Page 81 of Savannah Royals
“That’s kind of you to say. I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am. I’ve never been to a party like this. I mean, before the Academy, before Matthew…my life was very different.”
She considers her words before she speaks. “Katarina, I remember you well from your interview. Girls like you don’t come around often, but they are why I love what I do. I wonder, do you remember the interview?”
“Of course, bits and pieces.”
“I remember bits and pieces too, some parts better than others. What I remember most is the moment one of the board members asked you to tell us why you believed you should be given one of the prized seats at the Academy over a better prepared girl from a nice upper-class family. Do you remember what you said?”
“No,” I admit.
“He asked why you should be given a spot over another girl, and your response was, ‘Why shouldn’t I be? She’s no more deserving than I am.’ And you had this glint in your eye when you said it, Kat, like you were just daring him to disagree. And then you said, ‘And frankly, I’m a far better investment than any of those other girls, because I understand hard work, and I will work interminably hard to be here.’”
I nod, remembering as she recounts the story. It was one of the few moments, possibly the only moment, when my wolf broke free. Biting and clawing the way she’s done since I was six years old.
“I knew we had to have you, Kat,” Lady Genevieve continues. “Your story is not unlike my own. I come from the wrong side of town myself, but I’ve never let it stop me. You just have to be a little bit faster, a little bit smarter, a little bit luckier. I gave you a bit of luck the day I accepted you to Telfair, but the rest you’ve done on your own. You’ve more than proven yourself worth the investment.”
Much of what she says is true, but then I think of Tony, whose Latin accent, and Abe, whose dark skin, mean doors forever slammed in their faces. Doors no amount of luck or determination will open. What kind of place could our world be if there were more Genevieves and Matthews out there, opening access to institutions like Telfair and respectable jobs toeveryone?
I swallow hard. “It means a lot to hear you say that. Thank you.”
I catch sight of Matthew in the distance, fresh bottle of Pol Roger and flutes in hand. He salutes me with the bottle and smiles so wide, it socks me in the gut from all the way across the lawn.
Lady Genevieve observes us for a moment, then turns back to me. “It’s been a pleasure to have you here with us tonight, Katarina. You make my son very happy, it’s plain to see. And no matter what your other accomplishments or history may be, that’s all a mother really cares about.”
“He makes me very happy too,” I reply quietly.
“Coming from different worlds…it doesn’t matter so much at the end of the day. As long as you understand what makes you similar—that will always be far more important than what makes you different. After will always be more important than before.”
I stay silent, uncertain.
“And as a mother,” she continues, taking a deep breath, “I don’t care where you’ve been before, Kat. I only care about where you’re going and what you plan to do when you get there. What you plan to do with my son’s heart once he’s given it to you.”
I continue looking at her. My palms start to sweat.
“Because he will give it to you. He already has, whether he realizes it or not. And all the rest”—she waves her hand at the glamour surrounding us—“is immaterial.”
Immaterial? Is it though?
“I…”
“It’s okay.” She stops me, reaching out with a gentle hand. “You don’t have to say anything. I just hope you know that if you want it, this can be your family too. You have a place with us, and there’s no rush. It’ll be right here waiting, if and when you’re ready.”
As Matthew comes to my side, his mother gives his cheek a soft pat. “Happy New Year, darling.” She disappears into the crowd.
“Dare I ask?” Matthew hands me a fresh glass.
I laugh as I fib, a half lie, half truth slipping from my lips. “Just girl talk. I quite like your mother, Matt. She’s progressive.”
“You’re two of a kind,” he murmurs, pouring champagne. “There are about sixty seconds left in 1919, Katarina. What should we toast to?”
I raise my glass, clinking the edge to his. The crystaldingis ringing and pure.
“To the 1920s,” I decide. “And to us.”
“To usinthe 1920s. Together,” Matthew amends. His eyebrows lift, his silent question hanging in the air. The crowd is counting down the seconds around us, but I’m locked on him. Their voices fade to a dull roar.
“To us in the 1920s,” I repeat slowly, tasting the words. “Together.”
