“Where is everyone else?” Plum asked. The dock was completely empty except for their small group.
Marlowe and Sofia both looked decidedly relieved when their feet hit the rocky beach.
Together they walked to the small white canopy. It felt almost like a valet stand. Or a small sunshade for their baggage while they waited for the bellhop. But there weren’t any valets, and no bellhops, either.
“I bet everyone’s up at the villa already!” Jude said. “Man, I can’t wait to see who’s all here!”
“I’m here,” Cici announced. She walked under the tent and put her bag down. Her aura was powerful, Plum decided. She had “it”—not quite as much as Peach, but maybe that was a talent that could be grown?
“Yeah, you’re here!” Jude affirmed. “Light it up!” Jude swooped his hand at his crotch again, still speaking in that different voice. “Ha, ha, ha.”
The wide-eyed boy actually said “ha” like a punctuation, instead of an actual laugh.
Plum felt a combined rush of embarrassment and protectiveness for him. God love him, he was so . . . awkward.
“Where’s the guy who was talking to us?” Shelley the astrologer asked.
“Maybe he’s up at the villa? Talking to us through a mic or something?” Sofia pointed at a single large speaker on a tripod stand that stood under the large blue-and-white tent.
As if prompted by her point, the British man’s voice returned, coming directly from the speaker. “The villa is up the path to your left.”
The group turned as one. A winding trail carved up to the top of a cliff.
“The others are there,” the voice continued. “But before you join them, your hosts, the creators of Pyre Festival and Pyre Signs, it’s lit, set the night on fire, melt your face off, have set out this repast for you to enjoy. Under the blue-striped tent.”
“Sweet!” Jude Romeo yelped, in his regular voice. The lanky boy rushed ahead to the food.
“Can you hear us?” Sofia called to the disembodied voice.
“The creators of Pyre Signs, Pyre Festival, your hosts, welcome you,” the flat British voice came back.
“Who are you?” Sofia called again. She’d pulled her thick, wavy hair into a messy bun. Her cheeks looked flushed, but that was an improvement from her previous seasick pallor.
“I’m Wadsworth, a virtual assistant, or butler, if you will,” the voice proclaimed.
Under the tent, Jude had already removed the mesh covers off several dishes and had piled a plate high and was unceremoniously shoving food into his mouth.
“Hold up.” Cici followed Sofia’s lead, speaking into the air. “You’re not a person?” She cocked a perfectly sculpted eyebrow skeptically.
“Correct,” the voice answered. “I am Wadsworth, a virtual assistant, or butler, if you will. Invented by the creators of Pyre Signs and Pyre Festival. Light it up, set the night on fire, melt your face off.”
“Huh,” Shelley said, brushing her red hair back over her shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting a virtual assistant.”
Sofia shrugged. “I guess it makes sense since they’re a tech start-up.”
It seemed strange to have all this food sitting here unattended, though. Even though it appeared to have been recently set out, with fresh ice still under the platter of shrimp, and mesh covers to keep birds and insects away.
But where were the hands that had prepared it? Why wasn’t even one attendant here?
The rest of their small group followed Jude to the blue-striped tent.
“Is there an actual human in charge we could meet?” Cici asked the virtual butler.
“Everyone is up at Mabuz Villa already. Famed for its gun-running history and the exploits of movie stars of yesteryear, construction on Mabuz Villa began in 1918 when railroad baron Edward Mabuz won the island in a card game.”
It was reading the Wikipedia page about the villa, Plum realized. She’d read it herself before convincing her friends to come with her to Pyre Festival.
As “Wadsworth” droned on, they clustered around the table under the tent.
In addition to the bright pink shrimp on ice, there were various tropical fruits, platters heaped with skewers of grilled meats, pastries, cookies, and chocolate bowls filled with some kind of pudding or icing, topped with raspberries.
“Do you want anything?” Plum asked her friends.
Marlowe closed her eyes, shaking her head. One hand rested protectively over her stomach.
“Nooooooo, I don’t think soooooooo,” Sofia groaned.
Plum looked around to the other passengers. Shelley Moon had an ice cube from the shrimp platter and was rubbing it on her wrists—pushing her jangling bangles out of the way. Cici Bello was tight-lipped, looking away from the food as if the sights and smells alone might cause her to be sick. Again. Some more. Though her makeup was still on point.
“Maybe just some water?” Plum asked the air.
Wadsworth stopped reading the Wikipedia page.
“Certainly,” the smooth British voice said. “A champagne cocktail service is laid out in the villa’s conservatory.”
“That sounds lovely, but we just need some water?” Plum asked.
“A range of beverages are available at the champagne service.” Wadsworth’s automated voice was both smooth and firm, as if the right tone could act as an iron, pressing out complications like they were wrinkles.
“You’re kidding,” Cici said, her voice sharp. “There’s no water here?”
“If the young miss will simply proceed to the villa,” Wadsworth’s voice repeated.
“I don’t want to go to the villa, I want to rinse my mouth out.”
“I regret that—”
“There’s nothing to drink?” Shelley asked, sounding on the verge of tears.
“What kind of event planner puts out a spread like this and forgets the beverages?” Marlowe asked Plum in a low voice.
“The founders of Pyre Festival are at the top of their fields,” Wadsworth said. It clearly had heard Marlowe’s whisper. “Never in the history of music and art festivals has there been an event such as Pyre Festival.”
But the voice was flat. Like it was reading a list of side effects in a prescription drug commercial. “Pyre Festival, melt your face off. Pyre Festival, set the night on fire. Pyre Festival, burn, baby, burn. Pyre Festival, the fest, the fest, the fest is on fire, we don’t need no water, let the—”
“Forget it!” Cici shouted, cutting off the chant. She stalked off toward the path, pausing to pick up her small suitcase and huge, boxy makeup case.
“If miss would like to leave her things, they will be sent up to the villa later.” Wadsworth’s disembodied voice was somehow creepily aware of their movements.
Plum looked into each corner of the tent. Was there a camera? She couldn’t see anything.
“Sure,” Cici snapped over her shoulder. “Like I’m going to trust whoever didn’t think of having anything to drink at the buffet to carry my bag up a cliff. I have hundreds of dollars’ worth of beauty products in here. I’m not gonna let someone steal them or leave them out here to melt.”
Cici started up the path, tugging one bag behind her.
“I regret that miss feels thusly.” Wadsworth’s voice echoed out of the large speaker. “I assure you that your bags will all be sent up to the villa.”
“I think Cici has the right idea,” Marlowe said to Plum and Sofia. “Um, about not leaving the bags here.”
“I agree,” Sofia said. “I’d feel better keeping my bag with me.”
The roar of a motor sounded loud behind them.
Reflexively, they all turned toward the noise.
The captain was casting off. He held up a hand in farewell, moved to the helm, and spun it, turning the boat back out toward the open ocean and Saint Vitus.
Plum couldn’t explain why, but watching that little boat move away from them gave her a creeping feeling of dread. As if by leaving, the captain had stranded them here on Little Esau, where they would live until the day they died.
That was ridiculous, of course. Everything was going to be fine.