* * * * *
My parents were already seated when I came down the stairs for dinner. They waited in silence, sipping red wine from thick crystal glasses.
"This is a surprise," I said softly, glancing carefully from one to the other. "You're home early, Father."
Ethan regarded me steadily over the rim of his glass. "Good evening, Helena."
I sat down and carefully flicked a white linen napkin into my lap. "Is there an occasion?" I asked.
When my mother spoke, her voice came measured and emotionless. "Does there need to be a reason for us to have dinner as a family, darling?"
"Of course not." I resisted the urge to move out of the way when a maid leaned over the table to pour me a glass of burgundy. That had always been one of my mother's cardinal rules: You do not move for the help, the help moves for you.
"I'm surprised you didn't invite the girls for dinner," she added.
The girls? Were we kicky septuagenarians on an eighties sitcom? Or a team of plucky crime fighters? "They had to leave, rather unexpectedly." I took a careful sip of wine. "Maybe there was some sort of emergency."
My mother had a knowing smile as she adjusted the napkin in her lap. "Perhaps next time then."
Silent servants served the appetizer, salmon croquettes in a white wine sauce.
I picked up my fork and pushed it through the food. I caught my mother's wince as the silver tine scratched against bone china. I returned the fork to its place setting and scrubbed my hands hard in my lap. "Is there something you wanted to discuss, Mother?"
Her fork was halfway to her mouth. She set it down and regarded me steadily. "What on earth do you mean?"
"You arranged this charming family scene and dragged Father home before midnight." I took a small sip of wine and smiled at my mother. "There must be something on your mind."
"You've become so crudely direct, Helena," my father murmured, drawing my eyes to the other side of the table. "Have you tossed away everything that we taught you?"
"I kept what I needed," I said softly.
"So I see." His tone was as even as mine.
"We talk so little since you've been back," my mother said. "How is school?"
"Great. Everyone's been so nice to me." I picked up my fork and dipped it into the salmon croquettes. "It's almost supernatural" I took a large bite.
My mother coughed and set down her wineglass. "It's very nice to know that you're making friends. We wondered how you would handle the transition." Her smile was gracious.
"What transition?" I asked with feigned confusion. "Oh, you must mean coming back to all this glitz and glamour after hiding out in the streets like a sewer rat." I glanced around the dining room, my gaze taking in the antique furniture, heirloom china and crystal chandelier. "Not much has changed, really."
My father slammed his wineglass onto the table. Red wine sloshed onto the tablecloth from the force of his movement. "You are not going to sit there and insult this family, Helena."
I lowered my eyes so my father wouldn't see the anger burning in my gaze. "My apologies. I meant no insult." Standing, I placed my folded napkin carefully on the chair. "Actually, I'm just beginning to understand what being a Wayward truly means."
His eyes widened but he said nothing.
"I'll excuse myself." I was halfway across the room when I paused and turned back. "By the way, there's a pit demon locked inside my bedroom. Someone should probably warn the maid."
I left the room before either of them could respond. My heart pounded hard in my chest as I climbed the stairs. I never spoke to either of my parents that way. No one did. I'd been back for a matter of days and already I could feel old urges rising inside of me. The anger and the power were almost impossible to ignore.
The grimoire was hidden in a loose floorboard underneath the bed. With the demon inside my room as a sort of guard, the book was relatively safe from detection. My fingers tingled at the thought of touching it again. All that power there for the taking.
I didn't need power. Power was dangerous. If I told myself that enough times, maybe I'd start to believe it.
The End-of-Winter invitation still sat on my vanity table, not just an invitation but a promise.
Time was running out.
Wayward Page 16