Page 2 of Tempest

Clover: What’s with the radio silence? Where are you guys? I’M HERE!

Mila: Currently waiting in the bushes for baby dove. I’m doubting she’ll show.

Me: You know I’m on this chat chain, right?

Mila: then spread your wings and flyyyyyy!

I anxiously chew on my cheek, making it harder to frown at the screen. Mila’s always using my codename against me. I’m sure she thinks it’s hilarious because our other friend, Clover, always laughs, but I hate hearing it from my friends’ mouths almost as much as I despise listening to it every night—the dove’s settled in her bedroom, boss—my father’s version of “good night, sweetie,” I guess.

Of course, I’ll never tell them that. I have so few friends as it is. I don’t want to aggravate the ones I do have.

And something tells me if I chicken out tonight, I’ll never hear the end of it.

“Um, could I have some miso soup, maybe?” I ask Barry while remaining on my knees. Belatedly, I realize I’m still holding the dress against my chest in a way that will absolutely wrinkle it. Standing, I shake it out while sending panicked glances at my door. It’s not like Barry could barge in here—well, I suppose he could, he has a master key for emergencies—but he never has.

“Sure. I’ll call down to the kitchen.”

“I don’t want to be a bother to Frances. Could you maybe go down the block and grab some?”

A few seconds of silence. “You know I can’t leave this post.”

“It’s only for a second. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.” Lies. Utter lies, Ardyn!

“I’m sorry, Ardy, but I can’t. I’m sure Frances would be happy to make you a quick cup.”

“Never mind. It’s probably best I stick to water, anyway. I’m, uh, I’m going to try and sleep now. If you could please not have anyone disturb me…”

“You want me to call for delivery? How about that?”

“That’s all right, Barry.” The whole point of asking for something, according to Mila, was to lower suspicion. For who would try to sneak out while wanting your guard to come in?

Barry grunts. “I’m not gonna leave you up here to suffer, Ardy. Give me two minutes. I’ll warm you up some broth in the microwave and be right back.”

The swell of excitement battles with remorse. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t let me second-guess this. I’ll be right back.”

“If you could just leave it outside my door!” I say before his shadow moves under the crack. “I-I really want to try and sleep.”

“All right. I won’t disturb you.”

The dress is damp where I’m clenching it. This thing’ll be ruined by the time I put it on. My phone buzzes again, its incessant vibrations telling me to get a move on.

I scamper around my four-poster bed, stuffing the silk gown in a tote bag I find by my bedside table and plucking whatever makeup brushes and compacts are closest on my vanity, sending them tumbling into my bag, too. Oh, and a hairbrush.

It’s black tie, sure, but the art is the most important and should be on display more than the guests. This is how I reason with myself as I toss the bag over my shoulder and pad over to the door, pulling it open and peering through the small crack.

The coast is clear.

I creep through the opening on my tiptoes. “Don’t be a narc, Hermione. Remember who feeds you,” I say over my shoulder, taking one last look at my (Mila’s) setup.

I’ve put pillows under my covers in the shape of a body, as every teen movie I’ve seen does, but Mila swears it works. With the years Barry’s had to trust that I’ll be in the places I say I will, she had no doubt I could pull it off. The pillows are a plan B. Barry’s unlikely to open the door after I’ve asked him not to, now that I’m a “woman” and have to deal with “private needs.”

As a kid, it was easy for him to order me around. He has a son my age and took to the job with aplomb, teaching me soccer, sneaking my favorite gummy worms when Mom wasn’t looking, and trying his best to appear more as a friendly uncle than a guy with a gun.

Until puberty happened.

The morning I first got my period will be one to put in both our never-to-be-accessed memory vaults. My parents tend to travel a lot and go to frequent functions. My father’s the founder of his hedge fund firm, and Mom is a top-level executive there. When they are home, they work with international clients and are often in their home offices with strict no-access policies, so that left Barry with the task of prying the truth out of me when I woke up with cramps, went to the bathroom, then let out a bloodcurdling scream when I saw what was in the toilet.

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