5

T he Hawthorne estate was exactly as Miles had pictured it.

A winding driveway lined with lanky trees stretched before them as they drove through a looming wrought-iron gate. The trees gave way to manicured, boxy hedges, then vanished, as if nothing dared grow close to the house.

Miles gawked as they pulled up next to an array of gleaming, expensive-looking cars. It was closer to a castle than a mansion, the type of place where you'd expect to see forlorn ghosts watching you from the windows and snarling gargoyles mounted by the front door, all gray stone and arches, tall glass windows and thick ivy creeping up the sides. From where they'd parked, he could count three chimneys, but nothing about the place appeared warm or inviting.

Something was wrong with the world that his family lived in a house that rarely had hot water, with a fridge more often empty than full, layering socks and sweaters in the winter instead of turning on the heat, while the Hawthornes got to live in this place.

Though, since when had taking advantage of other people not paid well?

"Living here probably sucks the soul right out of you," he murmured to his parents.

His mom twisted the golden rings on her fingers, gazing up at the door. She'd gotten steadily more tense as the day went on. Miles was almost relieved when they'd left for the party, ready to get it over with.

A bald man in a suit hurried down the enormous front stairs and spoke softly with Miles's dad, taking the car keys. Was he a butler? Valet? Who kept one of those on hand?

They'd evidently parked in the wrong spot. The Hawthornes probably didn't want their beat-up old SUV tainting the view when the rest of their guests pulled up.

Miles clenched his teeth. This place set him on edge. The hairs on the back of his neck itched, but he didn't see anything when he peered up at the windows. Only darkness and the glint of glass.

He trailed behind his parents as they climbed the steps to the front door. His mom was the picture of elegance in her long, indigo gown, his father the most cleaned up Miles had seen him outside of wedding photos in a black suit and tie.

And Miles… well. He just looked ridiculous.

At six feet plus an inch or two, he already felt too big for his skin, broad-shouldered and imposing and awkward. Uncomfortable was his constant state. This suit and hideous bow tie certainly weren't helping. He was like a kid playing dress-up in his dad's clothes.

People always said he and his dad could be twins. They had the same dirty-blond hair, long nose, golden-brown eyes, the same tall frame and large hands. But as he watched his dad stroll casually up to the front door, swinging it open with a confidence that said he belonged, Miles had never felt more like his shadow.

His face was red before they even walked in.

Soft, classical music led them down an empty hall to a large, open room with windows lining the far side and an elaborately tiled floor. Portraits of various sizes leered down from the walls, giving Miles the distinct feeling he was being watched from all sides. The vaulted ceilings were embellished with whorled edging, a massive, tiered chandelier hanging from the center that dripped with what he hoped was glass, though he wouldn't bet against diamonds. Around the perimeter of the room, human-sized silver candelabras held flickering candles, hot wax pearling down the sides. Was it a ballroom? Miles couldn't imagine what else a space this size would be used for.

Couples and groups mingled around the space, all dressed as if they were here to visit royalty in sleek tuxedos and dazzling gowns. One woman with deep copper skin and an iridescent gown wore a headpiece of peacock feathers reaching towards the ceiling; another had a fox stole wrapped around her pale neck, the animal's expression frozen in a perpetual snarl. Glittering flutes of champagne were outshone only by blinding smiles just shy of sincerity. Along the farthest wall stretched a long buffet table where waiters dressed in identical black uniforms hovered, eager to serve guests.

The energy in the room was so overwhelming that Miles nearly stepped right back out. He was more than proficient at blocking the emotions of crowds but for a second, the swell threatened to overtake him. His dad shot him a sympathetic look.

"I already need a drink," his mom said under her breath.

"We don't have to stay long," his dad reassured her. "Enough to make sure we're seen. And we should thank our hosts at some point."

"In that case, make it two drinks."

Miles stifled a surprised chuckle.

"Two drinks, coming up."

As Adam walked away, Sarah tucked her arm into Miles's. "What do you think?"

