched closer to him, a pale hand edging toward his arm.
Mrs. Ranulf’s lips twitched in a tight-lipped smile. “Now let’s not ruin our lunch with all of this negative energy. Mr. Ranulf will arrive soon, and we all have tonight’s party to prepare for. They’re setting up tents and tables in the back gardens as we speak. I trust you’ve all completed your masks?”
Fiona nodded, schooling her face into a pleasant expression. I’ll have to glue some more flowers on that piece of crap later.
“And you’ve all found outfits?” Munroe’s mother continued, crumpling up her napkin and tossing it into her bowl.
Munroe smiled. “I found a suit for Tobias that will fit him perfectly. He’s going to look amazing. He’ll be fire, and I’ll be ice.”
Fiona suppressed a groan. An ice princess. Of course.
Sadie beamed. “She looks amazing in her gown. I’m going as ice also.”
Munroe frowned. “You can’t be ice. That’s my idea. I’ll lend you my blue gown. You can be water.” Her gray eyes swerved to Fiona. “You’re probably the wrong shape for my dresses, sorry.”
And there was that soup-smashing image again.
“What are you wearing, Fiona?” Mrs. Ranulf cocked her head. “You can’t wear one of your cartoon T-shirts.”
“I have a wildflower theme planned. But I don’t have a dress.”
Mrs. Ranulf waved a hand. “You can look through the clothing trunks in the basement. There are some suits down there for the boys, and my mother-in-law left some of her dresses.” A breathy laugh. “God knows what they look like, but they’ll be better than a cat shirt.”
“Sounds good, Mrs. Ranulf,” Fiona managed. Forcing a smile, she imagined, for a moment, that the mystery spell might turn all the Ranulfs into rats.
*
Fiona stood in front of the mirror in her room. She’s spent fifteen minutes rooting around in a trunk in the basement, digging through ruffled orange and pink monstrosities, before she’d grabbed an unassuming beige dress. If she couldn’t wear something pretty, at least she’d wear something bland.
As she stared at herself, she wondered if she should have gone for one of the frilly, pumpkin-colored dresses. Her gown smelled of mothballs, and the hem sagged midway down her calves. It had no waist, lending her the appearance of a soggy teabag. A teabag wearing sneakers. If Mariana had been here, they could have had a good laugh about this. She suddenly missed her friend terribly.
She gripped her hairbrush. This isn’t about dresses and parties. The masquerade would provide the perfect opportunity to search the premises while all the Purgators were distracted. And Mrs. Ranulf’s behavior the other night suggested she could be easily distracted in the presence of cocktails.