I never liked flashlights.
They always seemed to me like small, artificial lightning bolts — cold, blinding, without thunder. But today, each flash cut through my nerves like a knife through a bare wire.
The hall was too bright.
Too much light, gold, glitter, mirrors. Too many people in black and jewels who turned their heads when we walked in, like a collection of purebred dogs at a show. I could hear the hum of voices subsiding for a second, then rising again with a new undertone. "Kembellas. Heirs. The same ones."
Travis walked beside me, and I held on to his elbow the way Margaret had taught me-lightly, elegantly, as if I didn't need any support. It's like we're just a brother and sister who came out after a tragedy, carrying their grief with dignity.
My stomach clenched at how mu
