Page 67 of All Saints: Pledge

Maybe Aoeife has the key to my room? And she delivered this to me? I grab the note off my desk and turn it over.

In handwriting I don’t recognize, it simply says:I look forward to seeing you tonight.

In my ears, my heartbeat rushes. I look back down at the flower. Is this what happens when you have a potential sponsor? My other options are Aoife, Kendall or Teague? Someone who knows where my room is, and someone who is, apparently, looking forward to seeing me tonight.

Unbidden, I think of the white flower tucked in Augustine’s lapels, and my stomach turns. Surely a coincidence.

I step back into the bathroom and lock the door firmly before taking my own shower. Twists upon twists, turns upon turns. I’m not sure I even know who I hope the flower is from, I just know who I hope it’s not.

30

Lunch the next day is in fact a tea. Like, pinky-fingers-raised kind of tea. The kind with tiny sandwiches and chairs draped in fabric. I pull at the hem of my shirt, now feeling underdressed for what I assumed would be an informational meeting about our event tonight. No such luck.

Clara, to her credit, doesn’t bat an eyelash as she steps inside the carved door of the sunny room. She is capable of looking comfortable in almost any social situation, something I’m sure came from her parents. And something of which I’m extremely jealous.

Six tables glitter in the room, scattered at recent intervals and set like we’re at a million-dollar wedding reception with formal place settings, several glasses per person and so many forks. So. Many. Forks. In the center of each table, set upon a silver riser covered in flowers, is a solid silver tea service and trays of finger foods. My mouth waters immediately. I’m starving, and the room smells like warm cinnamon and scones.

A woman greets us at the door, drawing my attention. She motions Clara to one table and me to another. We’re among the last to arrive, and I note familiar faces in the room—there’smaybe fifteen students from Oxford here? Irina, David, and the rowing twins being the first I recognize. But there’s a dark-haired girl I’ve seen at dinners and meetings that I give a small nervous wave to as I slide by her chair.

The rest of the people in the room are unfamiliar to me—already seated at the tables. It seems they arrived first, and students are being sent to tables, to sit with specific chaperones. “Dottie Howard,” I mutter to myself as I push through the tables to the one at the very back, toward the window. “Why does that seem familiar?”

The answer is clear, moments later when the woman at the table turns her iron-gray curls and I catch sight of her face. I barely make it into my seat, because I’ve stopped looking where I’m going. I slide in beside David at the only other chair at the table, and gape. I can’t say I’m proud of my reaction, but this woman was just very recently on my television at the gym in Oxford. She’s the head of communications for the Prime Minister of the UK. And she’s here. At my tea table.

“Dorothea Howard,” I breathe, unable to stop staring.

She cracks a smile, but under the table, David stomps on my toes. I gather I’m being ultra-American.

“Ms. Eades, or can I call you Helena? It is lovely to meet you. Dottie, if you’d please, since this is not a formal function.”

I look around the room dazedly. Not a formal function? There are two chandeliers. The waitstaff is wearing gloves as they bring out trays of fruit and cheese. Gloves!

When I finish my unabashed gawking, Dorothea—Dottie—is already engaged in conversation with David. He’s telling her how he’s interested in learning more about Trade relations with foreign nations, specifically India, China, and Viet Nam. I listen, still unable to form words as they talk back and forth using words I don’t even know. David seems to know so much already.I gather his father has made a lot of money brokering sea travel for imports.

“I don’t just want to do logistics, though. Knowing what I know about how things operate leaves room open for me to suggest regulation and legislation reform.” I look at him like he’s bananas. For a guy who seems just along for the ride here with All Saints, he sounds like he’s literally pitching himself to Dottie for the Prime Minister’s cabinet. I ponder stomping on his foot because I think we’re supposed to just be having tea with poor Dottie. Not selling her on our trade knowledge.

I clear my throat. “How was your trip here, Ms. Howard…er, I mean Dottie?”

David throws me a dirty look. I reach for a scone in the middle of the table, and sit back as a waitperson pours dark brown tea into my cup for me.

Dottie offers me a grateful smile. “The flight was a little bumpy, but short. Thank you for asking, that’s a lovely thing to do. Hopefully the flight tonight will be smoother.”

Take that David. She appreciates my civility. Her words catch up to me. “Wait, you have to fly out again tonight? That’s so… that’s so quick.”

Her iron gray curls bounce a little as she laughs. I’ve literally never seen her even smile on television. She’s so open and genuine, I can’t help but smile back. “Hazard of the job. I wish I could say this was the shortest stay, but it isn’t. And at least I get a wonderful tea out of it.” She bites into a finger sandwich for emphasis.

“Wait, so you’re only here for this?” I wave around. “Not anything else?”

David throws me another look I can’t read.

Dottie’s laugh tinkles again. “Just this. Just to meet with you both. Everyone here was invited specifically to meet with this group of fine students to offer real-world advice on careertrajectory. David has told me about his interest in Trade, how about you? What specific area of politics interests you?”

I blink, absolutely dumbfounded. This is the All Saints version of a job fair. A career day. I am sitting at a fucking tea table in Ireland with the Director of Communications for the Prime Minister of the UK. Because of All Saints.

“There are so many,” I fumble with my words, trying to come up with a coherent answer. “Education is certainly one. Equality, as a tangential interest. Things like understanding what programs could be enacted at a young age to have the greatest impact of leveling socio-economic playing fields so that marginalized communities can access the same education and support as white, middle class students. Studying the impacts of a well-educated populace on other areas, like trade, manufacturing, and agriculture.”

Dottie’s face sinks into what I can only describe as approval. “Those are some lofty goals.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, well,” I stutter, unable to come up with a way to say “sorry for wasting your time” that sounds eloquent.

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