It was opulent, for sure. Everything was vibrant and colorful, bursts of laughter and the occasional clinking of glasses rising over the din, but Miles could still feel that oppressive chill pressing against his skin. "I don't even know what I'd do with so much space."

"What, you don't need your own ballroom? Your dad and I were going to have one built for your birthday."

"Well, now that I think about it, I've been needing space to practice my waltz."

His mom laughed into his shoulder, the most carefree she'd sounded all day. "It is an essential skill in high society. Master the waltz, use a salad fork, and you'll blend right in."

"Once I successfully infiltrate, I can set about bringing it all down," Miles whispered as they turned slightly, surveying the room. "As long as I don't get in too deep, of course."

She covered her mouth with her hand in a vain attempt to hide her snickering. Miles tried not to grin too widely.

A couple a few feet away noticed them—Mr. and Mrs. Bryant. They'd been to the house a few times and always stayed to have lunch with his parents.

"Sarah!" Jane Bryant rushed over to pull his mom into a hug, leaving an imprint of glitter behind from her dress. "You look stunning. Doesn't she look great, Mark?" Her husband nodded dutifully beside her. Jane turned to Miles. "And when did you get so tall and handsome?"

Half of the people here must have heard her. She clearly didn't understand the concept of an inside voice.

"Nice to see you again, Mrs. Bryant," he said, cheeks flaming.

She gave his mom an approving smile. "And so polite, too. Can you work your magic on my kids? I can barely make Hayden get off his phone when I'm talking to him."

"Miles is a good actor, don't let him fool you," his mom teased, winking at him playfully.

"And where's Adam?" Mark asked.

She peered through the crowd. "He went to grab us drinks, but I'm guessing he got caught up."

"Avoid the purple punch." Jane tilted her nearly empty glass towards them so they could see the violet drink. "I think someone was a little heavy-handed when they made it. Has quite the kick."

Her husband pulled the glass from her hand as it tipped dangerously, giving her a fond, exasperated smile. "I'm sure it wasn't intentional… Or maybe one of the Hawthorne boys thought it would be funny."

The Hawthorne boys again. Miles hoped he didn't get forced into small talk with any of them. That sounded about as fun as stabbing himself in the leg with those tiny silver forks he could see stacked at the end of the buffet table.

Jane leaned in conspiratorially. "I've said a million times: it can't be good for them, being locked up in this house."

"If Felicity's kids are anything like her," Miles's mom said with a tight smile, "they probably prefer isolation."

"Speak of the devil," Jane whispered, "here she comes. Good luck." She grabbed her husband's sleeve and pulled him away, vanishing into the surrounding crowd.

Miles's mom glanced past him and squared her shoulders. An ebony-haired woman in a silken black pantsuit strolled over, blood-red heels clicking on the tile. Her skin was as white as fresh snow, the same shade as the marble busts they'd passed in the hallway, but her gaze was the coldest thing about her. If Sarah gave kindergarten teacher vibes, this woman was the evil principal who relished student tears and voted for budget cuts.

"Sarah," she said. "So glad you could make it." Her words didn't match her tone, her mouth severe and unsmiling. "I must admit, I'm always surprised when your car manages the drive. I asked the valet to park it around back, I hope you don't mind."

Not even an attempt to disguise her sneering insults—this must be their illustrious hostess, in the flesh.

Miles could practically see his mom's hackles rise. "Not at all. We'd hate to ruin the murder-mansion look you've so carefully cultivated. Your guests might get the wrong impression and think they're welcome here."

A surprised sound escaped Miles. It wasn't often that she brought out her claws.

Felicity Hawthorne didn't even blink, turning her haughty scan on him. "And who is this? One of your… children?"

He was almost certain she'd wanted to say "spawn."

"This is my son, Miles. Miles, meet Felicity Hawthorne, our lovely hostess."

"Nice to meet you," he mumbled, not liking the way she inspected him, her steely eyes narrowing at what she saw. She clearly wasn't impressed with his last-second rental suit.

