Page 159 of Saint Céline
“I assumed as much.”
“You do not isolate her from us.”
“Sure.”
“You do not answer her phone.”
“I have no intention to.”
“You do not speak to her mother,” she continued.
“She already made that term clear.”
“And I am making it clear again.”
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Vincent gave a small nod. “Understood.”
Anya narrowed her eyes. “I still hate him.”
“I know,” I said.
“I am saying it right in front of him. I don’t care.”
“I gathered.”
Vincent looked at her. “That is also understood.”
“Good. I hope it makes the dorm feel uncomfortable for your brief stay.”
“It likely will.”
“Excellent.”
For some reason, that was the moment my throat tightened. Not when my father called. Not when he showed up on campus. Not when Vincent admitted what he had done. It was Anya threatening to make him uncomfortable and Sophia planning to check every lock with that calm, careful voice. It was Miss Astoria’s small heartbeat against my chest. Their practical way of loving me always hit harder than anything soft.
We started packing. Anya muttered insults under her breath while she tossed clothes into open suitcases like she was clearing out a palace under siege. Sophia folded everything neatly and said panic packing only created wrinkles, and wrinkles created more panic. I moved more slowly, touching things that already felt like they belonged to someone who had left.
My sketchbook went in first. I almost hid it under sweaters out of old habit, then stopped myself. Vincent’s eyes followed the movement, but he said nothing.
The prescription bottle went into the inner pocket of my bag. I zipped it shut. Vincent noticed, but he kept quiet.
Miss Astoria climbed into the first suitcase and refused to leave.
Anya stared at her.
“She thinks she is luggage now.”
“She thinks she owns the luggage,” Sophia said.
“She is right,” I answered.
Miss Astoria blinked slowly as if she accepted the compliment.
We kept working. Zippers slid, hangers clinked, and rain started tapping against the window again. Anya opened drawers without hesitation. Sophia asked whether I needed both black coats and then answered her own question before I could speak.
Then Anya pulled a silk blouse from the closet and went still. It was one of Katherine’s favorites she wore often and had grown tired of—white with pearl buttons.
