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I'M ONLY two missions away from becoming an Archangel. It's hard to wrap my mind around that. I'm so eager to make it happen, I don't want to waste any time. I warp to Ben's dorm, knock on his door, and wait for him to answer.
But I'm greeted by Vineet instead. His thick black hair is sticking straight up, and he's wearing a sweatshirt with a cartoon duck on it. His fashion sense is so bad, it might be even worse than Ben's.
“Hey,” Vineet says. “Are you looking for Ben?”
I try to peek around Vineet, but his hair's so tall, and his shoulders are so wide, I can't see anything. “Yeah. Is he here?”
“Nah. Ben's out right now,” Vineet says. “He had a date. With a girl.”
I feel the oddest flip flop in my stomach when I hear that. Ben? A date? With who? Why is he asking me out if he's already seeing someone else? As calmly as possible, I reply, “I... see. Do you have any idea when he'll be back?”
Vineet's lips purse as he ponders my question. After an excruciating few seconds, he answers, “Yeah... no. But knowing Ben, he'll be gone for a looong time.”
Behind Vineet, I hear a familiar voice say, “Vineet, stop messing with her!”
It's Ben. “Wait, so he's not on a date?”
Vineet doubles over with laughter and shuffles out of the doorway. “Nope!” cries the dastardly roommate. “But I know Ben likes you, and I wanted to see the look on your face when I told you that.”
The other day, Ben said I would like Vineet. Now I can safely say I do not like Vineet.
I enter their dorm and find Ben with a slice of pizza in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. Both are abandoned as soon as he sees me. He hops out of bed, ruffles his messy hair, and says, “Hey there. Are we going on another mission?”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad?” Ben asks.
It must have been my one-word reply that made him think that—but again, all I say is, “No.”
“Just so you know, I'm not dating anyone else. Vineet's just being an ass.”
“Okay. But even if you were dating someone, it would be no concern of mine,” I lie. “Are you ready to go?”
I'm more than ready for this conversation to end, so I warp us to our next destination. Two young girls—twins, if I'm not mistaken—are admiring themselves in a mirror. I already know we're in England, circa 1820, but Ben is probably shocked. Their empire waist gowns and fancy hairstyles identify them as young ladies from a bygone era.
“At the last ball, I danced with Lord Featherstone!” boasts the girl on the left. “Mama said he only looked at me for the rest of the night!”
Her sister's comeback makes me cringe. “Well, I danced with Mr. Sharilton, and he's as rich as Croesus. Lord Featherstone has the title, but does he have the coin?”
“Does it matter?” The girl on the left, who is slightly blonder than her sister, coils a ringlet of hair around her finger and practices pursing her lips. “If I married Lord Featherstone, I would be a viscountess! Don't tell Mama, but I intend to kiss him before the end of the night!”
Her sister exaggerates a gasp and clicks her tongue. “Don't do anything too scandalous! If you're caught in a compromising situation, it will reflect poorly on all of us.”
Ben, who's been sneering at both girls since we arrived, asks, “So... which one of these brats is our charge?”
“Neither.” I direct his attention to the back of the room, where a woman in spectacles is reading a book. Her light brown hair is swept into a simple bun, and she's dressed much less ostentatiously than the twins. “That is our charge. Her name is Rosalind Banks, she's twenty-six years old, and those are her sisters.”
As soon as I introduce her, Rosalind speaks up, “Might I ask you two to lower your voices? I am trying to read, you know.”
With a roll of her eyes, the blondest girl says, “Then go to another room, Rose!”
Rosalind's eyes narrow into slits. “You're asking me to leave... my own bedchamber?”
“Yes. Because we need this one! Your looking glass is superior to ours. Why must you always spoil our fun? You act like such an old woman!”
“Amy...” Rosalind grumbles her younger sister's name.
Amy flips her hair and turns her attention back to the mirror. “What? I only speak the truth. At least I was kind enough to say you act like an old woman. If I wanted to be cruel, I could have said you are an old woman. That's what Mama thinks.”
“An old woman? At twenty-six?” Ben snorts at Amy's observation. “What are they, twelve?”
In this era, a twenty-six-year-old woman is teetering on the brink of spinsterhood, but I see no reason to tell him that. I don't want it to sound like I'm taking Amy's side.
I suggest to my student, “Ben... why don't you try to read Rosalind's mind? We need to find out what she wants.”
“She probably wants these bitches to shut their mouths. Can we grant her that wish?”
I don't know if he's being serious, but either way, his reply makes me chuckle. “No. Just... try to listen to her thoughts and tell me what you hear.”
While I wait for Ben to tackle his assigned task, I listen to an argument between the twins. Apparently, Amy thinks her dress is prettier than Gwendoline's—but Gwendoline claims to have the better hair. The debate ends in a draw, with both girls agreeing to disagree.
Ben takes a few minutes to read Rosalind's mind and rehashes what he heard. “It sounds like Rosalind doesn't want her younger sisters to find husbands before she does. She's also bummed out that no one asked her to dance at the last ball. Then she called herself a flower on the wall or something like that.”
“A wallflower,” I correct him. “It's a term for a shy girl who's overlooked at a party.”
“Okay.” Ben accepts my definition with a nod. “So... is that our mission, then? Do we find her a dance partner?”
“No. Our mission will be bigger than that.” Glancing at Rosalind's snobby sisters, I decide, “We're going to find her a husband.”