Page 13 of The Luminaries
Darian chews his lip. Winnie can see that her arguments are starting to wear him down.
“Does getting Dryden Saturday’s coffee make you happy? Does having him scream at you that he wantedtwocreams make you happy?”
“Of course not.” He is glowering at the rain on the windshield now.
“Well, an art program at Heritage doesn’t makemehappy! Darian, they call me ‘witch traitor’ and ‘Diana spawn’ at school. Like, every day.”
“Who?” He rounds toward her. “Who does that?”
“Everyone.They even did it today.” For some reason, she has started crying again. “We’re living the punishment for Dad’s crimes, and I can’t do it anymore. We don’t deserve this. Wedeserveour old lives back. Wedeserveto dream again. So please, help me, Darian. Please help me take the trial.”
For several long minutes, the only sound is his careful breathing. He watches Winnie, a line in his shoulders that screams of angry brother just itching to go on the rampage. Right when Winnie isn’t sure she can handle the silence a moment longer, though, he says, “Okay, Win.” His shoulders sink. “I’ll help you.”
“Really?” The question is a squeak.
“Yeah, though god help me, this is a mistake.” He returns his feet to the pedals and shifts the truck into drive. “The trial starts at nine, right? That only gives us the afternoon to get you ready.”
“Thank you,” she tries, but he cuts her off with a wave. He clearly hates that he’s agreeing, but he also realizes that he—like her—is too unhappy to keep living this way for another six years.
The truck’s blinker ticks; Darian rumbles them back into traffic; and Winnie stares, with clicking teeth, at the misty brown river that pythons through town, fed by a distant waterfall and a lake filled with nightmares.
CHAPTER9
Darian’s apartment is a lofted, industrial affair over the Très Jolie. Other than the Revenant’s Daughter, the Très Jolie is the only restaurant around. Unless, of course, you want to drive an hour to the nearest non city. Unlike the Revenant’s Daughter, though, it serves “fancy” food, meaning Winnie and her family only ever used to visit on special occasions and now never visit at all.
The apartment always smells like fresh baguette, and Winnie is always hungry when she walks into it. Which, bless Andrew’s soul, is why he always abandons his desk to make her a snack in the open kitchen when she comes over.
Today’s snack, waiting on the island / dining table / bar, is a cake, which he clearly made himself. “It will taste better than it looks.” Andrew’s puppy-dog eyes dart to drooping candles shaped like the numbers 1 and 6. His sharp cheekbones, a dark, warm shade of brown, flicker in the dying light of the candles. His parents both hail from the Kenyan Luminaries, but since Andrew was born here, he uses Monday as his last name.
He’s in training to become a medical assistant, and in the brief gaps between studying, he attempts to replicate what he sees onThe Great British Bake Off.This particular cake has chocolate frosting and blue swirls that will probably taste better than they look.
“Thanks, Andrew.” Winnie attempts a smile, but it feels forced—and he clearly senses that, because he glances between her and Darian. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Winnie starts.
But Darian, wholiterallyjust swore he wouldn’t tell Andrew, says, “Winnie is entering the trial tonight. Please convince her not to.” Then, at Winnie’s sputtering glare, he adds, “Sorry. We don’t keep secrets from each other.” He stalks to Andrew, rolls onto his toes to give him a peck on the cheek, and then continues stalking into the bedroom under the loft.
Andrew just gapes at Winnie, and she in turn blows out the candles with furious force.Please let me pass the trial,she wishes.Please, please, please, forest spirit, let me pass the trial.
Andrew leans over the island. He is the opposite of Darian’s prim sweater vests and perfectly ironed button-ups. He is rumpled T-shirts with sports logos and sweatpants.
“You can’t enter the trials, Winnie,” he says.
“I can.” She yanks out the number 1 candle and licks off the frosting. “Nowhere in the big, full Official Rulebook does it say I can’t.”
“When did you look at the Official Rulebook… Oh.” He scowls. “That’swhy you wanted to go to the library? I feel so used. Abused. And confused.” He yanks the cake away from her. “How long have you been planning this?”
“A… long time.”
“And have you, ya know, trained any?”
“Yes,” she says at the same moment Darian shouts from the bedroom, “Not properly, she hasn’t.” Then the man himself reappears, holding what looks to be old hunter practice gear. “Which means not only is she going to fail miserably, but she also might die. Here. Try this on.” He dumps a heap of black, padded clothing onto the counter.
Winnie blinks, briefly forgetting how he just declared she would fail and probably die. “Where did you get this stuff?” She pulls it to her: Kevlar vest, Kevlar thigh shields, and two poison-mist traps.
“They’re Andrew’s,” Darian says while holding the vest toward her body, and Andrew winces. He has a very expressive wince that covers a wide range of emotions. This particular one says,I am embarrassed.
“I wanted to be a hunter,” Andrew explains. “Or I thought I did, until I met Darian and realized maybe there were other things to live for than just the forest and the Luminaries.”
