Page 86 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
The strangest part of all is the Strode crest. It’severywhere—on her father’s jacket, hanging on the coat hanger, and on a small canvas in the hallway.
“Your father has a lot of… school spirit,” I mutter.
“You have no idea,” Margaux says. “I’m sure he would have disowned me if I wasn’t accepted to Strode.”
I laugh nervously, unsure whether she’s joking.
“Do you think we’re alone?” I ask.
“My mother is still in Milan.”
“And the rest of your… siblings?” I hesitate to call her coven-mates siblings, even if she has referred to them as such.
“No clue. They don’t live here. It’s usually just me.”
I can’t put my finger on why I’m so uneasy. I’ve spent so much time at Poppy’s house—her studio apartment and even the small trailer with her parents. My friends have spent time at mine, too.
Margaux is my best friend, but her home does nothing to put me at ease.
When I was young, I would have done anything for a chance to see where Margaux lives. The circumstances that bring me here aren’t the best. All I can muster is mild curiosity, but that’s already run out.
Her eyes narrow.
“Look,” she says, “you don’t need to worry about waking up to fangs at your neck. We’resafe here. We have security, and none of my siblings are going to visit without letting me know.”
“Are you sure?” I smile weakly. “You claim to have great senses, but I’ve seen you sleep through some ungodly noises.”
She rolls her eyes. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. It’s worrisome.”
“I know you’ve been through a lot tonight, but… I kept you safe for this long. I’m not giving up on you now.” Margaux squeezes my shoulder.
It’s disconcerting that I’ve worried Margaux so much.
She’s unshakable, the calm in every storm—unless it’s one of her own making. Seeing her watch me with genuine worry elicits a strange feeling of guilt.
I look away, staring at a dusty corner of the room.
“Thank you,” I say. “I feel safer with you.”
It’s not true anymore. It used to be, but I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again. She doesn’t have to deal with my worries. She rubs my back, and we stand there for a few moments longer.
Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock strikes.
It’s midnight.
“Can you show me to my room?” I ask, shrugging off her hand.
She hesitates before obliging. “This way.”
The room Margaux leads me to is… surprisingly normal. Everything is well-made and likely expensive. The bed frame is made of sturdy wood, the desk probably costs more than all of my furniture at home, and there are more white candles. Whether they’re for power outages or strange rituals, I can’t be sure.
The house is more rural than I’m used to, with the sounds of crickets and birds outside my window. It would be peaceful if it wasn’t so eerie.
“I’m across the hall,” Margaux says, pointing over her shoulder with a thumb. “If anything happens… I’ll be able to hear.”
I lift a brow. “Does that mean you’ll be listening in on me?”
