It sits on my chair, mocking me. I snatch it up and nearly smash it on the fireplace. I stop and lean against it, crying. Tears fall, soundless and cold, and I thank every deity there is that no one can see me in my moment of weakness. I have not cried in years. I do not know what possesses me to do so now.
I think I hear footsteps. Quickly I hide the whiskey and regain my composure. I stalk off to class, snapping at every younger girl who stands in my way. I push one over. She cries.
We are making use of the whiskey tonight, in the caves. I take a long drink, then hand it to Ann, who refuses. When I threaten her that we'll kick her out unless she drinks, she obeys. Gemma pretends to be casual about it, but she nearly chokes. Soon enough they are all dreadfully drunk. They think I am, too, but the whiskey barely affects me. I have weathered far more. Still, it loosens my tongue, and I find myself saying things that are a touch too bold even for the famously blunt Felicity Worthington.
I'm going to have many men. The girls stare at me as if I've just told them I'm Mrs. Nightwing in disguise. Then they catch on and call thins out as I twirl through the cave, stopping only when Gemma says, "And admirals."
Everything becomes hard. I narrow my eyes. "No. No admirals." My voice is steel, slicing through the sudden silence. I hope I have cut her deep enough. But no—it is never deep enough. There is always some way to hurt them more. I am young yet—there is plenty of time to hone my technique.
Really they should applaud me. A lesser girl would be shocked into silence at such an artless remark. But I do not bow under the pressure he has given me. I can always twist my ache into their agony. That is all that keeps me going.