incredulously. âYour feet will freezeââ
âWatch me.â Angela said, taking off the heels and strolling over to a blonde with black slippers, another straggler entering the Ball late. âFifty florins to trade shoes,â she said.
In minutes the transaction was done and Angela was a little poorer but a lot more comfortable.
Sophia shot her a rude look. âYou knowâI happened to like those shoes. Iâve had them for at least fifty years. A year for every florin, I guess.â
âSorry,â Angela muttered sheepishly, aware of Sophiaâs glare as they entered the Grand Mansionâs large marble and stone foyer. Angela shivered and rubbed her arms, trying to look more interested in her surroundings.
The Grand Mansion was the special building reserved by the Vatican for Academy dinners, dances, and special holiday festivals. Most students lucky enough to even consider attending the fancier parties had a wealthy background, parents with connections to priests or novices in Luz, and at least a good measure of popularity. Angela was wealthy, having inherited much of her late parentsâ fortune at her brotherâs death. She had a connection to one or two priests, and the distinguishing fact that she had managed to survive Stephanie Walshâs insanity counted for something. But she was still a blood head, and Camdon was rightâattitudes had started to change.
She and Sophia were an hour late, and the entry hall seemed oddly empty once they stepped into it, yet there were still enough people passing by to make travel slow. A few individuals smiled at Angela, but others steered noticeably clear. Sophia stayed by her side, refusing to shrink under the scrutiny.
âCan I help you?â a man standing at the entrance to the grand ballroom said, glancing at Angela with open curiosity that evolved almost instantly into hostility. He wore a crisp tuxedo, his darting eyes almost the same shade of black. He held a paper in his hand, seeming to scan it already for whatever he thought her name might be. âWhich party?â
There was a nasty clip to his voice.
Music poured from behind the enormous curtain, elegant melodies overloaded with the song of violins and the occasional tinkling of piano keys.
âWhich party?â Angela repeated.
She had no clue. In a second, she was a naïve new student all over again.
âThe one for university sophomores?â she said, already angry at herself for sounding so dumb, and worst of all, for arriving without a plan to meet anyone at the entrance. âI was invited by another student. Camdon Willis.â
Sophia made a slightly irritated sound under her breath.
A brief sense of urgency shot through Angela, and she gritted her teeth. âListen, I have to get in there. I look the part, donât I? Isnât that enoughââ
âYou most certainly do not look the part, â he echoed her snappishly. He leveled his pen at her. âAnd if I didnât know any better, Iâd say this was a prank. Who do you think youâre kidding, walking in here with those hideous marks on your arms? What do you think this isâsome hellish little blood head Halloween party?â
âWhat?â Angela knew her eyes were narrowing. âYou think these are fake scarsââ
âYes,â he whispered. âI do think theyâre fake. I think youâre fake. And Iâm rather sick of you blood heads marching into everywhere like you own the place, like youâve always deserved special treatment for your . . . handicap.â
He was almost hissing at her. The faint scent of alcohol clung to him. The room darkened around them, though Angela couldnât tell if it was the slightly drunken anger in his words, the anger growing in her, or the sad flicker of the wall sconces that caused it. Through the marble and stone, an unhealthy cold continued to seep inside and pick at