Page 18 of The Last Casterglass
“I’m notintohim,” she declared shortly while Oliver stood there, lurking in the shadows, tray of canapés suspended, transfixed and horrified.
“Well, I certainly haven’t ever seen you in a dress before,” Sam replied with a laugh. “So you must be scrubbing up for someone. It’s all right to have a crush, you know.” Oliver thought he meant well, but the careless remarks would, he already knew, be like acid on a wound to Seph. Why, he wondered, could he understand that better than her family seemed to?
Because he knew how it felt—that careless teasing, indifferent to the pain caused, never really understanding what made the other person tick—or bleed. That was how his aunt and uncle had been with him when he’d been young: kindly but a bit bemused. It was, perhaps, how Seph’s family was with her. They didn’t truly know her, he realised. They’d never either been given or looked for the chance.
Then, he realised in the next moment, his own brand of acid was being poured onto his wound as Seph replied, her tone utterly scathing.
“As if I’d dress to impress for a wet schoolboy like that,” she scoffed, a sneering edge to her voice that lacerated Oliver’s ego in a single sweeping slice. “He’s like a puppy begging to be kicked.” For good measure she made a puppy-like face, panting, tongue out, utterly cringeworthy. “Pathetic,” she finished, a ringing pronouncement, and Oliver didn’t wait for anything more.
He turned quickly on his heel, blind to everyone around him, no doubt crimson to the tips of his ears, and Seph’s awful words ringing in them.Wet schoolboy. Puppy. Pathetic.Shame, hurt, and rage all jostled for space in his wounded soul as he rushed out of the hall as fast as he could, mindless of where he was going, wanting only to escape.
When he reached the kitchen, he realised he was still carrying the stupid platter of canapés; he dumped them on the table, shrugged out of the absurd smoking jacket, and then strode out into the night.
Chapter Eight
“Uh-oh.”
Sam had the grace to look guilty as Oliver stormed past them and Seph whirled towards her brother. “Did you know he was there?” she cried, and he shrugged.
“I’ve been at the hospital with Rose, so I haven’t actually met him properly yet, but he was wearing Dad’s smoking jacket and he looked sort of like Harry Potter. Is that Oliver?”
“Oh!” Seph cried, furious and yet also near tears.Whyhad Sam teased her? And why had she risen so willingly to the bait, and said such awful, cruel things?
“You can apologise, Seph,” Sam offered. “A genuine sorry goes a long way, trust me.”
Not that far, Seph thought, filled with a deep, plunging despondency that felt like grief. How could she have said all that? The insults had spilled from her lips in a panic born of Sam’s good-natured teasing; she should have shrugged it all off, but she’d already felt so prickly and vulnerable, in this stupid dress, with her stupid hair.
Everythingwas stupid, especially her.
“It’s not like you care about him or anything,” Sam offered reasonably, and Seph glared at him. Her brother was stupid, too. Thestupidest.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped.
“I don’t?” Realisation was dawning on her brother’s face, but Seph didn’t have the time or patience for it.
“Just keep out of my business,” she barked, and then she hurried out of the hall, after Oliver.
She didn’t know where he was, and as she hurried down the hall towards the kitchen, she realised she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to find him. He’d be furious, and rightly so. Maybe he would be cruel, or worse, dismissive. Or worse than that, he’d be hurt, and she won’t know how to deal with that at all.
Seph skidded to a stop outside the kitchen, her breath coming in ragged pants. What should she do? Her first instinct was to find Oliver and explain, but her second one, just as strong, was to protect herself. She already felt vulnerable enough, without her dreadlocks, in this dress. She neededsomekind of armour for the confrontation they were likely to have.
Besides, she reasoned, Oliver might need some time to—what? Cool down? Recollect his composure? Or maybe he wasn’t that bothered. The possibility brought both relief and alarm. Maybe he’d laugh at her and tell herhe’dbeen feeling sorry for her—of course he had—and really, wasn’t she the one who was puppyish and pathetic?
The more Seph considered the matter, the more she thought it was likely he’d scoff. Of course he would, and he’d be right to. Slowly she retraced her steps away from the kitchen, skirted the hall, and went out the side to the stables and the safety of her workshop.
As soon as she stepped into the cool, dim space she felt a rush of relief. She was safe here. She knew who she was with a lathe or a chisel; she didn’t have to pretend to be anyone else. She didn’t have to try to be tough or uncaring or bored; she could justbe, with no one looking, staring, whispering, wondering. She took a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair, shocked all over again by how short it was. How different she looked. She’d wanted to fit in, and yet right now she felt even more like a freak.
She glanced at her sculpture, hidden under a drop cloth, and then with a sudden, heady feeling of recklessness, she drew the drop cloth off. The hunk of wood was just as she’d left it—half rugged, wild and unformed, half polished and perfect, a tangled mess of surprising symmetry…which was exactly how she felt.Out of the Wild, she’d called it, because that was how she’d felt too—as if she were emerging from a jungle, or perhaps a chrysalis, fighting her way out even as she kept shrinking back, never knowing what to do or how to do it.
Tonight she’d taken a few tottering steps, and now it was time to scuttle back in. It was safer here, she thought, hiding away. Pretending not to care. Why had she ever thought she could do something—anything—differently?
She stayed in her shop, working on a new piece, until nearly eleven, when she figured everyone else would have gone to bed and it would be safe to creep up to her own bedroom, unnoticed. She turned out the lights and locked up, pausing for a moment to gaze at the garden, its frost-tipped trees and shrubs sparkling under a sliver of moon. The air was cold and clear, and she relished the solitude, the silence broken by the mournful hoot of a barn owl.
Then she walked inside.
“Seph, where have youbeen?”
So not everyone had gone to bed. Olivia and Althea were sat at the table with the last of the sherry between them, their heels kicked off.