Free Bright Young Things by Anna Godbersen Page A

edge of the property. It appeared empty, but she couldn‧t shake the suspicion of a presence there. Still, she kept close enough to the well-dressed group she was trailing to conceivably be one of them, and she held her old trench folded over her arm, the way she had seen New York women do it.
    “They say it‧s a party for Grey‧s birthday …,” the girl in chiffon continued. She probably believed that referring to him by his last name made her sound jaunty and urbane, but to Cordelia it was exasperating. No matter how country she may have looked, Cordelia could spot a labored gesture.
    “The party is for his birthday,” one of the boys agreed. “But they say Grey grew up a street urchin with no knowledge of his parents and doesn‧t even know the day he was born, and so he celebrates it whenever he pleases.”
    “Which is often several times a year!” added a second man.
    They all twittered at the audacity of this.
    By then the group had walked a good way up the drive, and the house‧s redbrick face and curving white accents had come into view. All around rolled green land and giant lawns with billowing trees. Just below the house, on one side, stood a large white tent. Music traveled on the breeze, and for a moment Cordelia was exquisitely aware of the leaves touched by that current, their gentle shaking and the playful shadows they created on the grass, as though everything had been placed there, just so, to please her.
    The moment ended when she became cognizant of the twittering again, and when she looked up, she realized the big girl in chiffon and the girl who had never been to one of “Grey‧s” parties were staring back in her direction—that it was now her they found funny. Cordelia rolled her shoulders back and met their gaze. By then they had all taken a path across the grass, toward the tent, and when the girls could no longer go on walking straight and staring, they turned away, and Cordelia herself veered in the direction of the house. She knew that in a moment they would all begin watching her again, but she kept her head high, and reminded herself that this was, in a sense, her house. Then she found she did not mind them very much.
    Cordelia climbed the grand curvature of stone steps ascending from the circular gravel drive toward the house, and then another impressive flight leading to the entrance. The double oak doors stood open, and she stepped tentatively inside. The entryway was more expansive than any church in Union, and it seemed to soar higher, too. On one side, a great staircase of dark wood went one direction and then another, up three flights or more; and to her right, the hall extended in the direction of mild laughter. She turned toward the sound.
    “Whoa, there.”
    Cordelia froze.
    “No guests in the house,” the voice went on. He was young, though he suffered from a reddening of his face that made his age difficult to determine. His hand rested on a holster, but he did not move to point the gun in her direction.
    “Of course not.” Cordelia leveled her gaze and locked eyes with the boy. “But I‧m not a guest, you see.”
    “No? Then who are you?”
    Cordelia paused a moment, and then began to explain: “I‧m the girl who jumps out of the cake.” The phrase hung in the air, confident and strange. She didn‧t know where it had come from, but now she went on: “It‧s Mr. Grey‧s birthday, I suppose, and someone thought it‧d be a nice touch. That I would be a nice touch.”
    “I know when Mr. Grey‧s birthday is.” He adjusted the angle of his head slightly and assessed her from head to toe. “You don‧t look like a dancing girl.”
    Now Cordelia offered him a sly smile. “You don‧t think we girls walk around giving away what we got for free, do you?” She lifted the suitcase, partially obscured beneath her trench coat, and patted it with her other hand. “My dancing things are in here.”
    This inspired a goofy grin to overwhelm the young man‧s face.