She didn't bother responding to him, turning instead to Sarah. "I heard the other day that one of your daughters isn't showing any gifts yet. How awful. Though what can you expect when her mother is so…" Her mouth curved, spiteful and merciless. "… Average?"

All the color drained from his mom's face.

"There's nothing wrong with my sister." Miles didn't realize he'd spoken until the words were already out.

Felicity's attention flicked over to him. "Oh? She is gifted, then?"

He faltered, knowing he couldn't lie.

"As I said." Felicity flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture. "Perhaps she can take a page from her mother's book and attempt to find some use. Play kitchen witch to earn her keep. If it worked for you, perhaps it will work for your daughter. Poor thing."

Miles's mouth was dry. He couldn't look at his mom. What kind of person targeted a twelve-year-old girl to make a point? It was so casually cruel, it made his stomach hurt as if she'd reached inside and sunk her painted nails into his guts.

"What's wrong with you?" he blurted out, a touch too loudly. His pulse was pounding in his ears. "Jenna's a kid ."

A few people peeked over in interest, not bothering to try and hide that they were watching. Crimson bloomed high on Felicity's severe cheekbones, lurid flowers. "You misunderstood me. No offense was intended, of course. My heart goes out to your sister."

Sarah smiled in a way that wasn't anywhere near sincere. She seemed seconds away from grabbing the nearest heavy object and bludgeoning Felicity with it. "I'm sure she'd appreciate it… if you had a heart."

Thankfully, Miles's dad appeared from the crowd with two slim glasses in his hands. He caught a brief glimpse of the showdown going on—and Miles's undoubtedly panicked expression—and plastered on a crinkly broad grin. "Felicity! I'm sorry, I would have grabbed you a drink if I'd seen you."

To Miles's surprise, her harsh expression softened slightly. "No need. I have to make the rounds. Sarah and I were just catching up." She straightened her jacket, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Enjoy the party. And keep your bulldog of a son on a tight leash while you're here, will you?"

Miles spluttered, but she'd already disappeared into the crowd.

His mom downed her flute of champagne in one gulp. "God, I hate that woman." Her collarbone and neck were flushed bright red.

"Mmhmm." Adam placed a comforting hand on her arm. "Finally got a taste of the famous Hawthorne hospitality?" he asked Miles.

"You should have heard the things she was saying." Miles's hands were still shaking. "I can't believe you put up with that every year."

The dislike between Miles's family and the Hawthornes went back generations, but this wound was clearly still fresh. Whatever was between Felicity and his mom, it was personal.

"And now you get to come with us." Miles's dad saluted him with his drink. "Welcome to the party."

The hollow feeling in Miles wasn't from skipping dinner. He'd never been forced to stand there and let someone insult his family before. "How did she even know about Jenna?" he asked.

Sarah started on her second flute of champagne, so his dad answered. "People are always going to gossip. If they're talking about other families' problems, they think no one will look too closely at theirs. You'll learn to ignore it."

The implication that Jenna was a problem bothered Miles. "The things she said… Why does she hate us so much?"

Because she did. He'd seen a spark of true loathing in Felicity.

"You know our families have a history—" his dad started.

"No, it was more than that." He turned to his mom, directing the next question at her. "What happened between you guys?"

"This isn't the place to talk about it."

Miles didn't appreciate being kept in the dark. "If you're going to make me be part of these conversations, I should know—"

"I said not now," she snapped, sharp enough to slice.

He swallowed heavily around the sudden lump pressing against his windpipe. He hadn't signed up for any of this, hadn't even wanted to come to this awful party in the first place.

His dad cleared his throat softly. "Why don't you grab something to eat while we talk business? The sooner we get done, the sooner we can leave. That food looks pretty good, huh? You didn't eat much dinner."

Miles knew a dismissal when he heard one. He was a problematic child being sent off to bother someone else. The last thing he wanted to do was wander around, but arguing would only mean they'd be here longer.

With a resigned sigh, Miles turned and made his way into the party.