Stealing Infinity, page 11
An uneasy silence stretches between us. I tease it out a bit longer by lifting the cloth napkin from my plate, removing the golden ring shaped like a crown, and carefully spreading the square of starched linen over my lap. “I think I get what’s going on here,” I finally say, lifting my water goblet and surveying the crowd. “Arthur is purposely isolating me in hopes that it’ll spark some of my long dormant ambition, so I’ll do whatever it takes to make Blue.”
In a subtle show of relief, Braxton relaxes into his seat. And I’m glad for the extra space; it makes it easier to breathe.
“You’re not wrong,” Braxton says. “But the question remains—will it work?”
I nod toward the hologram of the pond where that poor fawn is still struggling to cross. His hooves scrabbling clumsily across the ice, front legs comically crisscrossing, hind legs spreading too wide. “Probably.” I shrug. “But, at the moment, I’m feeling a bit like Bambi over there.”
Braxton glances past his shoulder, then back at me. “Not to worry. By the time the dessert course is finished, he’ll have made it to the other side. He always does.”
“So it’s the same show every night?” That strikes me as odd, if not a little disappointing. I was sure Arthur was far too imaginative to settle for reruns.
Braxton shakes his head, causing a random dark curl to fall into his eyes. And as I watch him distractedly push it back to where it started, I’m struck by his utter lack of vanity or pretense.
I mean, obviously, he knows he’s good-looking. But he doesn’t dwell on his beauty or try to use it to gain an advantage. After the constant show of posturing and preening by the selfie-obsessed kids at my school, I’d forgotten how people normally act in the absence of ring lights and portrait mode.
“The tech team likes to switch it up,” he says. “Though I have seen an earlier rendition of this one.”
“Then you can’t be sure this new version will also end happily.”
Braxton reaches for his wine goblet. His fingers trace the beveled base. “Arthur doesn’t invest in failures,” he says, and though he doesn’t outwardly shift in any discernable way, something in his demeanor is markedly changed. “He has no tolerance for either the ordinary or the mundane.”
I take another look around. The space is designed to provide an atmosphere of elegance and opulence, and the students who occupy it are the cream of the crop. But if those students were once anything like me, and Braxton assured me they were, then they didn’t start off that way. It was failure that landed them here.
“I guess Arthur really is an alchemist,” I say. “He collects high school losers and spins us all into gold.”
Braxton shrugs, takes a sip of his wine, but I can see the ghost of a grin behind the glass.
“And yet, there must be more to it?” I search Braxton’s face, but he’s fully committed to avoiding my gaze. “Because it’s a lot of trouble to go to with no guarantee it’ll work. I mean, failure happens. It’s unavoidable. And it’s not like Arthur’s psychic or can see into the future and know how things will…”
My voice fades as my mind reels back in time to earlier today, when Einstein and Stephen Hawking taught me about the fourth dimension.
The two of them patiently explaining, in layman’s terms, that the fourth dimension is one of time and space, and that all one needs to do is create a tunnel through that fourth dimension and the result is time travel.
And that tunnel is also known as a wormhole.
While I found it fascinating in theory, I was sure that’s all it was—a high-minded theory floated before me in the world’s strangest hands-on science class.
But now I’m no longer sure. I mean, that can’t be what’s happening here at Gray Wolf—can it?
And if so, is it somehow connected to the girl I watched disappear, then reappear from my window this morning?
Was that more than just the Unraveling?
36
“You okay?” Braxton reaches for my hand. The unexpected warmth jolts me away from my thoughts.
“Fine. I’m…fine.” I free my hand from his and rest it on my lap, where he can’t get to it.
“You don’t seem fine. Here—” He slides my water glass closer, as though rehydrating will work to solve anything.
Still, I take a slow, measured sip, if for no other reason than it buys me enough time to get a grip on myself.
“Tasha,” he says. “There are things I’m not supposed to discuss yet—”
He’s on the verge of a major reveal. I can tell by the way he fidgets with his jeweled cuff links, the gold ring on his finger. But before he can start, a waiter appears with two tiny dishes he announces as tonight’s amuse-bouche. By the time he’s moved on, Braxton has settled back into his seat, and the moment has passed.
“What I meant is”—Braxton reaches for his fork—“all of us have failed here at some point. But no one is ever sent home for failing. That’s not what matters at Gray Wolf.”
“Then what does matter?” My breath stalls. The pieces of the puzzle are coming together, but I’ve got a terrible feeling about the image they’re forming.
All around the edges of our table, brilliant dots of three-dimensional white light suddenly appear, forming into an opaque wintry shield that blocks us from the rest of the room. I look between the snow wall and Braxton, wondering if the sudden onset of chills that prickle my skin is caused by the suggestion of snow, or my suspicions that Braxton is somehow responsible for putting it there—that he’s intentionally shielding us from everyone here.
When I meet his gaze, he regards me with a face so conflicted, I know right away that whatever he’s going to tell me, the real answer resides in the part he holds silent.
