Page 82 of Sweet Nightmare

She screams, then goes silent. I race after her, heart pounding and tapestry knocking against my shoulder, only to come face-to-face with a grinning Mozart.

“Welcome to Ember’s and my humble abode,” she says with a flourish of her hand.

“We’ve been watching for you,” Simon adds as he shuts the door behind us.

“Seriously?” Eva shrieks. “You couldn’t have just DM’d us?”

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, how am I supposed to keep my old skills sharp if I never get to practice them?”

“Considering your old skills involved charming the pants off people and then divesting them of their property, I don’t particularly care if you get to practice them or not,” I shoot back. “Although you’re doing fine—at least in the former department.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” he tells me as he ushers us deeper into the cottage, where—it turns out—Remy, Izzy, and Ember are already sitting around, talking while Luke Combs’s “Fast Car” plays over the speaker. “You’ve got that take-no-bullshit attitude that’s hard to resist.”

“I don’t know about that. Some people have no trouble resisting me at all.”

“You might be surprised,” he says, then gestures to the coffee table where there are several bags of chips set up, along with some sodas and sparkling waters. “Help yourself.”

“Storm Party, obviously!” Eva answers, shimmying her way over to the coffee table. “I love this song.”

“It’s a remake of an old Tracy Chapman song,” Remy tells her. “If you like this, you should hear the original.”

“Really?” She looks intrigued as she reaches for a chip. “You should play it next!”

“Are we really just doing this? Having a party when we should be packing?” I know I sound as bewildered as I feel.

“Packing shmacking.” Simon waves a hand, and those moonlit-ocean eyes of his are glowing again in that way that makes me majorly uncomfortable. “Throw a uniform and a couple pairs of jeans in a duffel bag and you’re done. It’s not like we’re going to be gone that long.”

“Unless the whole school blows away,” Izzy interjects dryly.

He shrugs. “So pack a lot of underwear and socks. You’ll be fine.”

Part of me is tempted to stay, even though I know I shouldn’t be. The storm is set to get worse anytime now, and the last thing I want is to be stuck in someone else’s cottage. At the same time, though, this looks like a lot more fun than moping around my room for the next several hours. Plus, Jude will probably text one of them while I’m here, and I can at least be sure he’s okay—

“Jude just finished at the menagerie and is on his way,” Mozart says as she hands me a towel. “So why don’t you put that thing—whatever it is—in the corner—and dry off? I put some sweats and tees on my bed for you and Eva. Grab something to drink while you wait for him.”

“I didn’t come here looking for Jude!” I tell her, and I don’t need a mirror to know my cheeks are turning bright red.

“You didn’t come here at all,” Remy soothes. “We dragged you in.”

Oh. Right. “I should go—”

Mozart steers me toward her bedroom. “Go get changed, Kumquat.”

“What did you just call me?” I demand, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, sorry.” She holds her hands up in a whoops gesture. “I didn’t realize old Sergeant Pepper was the only one who can call you that. My mistake.”

My cheeks go from pink to flaming in a second, and I duck my head to try to hide my embarrassment. Now I want nothing more than to flee, but I’ll look even worse—even weaker—if I run away. So fuck it. Just fuck it.

I close the door behind me, then dry off and quickly change. Mozart’s even taller than I am—and a little more curvy—so I have to roll the sweats up a little so I don’t trip on them. But they’re dry and warm and feel pretty damn luxurious after the nasty, wet clothes I’ve been wearing for way too long. I don’t even mind that they’re Calder Academy red.

I flop down next to Remy, who snags the bag of spicy dill pickle chips and hands them to me with a waggle of his brows.

“How’d you know these are my favorite?” I ask. Then, before he can even answer, I do it for him. “Carolina.”

He smiles, and this time it’s only a little bit sad. “When you’re locked in a cell together for several years, you tend to talk about everything. Including what flavor chips you and your favorite cousin like.”

“Apparently.” Sadness squeezes my stomach at the thought of Carolina telling him a bunch of stories about us to make the time in prison pass faster, but I try not to give in to it right now. I’ve got more than enough painful emotions roiling around inside me.

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