Page 16 of Mud

“No. I said I was going to do it and I will. I’ll have a location for you by breakfast,” I said because if there was one thing I hated more than my grandmother, it wasnotkeeping my word.

“Rosabel, really, it’s fi?—”

“Cassie, I need the distraction, okay? Just…please. Let me do this. Get out of my way.” If she didn’t, I simply didn’t have the strength to push her or push through if she tried to stop me.

But whatever Cassie saw in my face in those moments, she nodded and finally stepped to the side. I didn’t say anything else—couldn’t if I tried. I just held my head up and prayed that my legs didn’t give up on me all the way to the interrogation room.

Chapter 6

Rosabel La Rouge

2 years ago

I pretended to be lost in my book as my cousin continued to pick small bugs from the grass and put them in my soda can. She couldn’t tell that I saw her—I was good at pretending. That, and she knew I was reading my favorite book—the best compilation of bedtime stories ever written if you asked me. It had everything in it, from The Sleeping Beauty to Pinocchio to The Valley of the Roc. All stories that I used to talk to my parents about every night when I was little.

We looked very different from one another, my cousin and I. I had light blonde hair that was almost white, and my eyes were a rusty brown, my skin almost too pale. And Penelope Rogan was effortlessly beautiful, with a golden shimmer to her rich brown hair, light amber eyes just like our grandmother’s, a sharp, slightly pointy chin like ourmothers—and the inability to tell whattoo farmeant when it came to her jokes and little pranks.

When she put those bugs in my can, she genuinely hoped I’d drink it and get sick. If I did, she’d laugh for days and call ita joke, never mind that she knew that Madeline would refuse to heal me or even send for her team of Whitefire healers at all. I’d have to endure the pain and whatever other symptoms until my body fought them off naturally because we were still seventeen, with no anchors and no ability to use magic properly outside of class without the help of a teacher. Iridian magic became mature enough not toact out,basically, after the age of eighteen, and even then the first few months were dangerous until we got the hang of the magic and our anchors.

But Poppy continued to collect bugs for my drink, and I continued to pretend I was reading because that’s what I did best.

“Won’t you drop your book for once and join me for cake?” Poppy said a moment later, pretending to be bored.

She,on the other hand, was still a shitty pretender, even though our grandmother worked with her most days of the week.

But she never had to hide from her—our grandmother adored Poppy. We were both her daughters’ daughters, but she loved Poppy dearly with just as much intensity as she despised me.

So maybe that’s why Poppy didn’t pretend as well. She simply never had to hide how she felt.

“Come on, Rora!” She pouted. It was awfully fake, and on the inside, I smiled.

On the outside, my face was as expressionless as ever.

“Sure, Poppy. I’m coming.” I put the book away on thetable and left the comfort of the rocking chair to go sit with her on her picnic blanket. We were out in back of the Rogan mansion, sitting in the perfectly trimmed grass, having a picnic because it was Saturday, and Saturdays were forbonding,Poppy had decided. We needed to hang out together for at least three hours, because—and I quote: “We should never forget that we are, first and foremost, family.”

She said that last word as if it meant anything—to me, it didn’t.

I never corrected her anyway, simply because it was too hard to explain.

“Don’t you get sick of books in school?” she said when I sat on her pale pink blanket. She put my soda with a black straw in it in front of me, together with a small plate with a red macaroon next to a piece of vanilla cake.

“Not really,” I admitted, grabbing the can in my hand just to make her feel at ease. “Hey, you got any of those chocolate cookies in there?” I nodded my head at her basket that the maids carried for her, which was behind her. “I’d rather eat those than cake.”

No smile required—simple because nobody around here really expected a smile from me.

“Certainly!” Poppy said, excited that I even remembered what she usually brought to her picnics, and when she turned her back to me to search the basket, it was so easy to switch my can with hers, I swear. So easy I almost did it. My hand itched to grab hers—identical, with the straw and all—and put mine in its place, just to see the look on her face. After all, if she got poisoned or sick or something, Grandmother would take care of it within the hour.

I didn’t, of course.

A moment later, she put two cookies on my plate. “There you go. Bon appetit!”

“Thank you, Poppy. You’re a doll,” I said, my voice as dull and as dead as always.

“Go ahead, eat. Drink. So tasty,mmm…” she said, grabbing her own soda and sucking on the straw.

She’d have bugs in her mouth now if I wasn’t such a coward,I thought—an intrusive thought, one I got often with Poppy. I loved her dearly, but I also hated her sometimes. She could be mean, really mean, and she always got away with it with a smile and laugh, disguising it as a joke or a prank. She never let me be mad at her, either. If I tried, she’d stick to me twenty-four seven, until I wasn’t anymore. So annoying.

But I also admired her courage, something I wished I had more of myself.

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