A week later, we arrived in the refectory for breakfast and found it humming with holiday excitement. At every table people were tearing invitations open and chattering about the Christmas masque—which was to go forward as usual, in defiance of recent events. The commotion was surprisingly refreshing after weeks of bowed heads and stiff, unsmiling faces.
“Who wants to gather the mail?” Alexander asked, digging into a pile of hash browns with characteristic relish. (Filippa had bullied him out of bed for breakfast, insisting that if he skipped any more meals he’d simply vanish into thin air.)
“Why bother?” I asked. “We know what it says.”
Filippa blew steam off her coffee and said, “You don’t think it might be a little different this year?”
“I don’t know. Sort of seems like they’re trying to get back to normal.”
“And thank God,” Alexander said. “I’m sick of being stared at.”
“It could be worse.” Wren pushed eggs around on her plate, not eating. She looked thin and wan, as if she hadn’t eaten anything for days. “People keep looking around me and through me like I don’t exist.”
We sat in tongue-tied silence—avoiding one another’s eyes and Richard’s empty chair—while the other students continued to jabber at one another about the masque, what they’d wear, and how spectacular the ballroom would be. The spell of isolation broke when Colin appeared at the edge of our table, one hand alighting (unnoticed by everyone but me) on the back of Alexander’s chair.
“Morning,” he said, and then frowned. “Everyone all right?”
“Yes.” Alexander speared a sausage on the end of his fork, a little violently. “Just considering starting our own leper colony down at the Castle.”
“They do stare, don’t they?” Colin said, glancing around as if he’d just noticed the wide berth everyone was giving our table.
“Voyeuristic little shits,” Alexander said, and bit the sausage in half, teeth snapping down like a guillotine. “What brings you into exile with the rest of us?”
Colin held up a familiar envelope, small and square, a black splash of Frederick’s writing on the front. “We’ve been given R and J assignments,” he said. “Thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh?” Alexander twisted around his chair, glancing across the room to the wall where all our mailboxes were.
“Want me to grab them?”
“No, that’s all right.” Meredith pushed her chair back and threw her napkin down in her seat. “I need another coffee. I’ll go.”
She left the table, and as she crossed the room people drifted automatically out of her way, like they were afraid her misfortune might be contagious. I felt a little snag of anger or anxiety (I couldn’t tell the two apart anymore; after Richard’s death they were somehow indistinguishable), tore a piece of bacon in half, and proceeded to crumble it into oblivion. I didn’t realize I was ignoring everyone else until Filippa said loudly, “Oliver?”
“What?”
“You’re torturing your bacon.”
“Sorry, I’m not hungry. I’ll see you guys in class.”
I stood and carried my plate to the kitchen. I dumped it in the bin without bothering to scrape it off and went back out again. Meredith was still picking through the mailboxes, collecting our letters. I glared at a table of language students who were watching her until they bent their heads over their breakfasts again, whispering fiercely in Greek.
“Meredith,” I said, when I was close enough that only she would hear me.
She looked up, eyes flicking dispassionately across my face before she turned back to the mailboxes. “Yes?”
“Look,” I said, without hesitating. My annoyance with the rest of the student body had somehow made me bolder than usual. “I’m sorry about the other night, and I’m sorry about Thanksgiving. I’ll be the first one to admit I don’t know what we’re doing here. But I want to figure it out.”
She stopped rifling through the mailboxes, her hand perched on the edge of the one labeled Stirling, Wren. Right next to it was Richard’s mailbox, empty. They hadn’t removed his name. I forced myself to ignore it and look at Meredith. Her expression was inscrutable, but at least she was listening to me.
“Why don’t we go get a drink or something?” I asked, leaning a little closer. “Just us. I can’t think straight with everyone watching like we’re a reality show.”
She folded her arms, said skeptically, “Like a date?”
I wasn’t sure what the right answer was. “I guess. I don’t know. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
Her face softened, and I was startled all over again by how pretty she was.
“All right. We’ll get a drink.” She put a pair of envelopes in my hand and left me alone by the mailboxes, staring dumbly after her. It was a moment or two before I realized the language students were gawping at me in her absence. I sighed, pretended not to see them, and opened my first envelope. The script on the front was long and loopy, not at all like Frederick’s compact, tilted scribble. A blue silk ribbon had been fixed to the back with a wax seal bearing the Dellecher coat of arms. I slid my finger underneath it and flicked it open. The note was short, and the same as it had been the last three years except for the date.
You are cordially invited to the annual
CHRISTMAS MASQUE
Please arrive in the Josephine Dellecher Ballroom between 8 and 9 p.m. on the evening of
Saturday, 20th December.
Masks and formal attire are required.
The second envelope was smaller, less ornate. I tore it open, quickly scanned the writing inside.
Please be in the ballroom at 8:45 p.m. on December 20th.
Come prepared for Act I, Scenes 1, 2, 4, and 5; Act II, Scene 4; and Act III, Scene 1.
You will be playing BENVOLIO.
Please report to the costume shop at 12:30 p.m. on December 15th for a fitting.
Please report to the rehearsal hall at 3 p.m. on December 16th for combat choreography.
Do not discuss this with your peers.
I left the refectory without going back to our table. Colin had taken my seat. All of their envelopes were open, and they took turns glancing at one another, wondering whose note from Frederick said what. For the first time, I decided I didn’t really want to know.
