She rolled her eyes, recalling Corinne’s gown fitting that morning. Who scheduled a fitting at 9:30 on a Saturday, anyway? She had woken up with a start, remembering the three messages her sister had left her the day before, and wriggled out from underneath Nigel’s arm. She hadn’t even taken the time to shower or explain where she was going, instead just throwing on her clothes and sprinting out of her apartment with her shoes only half on. Only in the cab did she realize she still smelled like the tequila shots from the night before.
At least the rain might help with that, Aster had thought wryly as she raced down Lhuillier’s block under the shitty umbrella she’d bought from a bodega on the corner. But when she walked into the salon, she’d seen the look on her sister’s face. Corinne wasn’t happy that Aster was there or worried at all about her soaked appearance. She just wrinkled her nose in that way she always did, as if Aster had ruined everything.
Poppy heaved a sigh. “I think she just had an idea of how she wanted things to go, honey. And you sort of threw a wrench into that.”
“Well, she’s got to learn that sometimes life throws you wrenches,” Aster shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You should try to see things her way,” Poppy said quietly.
Aster scoffed. “What about her seeing things my way? Has she ever done that?” Aster already knew the answer: No. Corinne didn’t like things she couldn’t understand. And she had never understood Aster.
Poppy yawned. “I’m sorry I’m so old and lame. Do you want to grab a drink later this week?”
Aster cradled the phone, touched. Even when Poppy was up to her eyeballs in work and family duties, she always made time for Aster. Even in the aftermath of Poppy’s parents’ death in that freakish plane crash two years ago, Poppy had come to brunch with Aster for her birthday just days later. She was always so . . . solid. Unflappable. “Of course,” Aster said. “Just let me know when you’re free.”
She hung up and took another swig of champagne, then another. She was feeling warm and distinctly fuzzy at the edges; she’d drained almost the whole bottle. She hiccuped loudly, watching as her friends stood to dance. “Are you coming?” Nigel asked, extending his hand.
Aster closed her eyes for a moment, imagining what it would be like to fall into her thousand-thread-count bed—alone. To sleep for a full eight hours, get up at a normal hour, go for a jog, stand in line for coffee. Actually make one of Corinne’s bridal activities tomorrow—surely there was one scheduled—instead of whirling in horribly late, only to be kicked out. Kicked out, she thought angrily, by her own fucking sister. What Corinne didn’t know was that Aster had protected her all these years. She’d preserved Corinne’s perfect little view of their family. Oh, there’d been plenty of times when Aster had almost blurted out what she knew, but something inside her had held back, knowing it would shatter her sister even more than it had shattered Aster. And what did Aster get in thanks? Rejection.
She grabbed the Veuve and drank it straight from the bottle, hoping to silence the thoughts that flitted around her mind like sharp little birds. All at once, she wanted to black out—to drink so much she forgot herself, forgot everything except the dance floor and the sound of the music. She held out her hand to Nigel, and he pulled her to her feet.
The crowd on the dance floor parted for them, leaving them space in the middle of the room. “You forgot your drink,” Clarissa yelled over the sound of the music, pressing another glass into her hand. Aster downed it without realizing what it was, then closed her eyes and raised her slender arms over her head, letting all the grimy memories and barbed comments from today wash down the drain. The only thing that mattered right now was having fun.
My candle burns at both ends, it will not last the night, Aster thought defiantly as she swayed slowly to the beat. Aster didn’t believe in the curse, but she did know that if another Saybrook died young, she’d be the one. Her reckless, feckless lifestyle was a ticking time bomb. Deep down, she worried she wasn’t long for this world.
But maybe that was okay, Aster thought, stumbling forward into Nigel’s arms. She’d rather be the quick-burning firecracker than a slow-to-die ember. Everyone knew it was far more fun to go out with a bang than with a whimper.
3
On Sunday afternoon, Rowan Saybrook sat in the corner of a living room in the Dakota on Central Park West and watched twelve princesses meet and greet one another. Each was adorned in a taffeta ball gown, crystal slippers, and a tiara. They plucked hors d’oeuvres from a silver tray with grace and poise.