A Lesson in Vengeance

by Victoria Lee

  “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

  The woman at last seems to get the hint; her cheeks flush pale pink, and she retreats back behind the counter, peeking up at me occasionally from over her wire-rimmed glasses as she riffles through paperwork.

  I turn my attention to the book in my hand.

  So this is it. Ellis’s magnum opus. The book she cared for enough to sacrifice anything: Clara’s life. Her own. And all the rest of us bit players in her masterpiece.

  I open the cover, flipping past the title page.

  For Felicity. I did it all for you.

  I snap the book shut. Abruptly the air seems to have been sucked out of the shop—the cashier and the shelves and the London street outside all falling away and plunging me into the darkness of oblivion.

  Once again it’s just me and Ellis, two figures emerging on opposite sides of a stage. Once more I feel her take my hand, drawing me into the night. It’s been three years, but all at once it feels like I never left that place, Godwin House with its dark history and wicked shadows, magic drenching the stones and murder like a legacy passed from generation to generation.

  I did it all for you.

  I drop the book onto the table and leave, tumbling out of the bookstore and into the street. A bus blares past, and I’m blinded, I’m deafened, I’m falling and falling and falling through the cold.

  I don’t remember how I make it home.

  Talia is in the kitchen when I do, a wooden spoon held in hand like a conductor’s baton, surveying the bolognese that simmers on the stove with a moue of disapproval that suggests that if the sauce is a metaphorical orchestra, it’s playing several measures behind cue.

  “Felicity,” she says, putting the spoon down as soon as she catches sight of me. “You look terrible. Did something happen?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.” The excuse falls from my lips like honey wine as I pull my pill bottle out of my purse and swallow one tablet; I’ve learned from experience never to be late on doses. “Is dinner almost ready?”

  Talia seems happy to see me. She’s a chef—or she wants to be, anyway. She has a job as a line cook at a small restaurant in the West End, hopes to work her way up. I’ll miss her food when she’s gone.

  “All ready,” she says. “Your mother called, by the way. She wanted me to tell you.”

  I make a face, and Talia rises up on the balls of her feet to kiss my temple. “I don’t know why she bothers,” I say. “I was clear the first time: I don’t want her to be part of my life anymore.”

  Talia smells like nutmeg. When she steps away, I brush a bit of flour from her cheek and she smiles. She always smiles. “Maybe one day you’ll feel differently.” I won’t. “Will you carry the wine up, darling? I don’t think I’ll have enough hands.”

  I kiss her again and obey.

  We take the food up to the roof, which is strung with market lights and has a view toward Hyde Park, the city sprawling out below us, glittering as if with thousands of fireflies. Talia pours the wine and we toast to another year together, to wherever we go next, to the future Talia has constructed in her mind: the both of us, desperately in love.

  After we finish the food, I watch her standing by the edge of the roof, gazing out over the streets so far below. Her hair tangles about her ears; she’s kept it short lately, sensible. I step behind her and kiss the nape of her neck. My hands find her hips. Her bones feel fragile in my grasp, so easily fractured.

  Alex felt the same way, her body docile, surrendering to the force of my weight when I pushed her off that ridge.

  Talia leans back against me, warm and trusting, and says something about how cold the air is this high above the ground. A lock of her hair, black like Ellis’s, catches on my lips.

  What would Ellis say if she could see me now? A perfect character for one of her stories. Perfectly predictable.

  I think about drowning, about euphoria, the red orchids I planted on Ellis’s grave. I think how falling would be worse.

  And here, my heart beating fast and the taste of ink on my tongue, the city opening wide below us like a waiting mouth—

  —

  It begins to snow.

  Acknowledgments

  Once upon a time, this book was a collection of disconnected ideas scribbled in a notebook: lesbian dark academia, or plan the perfect murder but one of them takes it too seriously. These ideas might never have expanded into this book if not for a phone conversation I had with my friend Tes Medovich, who loves The Secret History and elbow patches and Gothic architecture just as much as I do. I remember lying on my bed on my stomach, phone pinched between my ear and shoulder, and it was uncomfortable but I didn’t care because it felt like my brain couldn’t stop: each idea fed into the next, a cascade of plot points and scenes and little snapshots that perfectly encapsulated that tea-drenched, blurry-eyed, book-drunk aesthetic that is dark academia. So thank you, first of all, to Tes, for encouraging me to take these ideas and make them real.

  Thank you, also, to my agents, Holly Root and Taylor Haggerty, who—when I described this book to them over the phone—stopped me one sentence into the pitch and told me to drop everything and write it. Right now. I’m so lucky to have these two as my agents, not least because I know they’ll always tell me to write the thing I’m most passionate about, and that will always, always be the right choice.

  To my editor at Delacorte, Krista Marino, thank you for seeing these girls so clearly and for loving Dalloway and its horrors. This book is so much stronger thanks to your input, and I can’t wait to see what other twisty tales we cook up together. Thank you also to the whole team at Delacorte, particularly Lydia Gregovic, Regina Flath, Beverly Horowitz, Barbara Marcus, Elizabeth Ward, Jenn Inzetta, Kelly McGauley, Lili Feinberg, and Kristen Schultz. Thank you for helping me bring this story to life.

  A million thanks as well to my authenticity readers, whose feedback helped make this book so much better—your expertise helped me explore a deeper level of meaning in this story, and I appreciate it more than I can say.

  Thanks also to Maggie Enterrios, who did the cover art for this book; you already know I’m freaking obsessed with it, but let me reiterate—I’m obsessed.

  I wrote this book so quickly, and then of course it was an exercise in revision, layering muscle and flesh onto the bones and creating something whole. For that metaphor (and other feedback) I have to thank Victoria Schwab. Thanks as well to Emily Martin, who was there to hold my hand (figuratively, and occasionally literally) for every page, every triumph, and every stumbling block along the way. And of course, thank you to these friends and family, who were particularly supportive during the creation and revision of this book: Ben Scallon, Zoraida Córdova, Ryan LaSala, Nita Tyndall, Tracy Deonn, Rory Power, Claribel Ortega, Casey McQuiston, Christine Herman, and Ava Reid. Finally, to my parents, who didn’t say a word about the sex scene. My endless gratitude for that.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Victoria Lee grew up in Durham, North Carolina, where she spent her childhood writing ghost stories and fantasizing about attending boarding school. She has a PhD in psychology, which she uses to overanalyze fictional characters and also herself. Lee is the author of A Lesson in Vengeance as well as The Fever King and its sequel, The Electric Heir. She lives in New York City with her partner, cat, and malevolent dog.

  victorialeewrites.com

  @sosaidvictoria

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