Page 68 of The Luminaries
Darian looks perfect, of course, because he actually does laundry. And buys new clothes every now and then. And knows how to combine said clothes, because he inherited Dad’s sense of style and not Mom’s utter lack of it. His heather-gray sweater and dark jeans are set off by tan leather loafers and a wool jacket that Winnie thinks he might have bought just for this occasion.
He chatters away as they walk from the shadowy parking lot—the sun has fallen, the moon has no plans to show—toward the estate. “Dryden had me organizing death certificates today,” he tells Mom, “andCindyhad to get us all coffees. I made sure to orderexactlywhat she always orders: double latte with two and a half—not three!—pumps of vanilla syrup and a sprinkling of cinnamon. It was delicious. Telling her my order, I mean. The actual drink was disgusting.” He makes a gagging sound; Mom laughs; Winnie doesn’t even try.
She’s mad at Darian for what had happened with Dryden. Notasmad as she’d been with Mario, but she’s definitely hurt that Darian hadn’t defended her more. Logically, this is unfair. What could he have said? But the sting remains all the same.
It’s also just hard to focus on what he’s saying right now, much less respond. For one, she has spent the whole day trying to sort out what Dad’s drawing at the library means… while also trying to think ofanythingelse because she still hates Dad. For two, the Wednesday estate is lit up as it always is after sundown, and the lights from the dining room blaze just as Winnie imagines the pits of hell might. She evensmells burning, thanks to the enormous fireplace that is no doubt consuming wood as fast as the Wednesday servers can feed it.
People whisk by the windows, colorful and smiling, moving with the ease of Luminaries who never had to leave. Winnie and Mom and Darian used to move like that; she wonders if the muscle memory is still inside her. She wonders if she’ll try and repeatedly miss the target by just a little, and this time, Jay won’t be there to help her find the proper footing and tell her to aim higher.
Mom slows as they approach the double front doors, and she squeezes Winnie’s biceps. “Thank you,” she whispers.
On her other side, Darian quickly grabs her for a side-hug, and he whispers the same. “Thank you, Winnie.Thank you.”
Then the doors are opening, leaving no time for Winnie to respond—not that she knows what to say anyway. The banshee lie is churning in her gut again, and humming under that is Dante’s voice:Happy birthday, witch traitor!,and Ms. Morgan’s well-meant but dishearteningHave you given any thought to that summer program at Heritage?
Winnie doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t want to go inside. She wants to sprint right back home and hide before anyone can look at her and know she’s full of lies—
“Frannie!” Aunt Rachel is hopping down the front steps. She’s got a champagne flute in one hand, which surprises Winnie (it’s hunting night, after all), but then she pushes it onto Mom. “Welcome. We’re so happy you’re here.”
Mom seems to melt at those words—Darian too—and Winnie tries to make herself join them in their thawed-out bliss. Because this is exactly what she’d wanted. It could not hew more closely to her daydreams if she had choreographed it herself.
Here is Aunt Rachel hauling them inside the estate, telling them all about the special dinner planned. And here is Aunt Rachel leading them into the dining room, where all the mingling Wednesdays turn as one and start clapping.
Clapping.Actual applause, over which Marcus—who is now weaving his way toward them—throws in an obnoxiouswhoop-whoop.Then Marcus is to them, and he’s punching at Winnie’s shoulders like they’rethe best of friends and looking around to make sure people saw him doing it.
Winnie has never hated him more.
Now Leila Wednesday, Fatima’s mom and clan leader, is striding across the room, having abandoned her usual spot beside the fireplace, and the rest of the clan is clearing aside to let her through. Winnie hasn’t seen Leila in four years, not even from afar, and she’s shocked at how much the woman hasn’t aged. She looks stunning in a lilac hijab that complements her navy sweater and matching wide-leg slacks. Fatima skips behind her, more casual in all gray and a rose-patterned hijab.
“Fran,” Leila says, opening her arms to Mom. Her smile is rich and deep, her brown eyes crinkling. Bangles clink on her wrists. “I am so glad you’re here. We all are.”
The nearest Wednesdays all murmur agreements, and Winnie realizes they’re each holding champagne (though Leila’s is presumably nonalcoholic). Leila’s gaze skates to Winnie next, and her smile widens to reveal perfect teeth. “And the belle of our ball tonight! Other than our birthday girls, of course.”
A smattering of laughs, and Winnie hears the twins’ telltale giggle somewhere in the vicinity of the fireplace.
“Never was there such a display of loyalty,” Leila declares, and she moves to Winnie’s side. A scent like gardenias and power settles over Winnie; Leila slides an arm around her shoulders.
And Fatima gives Winnie a reassuring wink.
“A toast to Winnie Wednesday. May we all be as brave and loyal as she!” Leila lifts her glass, and the rest of the room follows suit.
“Hear, hear!” they say. Or, “To Winnie!” Or, if they’re Marcus, “Whoop-whoop!” Glasses rise, throats gulp, and like a rain cloud letting loose, conversation bursts forth, louder, happier, sparkling with champagne.
“Sit at the table with me,” Leila says, giving Winnie a little pat before she pulls away. Then to Mom and Darian: “You two, as well. We have so much to catch up on.”
Winnie can see, as dinner progresses through each course, the room vibrating with conversation and firelight, that Mom and Darian are struggling. It’s the juxtaposition of it all—exactly what Mom had ranted about on Saturday, exactly what Winnie had ranted about too. Everyone acts as if Winnie and Darian and Mom have just gone away for a while—traveled abroad, explored the world, and now are finally returning home as weary, cosmopolitan networkers. There is no mention of Fran serving extra ketchup at the Revenant’s Daughter. No mention of all the years Darian has collected coffee and dusted off Dryden Saturday’s desk. No mention of Winnie gathering corpses while the Wednesday hunters pretend every Thursday that she doesn’t exist.
Unlike Winnie, though, Mom and Darian have the benefit of champagne to smooth away their discomfort and erase the hypocrisy of small talk and clinking silverware. Winnie, meanwhile, just gnaws on steak she knows is really fancy but can’t bring herself to eat.
Oh, she smiles when anyone talks to her. And she laughs (genuinely) at Fatima’s funny stories about training mishaps the week before. And she even manages to glide right over how she killed the banshee by spinning the tale over to Fatima, who is practically bouncing in her seat to share.
The night feels interminable, though, and when atlastthe various clocks around the house clang eight o’clock—and all the hunters peel off to get ready for the forest—Winnie is just happy she can take a moment to breathe.
Yes, she has to attend the twins’ party soon—which she can see being set up through the back windows (the fairy lights look very pretty)—but she also has an excuse to step away: Mom and Darian are tipsy at this point and need a ride home.
It’s a bit of a slog to get them out of the house. They’re giggly, and Mom in particular wants to talk toeveryone.Winnie would be embarrassed by the maternal loquaciousness if not for the fact that everyone seems to genuinely want to talk to her too. And to Darianandto Winnie. It just makes Winnie want to shout at them like she’d shouted at Lizzy:We were here all along! You could have talked to us all along!
By the time Winnie has Mom and Darian seat-belted into the Volvo, she has already wasted almost twenty minutes of her pre-party hour.Fortunately, Hemlock Falls is small, so even puttering along at fifteen miles an hour in first gear, Winnieshouldbe back in time.
