Free Scarlet Wakefield 01 - Kiss Me Kill Me by Lauren Henderson Page B

chalk.
    “It wasn’t your fault,” I’ve written.
    “It wasn’t your fault.”
    “It wasn’t your fault.”
    I pick up the piece of paper and scrunch it up with my hand and throw it in the bin. Where it joins a crumpled-up mass of other papers, all with the same black mass scribbled on them, which is those same words written again and again and again.  .  .  .
    And I hate myself. Because I’m a coward. Because I’m not brave enough to look at those words on the page without canceling them out again straightaway.
    I’m a coward. And right now I wish I was dead. Because this secret is much too big for me to be able to keep.

seven
    A FRESH START
    “The most important thing,” my grandmother says, “is that you put the past behind you. You mustn’t dwell. What can’t be cured must be endured.”
    It’s all I can do to stop my eyes from rolling up in their sockets. You know, it’s much harder than you’d think to control your eyeballs. They’re used to moving without any conscious effort of the brain. How often do you have to tell your eyes to do something? Think how many times you tell your stomach to suck itself in. You never do that with your eyes, do you?
    In an effort not to make a crazed face, I fix my stare on my grandmother till my eyes start watering. I’ve heard this speech from her hundreds of times before. Don’t dwell, pluck up, what-can’t-be-cured, etc., etc. Ever since my mother and father died—over a decade ago. And no matter how much she says it, it never helps.
    “You’ve had the summer to let things settle,” my grandmother continues. “A few months.”
    “Barely three,” I mumble.
    “What, Scarlett?” my grandmother says impatiently. “Speak up. You know I can’t abide muttering.”
    “Three months,” I say as I tug on the hem of my black sweater. “It’s barely been three months since  .  .  .”
    I still can’t say the words out loud: “since Dan died.”
    My grandmother waves her hand. “More than enough time,” she says imperiously, commanding me with both the tone of her voice and her gesture to agree with her. “No dwelling, Scarlett. It stops you from achieving your goals. And stop fidgeting. It’s a nasty habit.”
    There’s a loud knock on the door.
    “Come!” my grandmother calls with the authoritative tone of the Queen Mother.
    I don’t know why she doesn’t add in, but I’ve heard her say that single word so often that I take it for granted. Grandmother doesn’t run a bath, she “draws” it. She doesn’t drink tea, she “takes” it. All very old-fashioned, aristocratic English, the kind of thing you can really only get away with if you’re—
    “Lady Wakefield? Your tea,” says her perfectly groomed assistant, Penelope, entering the room with the afternoon tea tray. Silver teapot, white bone china Minton cups, matching plate with plain dry tea biscuits.
    “Scarlett?” my grandmother, Lady Wakefield, says. “Will you pour?”
    My eyes want to start rolling once again. Grandmother is always trying to “make a lady of me.” I feel like an idiot lifting that big silver teapot—it’s like something out of a period film. But then, that’s how my grandmother lives. I look around her study, with its paneled mahogany walls and polished antique furniture. On the walls are paintings of our ancestors, including a Victorian Lady Wakefield in the appropriate corset and crinoline. It’s like a time capsule in here.
    I manage to direct the stream of pale tea into the cups without too much spillage. Behind me, Penelope coughs politely.
    “Lady Wakefield?” she says. “I’m so sorry, Scarlett—it’s just, you know, the start of a new year—so much to get on with—time is pressing  .  .  .”
    I don’t think I’ve ever heard Penelope finish a sentence. She always gives the impression of being much too busy to get one out.
    “Absolutely!” my grandmother says. “Scarlett, my dear, drink up your tea. You know what things are like