“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sofia persisted. She pulled her hair out of the loose bun, fluffing it now that they were inside. “This is supposed to be a festival?” she continued. “With, like . . .”
She didn’t finish the sentence, and Plum knew immediately why.
Sofia had been about to say something that Plum was already thinking.
That it was supposed to be a festival with famous people.
The new man didn’t seem to mind that Sofia’s voice trailed off midstatement. “Just telling you what I know.” It was difficult to decide if the note in his voice was the slight hum of aggression or conviction.
“I didn’t catch your name, dude,” Dude said, his voice lowering. He stopped twirling his sunglasses.
“Didn’t throw it, mate,” the man said.
“Jesus, not a pissing contest already,” Brittlyn said.
The man ignored Brittlyn and turned to Plum. He stuck out a hand.
“Sean Bentham.” Fine sunbaked wrinkles in the corners of his eyes appeared with his smile. “On Insta I go by . . .”
“Chick Magnet!” Sofia squeaked. She actually gave a little jump, clapping her hands in delight.
Sofia turned to Plum. “He travels the world with his hen!”
Plum shook her head, a fond smile on her lips. Leave it to Sofia to know an obscure Instagram animal account. But it was nice that her friend, at least, was having a fan encounter with an influencer.
“Is . . . is that . . . ?” Sofia trailed off, pointing at the feather duster.
“Yeah,” Sean said. “Here she is. Henrietta.”
His thick accent made it sound like ’enry’et-ah.
He pulled the feather duster out from under his arm.
A fluffy black chicken tilted first one eye, then the other at them. The chicken was some kind of fancy breed, a soft plume of loose feathers standing out from her head and almost covering her eyes.
Plum thought she looked like a sheepdog, or a Muppet.
“Oh my god,” Sofia cooed. “She’s beautiful! Can I hold her?”
“Be my guest.” Sean unceremoniously dumped ’enry’et-ah into Sofia’s arms.
There was a squawk, flapping, a mild flurry of loose feathers, and Sofia cooing, “Good girl. Who’s a good girl?”
The hen nestled into the crook of Sofia’s right arm.
Plum might have been projecting because she loved her friend so much, but honestly it looked like the hen was gazing up at Sofia with both relief and adoration.
“Chick Magnet, huh?” Brittlyn said, more derision than question. “What’s that involve, I wonder.”
“Listen, princess.” Sean stabbed a finger in her direction. “I have more followers than you, and I’ve never posted a bikini shot in a graveyard.”
Plum wondered if at some point during the festival everyone would line up in order of followers or something. Just to have it over with and establish a pecking order. Clearly, followers meant clout, but it was weird to hear them referred to when they were all at a nearly deserted festival.
“You may have more on Instagram, but that’s one platform—across all social platforms, I demolish your numbers! And regarding the bikini shot—it wasn’t a graveyard, and you should talk. You only went viral because you were shirtless in that picture.”
“Shirtless ’cause I was swimming,” Sean said. “Then the chicken fell off the dock, and the lady I was chatting up freaked out. So, I saved her.” He glanced around. “The chicken, not the lady. I saved the chicken.”
His eyes landed on the chicken, now drowsing, giving little murmuring clucks in Sofia’s arms.
“I didn’t even know she took the picture.” There was a note in his voice like he would take it back or change something.
Plum realized she did know who he was. Or at least, she’d seen the picture. It had been almost everywhere, this burly soccer hooligan, or military-looking tough guy, super buff to boot, with a few artful tattoos, standing on a beach, holding a bedraggled chicken. In the photo that went viral, he was even smiling, that attractive, sun-worked crinkle around his eyes, as he stared down at the hen he’d saved.
And while she’d seen the picture and therefore technically she guessed this guy was somewhat famous, still, this wasn’t the type of influencer or celebrity Plum had expected at Pyre Festival.
She’d imagined someone like . . . well, like her sister. A celebrity who gave off that ineffable aura of “someone”—who was courted by brands, who effortlessly was the center of their own carefully curated universe.
Someone that Peach would be impressed with later, when Plum would inevitably tell her, “Oh yeah, Pyre Festival? I was there. David Guetta’s DJ set was the best.”
Instead she was here with a cute but clueless streamer, an admittedly gorgeous makeup-tutorial YouTuber, a horoscope poet (but not one she’d heard of), the Killing it dude, a gun nut looking for notoriety, and a man who traveled with his chicken.
It was far from inspiring.
Plum sighed.
They were still arguing.
“Okay, can we stop all this?” Marlowe asked. “Or you can keep going. Just someone point us in the direction of our room?” Even though she looked mostly unrumpled, there was a slight stain on her jacket, a reminder of how very sick she’d been on the boat ride over.
“There are thirteen bedroom suites in Mabuz Villa,” Wadsworth’s smooth voice interjected.
“Thirteen, noooo,” Sofia whispered to Marlowe and Plum.
The website had listed over forty rooms in the resort, with thirteen being in the original villa and the rest in newer buildings on the grounds.
“Bedrooms are on the second floor. Every room in Mabuz Villa is available for your use,” Wadsworth continued. “Other guests will be housed in our luxurious, bespoke yurts.”
Sean shook his head. “FEMA tents.”
“According to my resources, the founders of Pyre Festival and Pyre Signs have procured bespoke yurts that were featured on Goop. Other guests will be staying in yachts, which will be anchored in the island’s bay.”
“Got news for you, Wadsworth: there’s no yachts and there’s FEMA tents on the beach,” Brittlyn announced to the air.
“The Glurt, or Glamour Yurt, a new company founded by yoga star Stephanie Leeks,” Wadsworth droned. “Canvas made from organic, naturally-released-from-the-stalk cotton and hemp. Struts from noninvasive bamboo, no artificial dyes, crystal enhanced to—”
“I swear, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to take a claw hammer to every speaker I can find,” Brittlyn said.
The virtual butler silenced so suddenly, Plum could almost imagine the AI producing a gulp of fear. But who knew how many speakers there were? Wadsworth seemed to be everywhere.
Sean turned back to Plum and her friends. He raised a broad hand, indicating the rest of the villa. “Take your pick. I don’t intend on staying overnight.”
“Finally, you’re making sense.” Brittlyn shrugged at the trio. “Go ahead. I won’t be staying, either.”
“Do you want to go back?” Plum murmured to Marlowe and Sofia. “Or should we stick it out? Go find a room?”
“I can’t face that boat ride again,” Marlowe said. “Not anytime soon, at least.”
“It’s okay,” Sofia said. “I’m good to stay. It doesn’t matter if it’s . . . you know . . . not quite what we thought . . .”
“Well, how about we take our bags up?” Plum said. She nodded at Sofia, indicating the snoozing fluffball. Sofia gently handed Henrietta back to Sean. Sean looked like he had been given a bag of dog poop.
The three girls walked out of the conservatory and back into the atrium. They grabbed their bags and started ascending the staircase.
“Let’s share a room,” Sofia suggested, her face gleeful. “That will be fun, at least.”
“Yes, and it didn’t sound like there are that many rooms anyway,” Plum agreed.
Marlowe shot an amused look over her shoulder at Plum. “Can you imagine Peach here?” she said in a low, mirth-filled voice.
Behind Plum, Sofia snickered. “She would die,” Sofia said.
As if in punctuation, an earsplitting shriek pierced the air.