She put both hands up in surrender and said, “Lead on.”
Halloween seemed to bring out a sort of sybaritic hysteria in the Dellecher students. What I remembered of it from my first three years was quickly forgotten, as being a fourth-year was a little like being a celebrity. People I didn’t know, barely knew, barely recognized, heaped compliments on me and all the others, asked how long we’d been rehearsing, and expressed appropriate amazement when they learned that we hadn’t, at all. For an hour or so I accepted proffered drinks and drags on spliffs and cigarettes, but the close press of people soon began to suffocate me. I scanned the crowd with some urgency, in search of one of my fellow fourth-year thespians. (I’d been separated from Alexander and Filippa, though at that point I didn’t recall when or how.) I shook off a desperately flirtatious second-year girl by saying I needed another drink, found one, and wandered toward the edge of the light. I breathed a little more freely, content to watch the debauchery for a while without participating. I sipped slowly at my beer until I felt a hand on my arm.
“Hello there.”
“Meredith.” She had detached herself from a group of studio art boys (probably begging her to pose for a drawing class) and followed me to the periphery of the party. She was still in her witch dress, and in my foggy state it was impossible not to stare at her through the fabric.
“Tired of hearing how fabulous you are?” she asked.
“Mostly they just want to touch the blood.”
She smiled and walked her fingers from my elbow up to my shoulder. “Sick little freaks.” She’d definitely been drinking, but she held her liquor better than the rest of us. “Then again, maybe they just want an excuse to touch you.” She licked a spot of stage blood off the tip of one finger and winked, thick black eyelashes like ostrich-feather fans. It was unbearably sexy, which irritated me for some reason. “You know,” she said, “the bare-chested, covered-in-blood look, it’s working for you.”
“The braless, wearing-a-bedsheet look, it’s working for you,” I said, without thinking, and only half sarcastic. A slow-motion movie of Richard kicking my teeth in reeled through my head and I added, loudly, “Where’s your boyfriend? I don’t think I’ve seen him.”
“He’s sulking, trying to keep me and everyone else from having fun.” I followed her gaze back to the beach, where Richard was sitting on a bench by himself, nursing a drink and watching the revelers as if he found their partying profoundly offensive.
“What’s wrong with him now?”
“Who cares? It’s always something.” She tugged my fingers and said, “Come on, James is looking for you.”
I pulled my hand away but followed obediently, downing most of my drink in one gulp. I could feel Richard glaring at me.
Someone had built the fire up to blazing again, and James and Wren stood beside it, talking to each other and ignoring everyone else. As we approached he offered her his coat; she pulled it close around her shoulders, then looked down and laughed. The hem hung halfway to her knees.
“How on earth did all four of you fit under that canoe?” James asked, when I was near enough to hear.
“Well, it was very cozy,” she said. “I must’ve accidentally almost kissed Alexander five times.”
“Lovely. Give him a few more drinks and he’ll be telling everyone how badly you want him.”
Wren turned toward us and gave a little gasp, clutching the collar of James’s coat with both hands. “Oliver, you startled me! You still look frightful.”
Me: “I’d love to wash off, but that water looks very cold.”
Wren: “It’s not terrible once you’re in it up to your waist.”
Me: “Says the girl standing by the fire, wearing someone else’s coat.”
“Wren,” Meredith said, glancing over her shoulder toward the benches, “will you please talk to Richard? I’ve had enough of him.”
Wren offered the rest of us a wan smile and said, “My gentle cousin.”
James watched her pick her way through the crowd. Meredith peered into his half-empty cup, took it from him, and reached for mine. “You two stay here,” she said. “I’ll be back with more drinks.”
“Oh good,” I said. “I can’t wait.”
When she was gone, James turned to me and asked, “All right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Fine.”
I could tell from his skeptical smile that he didn’t believe me, but mercifully he chose to change the subject. “You know, you do look frightful. Scared me half to death coming out of the trees like that.”
“James, you did this to me.”
“Yes, but in the dark in that tiny little shed, it wasn’t the same. With all the light on you and that look on your face…”
“Well,” I said, “blood will have blood.”
“Well, I plan never to get on your bad side.”
“Likewise,” I said. “You make a surprisingly convincing villain.”
He shrugged. “Better me than Richard. He looks really murderous.”
I glanced toward the benches again. Richard and Wren sat side by side, heads bent together. An ominous frown darkened his face as he spoke, looking down at his hands. That half-buried unease pushed up toward the surface again. I told myself it was just a stomachache, too much booze drunk too quickly. “Sound and fury,” I said, “signifying nothing. Don’t mind him.”