The atrium was dim. Long, sun-damaged curtains blocked the many windows, shielding the already-ruined antiques.
The late-afternoon sunshine slanted in through the cracks and tears in the curtains and through the open back doors of the villa on the opposite wall in front of them.
Wait, was that the back door or the front door? It was difficult to tell, because the design of the villa was perfectly symmetrical. Each side of the building matched the other, a balance that was completely disorienting.
The atrium was the central circle of the building, with two long wings coming off each side. The wing to Plum’s left had a long hallway faced with closed doors. To the right of Plum was a large curved wall with a closed door, then another that was partially open.
“God, I’m glad you guys came,” Dude was saying as he gently placed all their bags by the door they’d just walked through. He pushed his mirrored sunglasses up onto his head.
“Sure, you gotta keep posting that sweet, sweet content.” Cici’s voice was a scalpel.
“I mean, yeah, that’s how that goes,” Dude said. “But also, like, I mean there’s hardly anyone else here. I’m just glad more people arrived.”
“Wait.” Shelley held up a finger. “What do you mean there’s no one else here?”
“Just what he said.” A woman’s sardonic voice cut in from the partially open door.
The group turned and moved into the adjoining room.
It was a combination greenhouse and sitting room. There was a large glass dome in the two-story ceiling. A blaze of light shone through its cracked colored glass. The room was rounded, with a sunken middle section and an ornate fountain set in the center. But instead of splashing water, the thigh-high ledges contained soil and dead plants. A large pedestal towered in the middle of the fountain-planter. It was topped with a huge ball made of wrought iron, openwork bands.
A spear bisected the metal ball, almost like an overlarge arrow through a heart, its sharp tip pointed at the tinted glass dome.
A large bamboo-and-wire birdcage stood on one wall between two mildewed armchairs. Faded and moldering sofas, settees, and fainting couches were interspersed around the raised edges of the room. Marble statues of clothing-challenged maidens holding jugs or garlands of flowers dotted the entire space. On the opposite side of the derelict fountain was an antique iron liquor cart stocked with at least a few decanters full of amber or clear liquid, as well as a set of crystal tumblers. Around the room, huge pots of sunburned palms and other desiccated ferns and spiky blades of vegetation gave the entire room the feeling not of a greenhouse but of a funeral parlor for dead plants.
A young white woman, probably in her early twenties, sat immediately inside the doorway. Her pose was stiff, ready to pounce.
There was something shriveled and brittle about her, despite her youth. She wasn’t unpretty, or at least, she might actually be pretty, if it weren’t for a certain meanness in her face, a curve at the corner of her mouth like a sneer waiting to come out.
The young woman held out a hand at the dilapidated room.
“This is it,” she said. “Welcome to—”
“Welcome to Pyre Festival, set the night on fire,” Wadsworth’s voice interrupted. The voice was emanating from another single speaker on a tripod stand, exactly like the one that stood on the beach. “Melt your face off, it’s lit, the festival is—”
“Shut up, robot!” the young woman snapped.
The British voice abruptly stopped.
“This is the conservatory, and that’s the champagne reception.” She pointed to a card table in the corner of the room.
Mini bottles with twist-off caps were set out on the table. A punch bowl filled with melting ice sat beside them. There were no cups, no glasses. A few generic cans of soda with names like Soda Cola and Dr. Sage stood on the floor under the card table.
Plum didn’t care. She rushed forward, snatched up a can, and popped the top.
Next to her, her two best friends popped open cans of their own.
Marlowe started chugging a Hillside Dew.
It was a relief to drink, but the soda didn’t taste right, even for generic. It tasted . . . old. Like when Plum used to go to her grandmother’s house and would drink the Diet Cokes her grandmother had bought on sale nine months before. Saving them just for Plum, not realizing they actually did have a best-by date.
“I’m Jude Romeo.” Jude stepped forward, holding out his hand.
“Sure you are, kid,” the woman sighed.
Jude looked confused instead of hurt, and Plum felt that surge of protectiveness again.
“I’m Plum Winter,” Plum said.
“Sofia Torres,” Sofia chimed in.
“Marlowe Blake,” Marlowe followed.
When the woman didn’t respond—like they didn’t matter, like manners didn’t matter—Plum felt a bolt of anger shoot through her.
“Who are you?” Plum asked.
“I’m Wadsworth, a virtual assistant, or butler, if you will.”
“Not you! She’s talking to me!” the woman snapped to the air.
Wadsworth went silent again.
The woman ignored Plum’s question. She stood, fluffing her hair as she did. Her yellow hair didn’t fluff well. It was thatch, bleached and ironed nearly to the point of breakage.
“I’m leaving,” she announced. “It was a mistake to think this event could somehow be salvaged. I only stayed this long because I thought it would be fun to skewer whatever ignorant rubes showed up.”
“Including yourself in that number, huh?” Marlowe drawled.
Sofia snorted.
“Not as much as you people,” the woman said. “I’m here as an activist and influencer. What are you here as?” She shot a derisive look to Jude. “Huh, boy toy? You’re a streamer, right? Here to do a meet and greet?”
Jude seemed constitutionally unable to recognize mockery. He dropped into his fake accent again. “Oh man, I love my fans. I would love to go on tour. Ohmygoooood, can you imagine?” He scrubbed his head, the limp hair throwing off sweat droplets like a sprinkler.
“Jesus, never mind,” the young woman muttered.
“I know you,” Dude said. “I knew who you were the second I saw you. Bet the Killing it video I posted of you has already gone viral.”
Anger lanced through the woman’s eyes. “I told you not to post that.”
“I didn’t listen, duh.”
There was a moment of venomous silence from the woman, matched by supreme unconcern from Dude. He smirked and took his mirrored sunglasses off his head and began twirling them in one hand.
“So,” Shelley finally began, “who is she, anyway?”