68
The first thing I notice about life as a Yellow is it’s not all that different from life as a Green.
And, since there are no other Yellows, and since Braxton and I have been on pause for the last four weeks, mealtimes are especially lonely. Watching the Blues with their heads bent together, laughing and talking, makes me feel like I’m back at my old school—stuck on the periphery, invisible and unseen.
Though time spent after dinner in the Autumn Room gives me a much-needed break. And because of it, for the first time since I arrived, I’ve made friends. Four to be exact—Song, Jago, Oliver, and Finn. Or maybe five, if you count Elodie which, while we’ve technically called a truce and agreed to get along, I’m not sure I’m ready to label us that.
Still, if someone told me four weeks ago when I first got here that I’d end up hanging out with a group of kids who shoved a bag over my head, tossed me into the back seat of a car, and basically kidnapped me, hypnotized me, then dumped me back in my room to sleep it off, I would’ve laughed. But, here at Gray Wolf, we’re pretty much forced to make the most of what we have.
Which is why I find myself standing outside Elodie’s pink door, about to knock, when she beats me to it and ushers me inside.
My first impression: It’s like stepping inside a genie’s bottle. Or, at least what I imagine the inside of a genie’s bottle would look like.
I guess because we spend so much time in classrooms and designated dining halls, I’ve never really visited anyone else’s room, so I assumed they were all like my own. But Elodie’s room is a whole other level.
Not only is it twice the square footage of mine, but the walls are covered in magnificent works of art—old masters hanging alongside spare modern pieces—and yet somehow, she’s made it all work.
“Wow,” I say as I move about the space, seeing no point in feigning nonchalance. Elodie knows how much I appreciate a good display of exceptional taste.
I move past a velvet settee much like my own, except hers is upholstered in a rich blue velvet. There’s an extravagant handblown Venetian glass chandelier hanging overhead, and her collection of side tables are gilded in gold leaf.
Like mine, her bed is also a canopy. But the carvings are more elaborate, and it has intricately embroidered fabrics gathered along the top and draped down the sides. A riot of multi-patterned pillows—florals, zebras, and leopard prints—lay in artfully arranged piles along the silk chaise longue at the foot of the bed. And nearly everywhere I look are displays of crystals, precious trinkets, stacks of rare first edition books, along with large, overstuffed pillows, plush throws, flickering candles, and smoldering incense sticks, lending the space a sort of posh, bohemian royal look.
A fire roars in the hearth, and I move to stand near it, pausing long enough to feel its warmth on my hands before I wander toward the window to gaze out at a spectacular view of the ocean beyond. And there, down in the far left corner, I can just make out the stark white warning of the lighthouse.
I turn to face her. “Nice digs, El.”
She pauses, bends a brow, and my belly instantly clenches. Here at Gray Wolf, the use of slang is frowned upon. But when she bursts into laughter, I breathe a sigh of relief and join in.
Like walking arm in arm, dressing for dinner, selecting the correct stemware for the multiple course meals they serve at lunchtime and dinner, and swearing off all forms of modern music, the more you grow accustomed to the old ways, the more you’ll be able to blend when you Trip. And if the last four weeks of culture, history, diction, dance, comportment, languages, social customs, swordcraft, equestrian lessons, and etiquette training (which included the proper use of a chamber pot that nearly had me calling it quits) has taught me anything, it’s that the ability to blend is everything.
There’s so much to remember, and none of it comes naturally. Or at least not for me. It’s been a long time since succeeding ranked high on my list of priorities, and, if nothing else, I have Elodie to thank. Because if I continued the way I was going back home, who knows where I might’ve ended up.
“I’m curious,” she says. “Exactly how long have you known? About Tripping, I mean.”
My gaze meets hers. And though I know she’ll know if I lie, I still take a few beats to come up with the best way to answer without betraying my promise to Braxton.
But I guess I must pause for too long, because Elodie says, “You don’t seriously expect me to believe you needed Keane to tell you?” She tilts her head in a way that causes her hair to fall in a cascade of long, silky waves.
I sigh, remembering the day Keane summoned me to his office, and how he leaned across his desk, his face arranged into an almost comically earnest expression, as he proceeded to reveal the truth of what really goes on here at Gray Wolf, while I did my best to act surprised by the news.
“It was a lot like when my mom told me the truth about Santa.” I shrug. “My dad was long gone, and I figured she was just trying to prepare me for the lack of presents left under the tree. So I acted surprised, like I had no idea it’d been them all along, though of course I’d been clued in for years.”
Elodie’s gaze narrows on mine. “Very poignant,” she says. “But you still haven’t answered my question. How long before you figured it out?”
“Why does it matter?” I ask, genuinely confused as to why she would care.
“Because I want to know how long you’ve been faking it,” she says.
The moment stretches between us, and I watch as her fingers play at the glimmering golden disk at her neck. It’s a charm, with a snake engraved on the front, and though I’ve never noticed her wearing it before, the way she handles it makes me wonder if it holds some sort of significance.
At the sound of Elodie clearing her throat, I meet her gaze and say, “I figured it out the first day.”
She studies me intently, searching for the lie I’m determined to hide. I mean, maybe it’s not the full truth, but I did gather all the clues, and I used them to draw my own conclusion. Braxton only confirmed my suspicion.
After what feels like forever, Elodie finally cracks a small smile. “Just so you know—I saw straight through your act. Still, the way you committed to the pretense fills me with hope.”
“Hope?” I squint, unsure what she means.