“Did something happen?” He leans toward me, his fingers now resting on my side of the table, the black silk lapels of his jacket against the midnight blue fabric reminding me of the night sky back home—streaked with smog and full of airplanes that stand in for stars. “At your lunch with Arthur?”
I’m on the verge of telling him what Arthur said—about how he’s counting on me to fulfill his greatest ambition. But just as I’m ready to put a voice to it, I realize how completely ridiculous it would sound to actually say those words out loud.
I mean, no matter what Song said, Arthur probably gives a version of that same pep talk to every fresh recruit in a bid to help us feel special, chosen, so highly exceptional we were hand-picked by the maestro himself. When really, it’s just an attempt to soothe some first day, fish out of water, new kid at the academy jitters.
I steal another glance at Braxton, wondering if he was foolish enough to fall for Arthur’s bullshit speech, too.
“What?” Braxton says, catching me looking at him.
In an instant, my cheeks fill with heat, and I nervously reach for the butter knife, angle it before me, and check my reflection, only to regret the silly display of vanity and put it right back. I need to get a grip on myself, get my imagination in check. And, failing that, I need to just calm the hell down.
But knowing a thing and actually doing a thing are two different skill sets. And before I can stop myself, I’m saying, “There’s something very strange going on in this place.” My gaze cuts between the blizzard and Braxton. Desperate to know the truth but terrified of having my suspicions confirmed.
“Tasha, what’s this really about?” He leans so close, he’s practically halfway across the table. And just like that, I’ve lost the upper hand. In his eyes, I’m reduced to a scared little girl in need of his comfort.
And I just can’t tolerate that.
“It’s nothing.” I force a bit of cheer into my voice. “Lunch was fine. And after, I had a nice chat with Einstein. Turns out, he really is a genius. All in all, a good day.”
Just after I say it, I realize that, despite all the troubling moments, it’s true. Or at least it was better than most days back home.
Which makes me wonder if maybe I shouldn’t be in such a big hurry to make an escape.
Maybe I should at least try to give Gray Wolf a chance.
I look up to see Braxton’s lips part, about to reply, when Elodie slips through our curtain of snow.
37
Elodie stands beside our table wearing a strapless black dress that drips from her body like candle wax. And though I hate to admit it, she looks more stunning than I’ve ever seen her, and that’s really saying something.
“Natasha,” she says, her voice false and bright. “It’s so good to see you again. And this whole look you put together—totally adorbs.” She cocks her head, allowing a cascade of loose blond curls to tumble to her waist.
The smile I flash in return is as empty as her false show of flattery. In Elodie speak, adorbs is reserved solely for puppies and babies. For anything over age two, it’s an insult.
“I saw the snow shield and thought I’d come over. So, tell me, what’s the big secret?” She glances between us, lips pushed into a pout. Back home, Elodie always got what she wanted, but I’ve yet to see any evidence her charms work as well here.
“What do you want, El?” Braxton’s tone is more reasonable than the words might imply, but there’s enough of an edge to prompt her to snake her fingers onto his shoulder and give it a squeeze.
“Oh, you know. Just checking in on my friends.” She squeezes again, and from the way her knuckles blanch, it’s much harder this time.
Elodie’s on edge. Which is something I never imagined I’d see.
And to make it even weirder, I’m pretty sure she’s on edge because of me.
Well, because of Braxton and me.
Not that there is a Braxton and me.
And not that I would ever want there to be—because no.
But still, it’s really starting to look like Elodie’s worried there might be.
Which means if what Song said about Elodie needing to be Arthur’s favorite is true, then seeing me sitting here with Braxton must feel like a double slam to the heart—tangible proof that I’ve invaded yet another one of her territories. And even though that couldn’t be further from the truth, after everything she’s put me through, I’m in no rush to explain anything to her.
“We still meeting up later?” she asks.
I watch Braxton shift in a way that effectively hides half his face, making it impossible to discern if the flicker of displeasure in his gaze was a trick of the light or the reveal of a much deeper truth.
“Oh—sorry, Natasha!” She flutters her lashes at me. “I don’t mean to exclude you; it’s just Brax and I usually hang out with the Blues after dinner and sadly, Greens aren’t allowed. You do understand, though, right? I mean, it’s not like you’ll be on your own forever. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before you’re one of us, too.”
More than anything, I want to snap back with the sort of biting reply that’ll make her slink away in shame, or something along those lines.
But my brain hasn’t caught up with my tongue. So when my mouth pops open to really let her have it…absolutely nothing comes out.
“Awkward” doesn’t even begin to describe it.
“Humiliated” is a much better word.
And, of course, Elodie clocks it.
She leans toward me, and just when I’m sure she’s about to call me out and say something cutting, her face softens. “Mine is the pink door, at the very end of the hall,” she says. “You know, in case you decide you want to talk.” Her lips press together, a few silent beats pass, before she adds, “Look, I know you don’t believe me, but I really am sorry about how all this went down.”
I study her expression. On the surface, she seems so sincere it makes me wonder if I should at least try to give her the benefit of the doubt and believe her.
