Chapter 8

Vivienne's birthday party: the whole class was invited, and they all came.

They knocked on my door and shouted insults through it, rallying to Vivienne's honor.

I was locked in. Father's orders.

He hadn't even deigned to enter the room — he'd delivered his verdict through the door.

"Rosalind Hartwell, do you have any idea how much your mother would be ashamed of you? That necklace was the most precious thing she owned. It belonged to your grandmother."

"You deliberately went after Vivienne. Do you know how long she spent preparing for that broadcast?"

"If your mother could see you now, she would regret ever having you."

After Father left, Vivienne let herself in with a key.

"Rosalind. Tell me — when Father said out loud that you were a servant's daughter, what did that feel like?"

"You've got real nerve, staying in this house. You killed your mother. Father despises you. He wishes you were dead — he just hasn't said it to your face yet."

I didn't answer her. I looked out the window.

The grounds were lit up and alive. They'd set up a venue along the edge of the artificial lake — flowers, banners, helium balloons in clusters, a champagne tower. Gift boxes were stacked in every color. The birthday cake was ten tiers high.

I had seen this scene every year for ten years. It was my memory, my dream. The birthday that had been taken from me and given to someone else, in my own home, while I watched from the window.

Someone called Vivienne down to cut the cake.

Her face went cold. She hated being ignored.

"Rosalind! I'm talking to you!"

"Why didn't you die with your mother?"

She grabbed the moonstone fragments from my hand and hurled them out through the open window — into the lake.

I was on my feet before I'd made any decision. I climbed the windowsill and jumped.

Screams. Shouts. Cold water flooding my ears and nose.

As consciousness slipped away from me, I thought I heard her voice.

Mom's voice.

Calling my name.

"Rosalind! Baby, I'm here!"

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