The Dolls(53)

I yawn and thank him. As much as I want to keep going, to keep learning, I have the feeling he’s right. And even though it’s only a few minutes after eight, I feel like I could crawl under my covers and sleep for the next sixteen hours. As I head off to bed, all I’m thinking about is Caleb and the power that surged through me as he flashed through my mind.


It feels like I’ve barely drifted off when my phone begins ringing. I swat at it to silence it and snuggle deeper into my covers, but it rings again. I reach for it on the third cycle and, still half asleep, mumble into the receiver, “Hello?”

“Eveny? It’s Peregrine. Where on earth are you?”

I yawn. “Sleeping,” I mumble. “Good night.”

I start to hang up, but I can hear her yelling something, so I reluctantly hold the phone back up to my ear. “Are you there?” she’s asking angrily.

“Hmm mmm.”

“Are you seriously in bed? It’s eleven p.m. on a Saturday, you lame-o!”

“I’m tired,” I tell her. I don’t really care if she’s judging me or not.

“Boy, you must have been the life of the party back in Brooklyn,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nevertheless, I need you here, pronto. Frankly, I’m rather disappointed in you for not making this a priority.”

Now I’m confused. “You need me where pronto?” I ask.

She lets out a frustrated huff. “Our party, Eveny! You know? Frat guys in togas? Hunch punch? All sorts of secluded corners to make out in?”

I sit up in bed. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Seriously, Eveny? This is your first party as a Queen of Carrefour. Your sosyete needs you.”

“But—” I start to protest.

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” she says. “Be here in twenty. Your toga is hanging by my front door.”

“I don’t even know where you live.”

“Geez, Eveny, do you need me to spell everything out for you?” When I don’t reply, she sighs heavily and says, “Walk out your front door and turn right. We’re the mansion next door, just down the hill and up the next one. Obviously.”

She clicks off and I’m left holding a dead phone. A moment later, against my better judgment, I haul myself out of bed, slouch into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and head back to my vanity mirror to add a bit of mascara and lipstick. Thanks to the facial mask from Cristof’s, my face and hair are otherwise perfect, so I’m ready to go in under five minutes.

Aunt Bea is snoring in her room at the end of the hall, so I don’t bother disturbing her. Instead, I leave a note on the table in case she wakes up before I’m back.

As soon as I’m outside, I can hear the party. Loud music and muffled laughter float through the trees, and as I begin to walk down the driveway on the back side of the hill, I can see Peregrine’s house glowing. As I get closer, I realize there are blazing torches all over her property, casting shadows and light everywhere.

There’s music blasting from the speakers on the grand, columned front porch when I arrive, and since the door is open, I don’t bother ringing the bell. I squeeze inside past a big group of hot, toga-clad guys.

“Eveny!” Peregrine exclaims, emerging from a hallway off to the right. “It’s about time!” She’s wearing sky-high chocolate leather stilettos and a white toga so short that I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a top, not a dress. “Come in, come in! Here’s your toga!” She grabs a slip of white, drapey fabric from the coat hook beside the door and thrusts it at me. “I’ll show you where to change. Follow me!”

As she leads me down the front hall, through a throng of muscular, square-jawed guys whose eyes follow her, I look around in awe. The Marceaus’ mansion is a little smaller than ours, but it’s a thousand times fancier. The front hallway is all ivory marble with gold leafing and gold trim. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs over the entryway, sending little rays of light cascading everywhere.

As we emerge into a larger room, which Peregrine calls the ballroom, I suck in a deep breath. The chandelier here is even larger than the one in the entryway, the floor is all done in black and white marble, sleek white furniture hugs the walls, and the ceiling soars several stories high. There are torches blazing everywhere, and the place is teeming with guys and a handful of girls, all of whom are wearing togas too. I recognize Arelia and Margaux gyrating on the dance floor, but the rest of them are strangers.

“Pascal appreciates the sorority girls we added to our guest list,” Peregrine says as we whisk past the dance floor. “It’s nice to be able to appease your friends.”