I mean, maybe she wasn’t fluttering her lashes—maybe her voice wasn’t really dripping with saccharine. Maybe that’s just how Elodie looks—how she talks—and I’ve become so paranoid, I can’t see anything clearly anymore.
But just as I’m about to talk myself into giving her a chance, I’m reminded of what Song said about how with both Elodie and Gray Wolf, it’s difficult to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s fake.
I definitely shouldn’t trust her. I’m a fool for even considering it.
And yet, there’s an undeniable part of me that wants to believe she really is sorry and that we really were friends.
But that’s probably because it’s a lot easier for me to believe her than to face the reality that I was just another target, and a ridiculously easy one at that. Just another pathetic girl so desperate to break free from the prison of her life, she was willing to pay any price.
It’s funny how when I look at Elodie now, I can so clearly see all the things Mason warned me about. But that sort of hindsight is basically the definition of too little, too late.
“I really do hope we can get past this,” she says, cutting into my thoughts. “We’re a family here at Gray Wolf. And, with any luck, you’re going to be here with us for a very long time.”
Without another word, I watch Elodie leave as quickly and gracefully as she arrived.
“You okay?” Braxton asks, once she’s gone. His troubled gaze fixed on mine.
“What did she mean?” I ask, staring at the spot where she stood. “Why am I in need of luck? I’m getting mixed messages here. I thought I was pretty much stuck in this place whether I like it or not?”
I turn to Braxton just in time to catch the fleeting shadow of discomfort that crosses his face. And I’m just about to press him to explain when the waiter appears by my side and goes about the business of swapping out one course and replacing it with another.
By the time he’s gone, Braxton’s moved on. Lifting his fork, he just smiles and says, “Bon appétit.”
38
“Well, it’s official—you survived your first dinner at Gray Wolf,” Braxton says as the remains of the dessert course are whisked away. “What should we do for an encore?”
A quick glance around the room confirms the snow has stopped, the fawn has crossed the pond to be reunited with his mother, and the crowd of diners is spilling out the door and into the hall. “Aren’t we required to hang out in Autumn?” I ask. “I’m pretty sure I saw that on the schedule you gave me.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it a requirement,” he says. “Besides, you’re with me, and I happen to have a smidgen of clout around here.”
“A smidgen. How impressive.” I grin.
He’s loosened up. I don’t know if it’s the glass of red wine he drank with dinner or the fact that I’ve loosened up, too, having decided sometime between the amuse-bouche and the main course that it’s better to make an ally than an enemy.
He rises from his seat and comes to stand beside me.
“I think I could get used to this sort of chivalry. Opening doors, pulling out chairs—makes me feel like I’m in a Jane Austen movie.” I smooth a hand down the front of my dress as Braxton starts to drape my stole over my shoulders. “It’s too warm,” I tell him, prepared to just carry it, when he drapes it over his shoulders instead.
“What do you think?” he asks, tilting his head.
My eyes graze over him, moving from his mop of dark hair, to that ridiculous face, to his perfectly cut suit, to the faux fur stole with the jeweled clip arranged to hang down the front, and though I hate to admit it, my heart actually skips a few beats.
“I think you look quite dashing,” I tell him. “In a modern, regal sort of way.”
“Exactly the look I was after.” He guides me out the door and down a long hallway. It’s the opposite direction of where everyone else is heading.
“Where are we going?” I ask, the lug soles of my boots softly thudding against the stone floor.
“I figure you’ll have plenty of chances to hang out in the Autumn Room with your friends, so—”
“Only I don’t have any friends,” I say. “Not here, anyway.”
He sighs. “When you’re the only Green, it can feel kind of lonely, I know.”
That’s when it occurs to me that Braxton isn’t just being nice, or chivalrous, or making up for a boatload of guilt, but that he’s actually—
“I don’t need a babysitter!” I stop dead in my tracks, hoping it’s too dim for him to see the flush of embarrassment staining my cheeks.
He shoots me a quizzical look, swipes a hand through his hair. “Well, that’s a relief,” he says. “Considering how I’m barely a year older than you, that would be weird.”
I stand before him, feeling like I really am in a Jane Austen movie, only I’m cast as the socially awkward cousin who’s suffered a fit of hysteria that’ll haunt her forever. And, since I didn’t have any wine at dinner, I have nothing to blame but my own paranoia.
“I’m going to give you a choice.” He steps closer. “I can escort you back to your room and we can call it a night…”
We’re standing just inches apart, and though I’m embarrassed to admit it, I’ve already ruled that one out.
“Or I can show you to a small gallery full of interesting works of art.”
I take a moment to consider. Tempting, but I’ll need to hear more.
“Or I can take you to a sculpture garden that’s available only to those with a smidgen of clout.” He tips his head to the side and raises his brow.
“And this garden, it’s outside?” Suddenly, I realize I’ve gone an entire day surrounded by digitized nature but haven’t taken so much as a single breath of fresh air.
Braxton grins, offers his arm, and sweeps me down a series of hallways until we reach a small door at the end. “There are four flights, and the staircase is pretty narrow so, after you,” he says.
