Page 84 of Wicked Vile King
Trixie said there are only three places that allow visitors from Academy students, and the one we're going to is, according to her, thecute onewith a petting zoo, gemstone mining, colonial reenactments, and all the kitschy stuff you'd expect from a tourist trap. They clear out the non-essential workers just for our visit, though there are guards with us, probably two for every ten or so students. They sit piled into the bus with us, looking less than amused at the prospect of having to keep up with a bunch of teenagers.
"Eek!" Trixie squeals beside me, smiling at me as we merge onto the highway. "I'm soooooo excited! Wait, is it wrong to be excited?"
I blink at her, confused. "Why would it be wrong to be excited?"
"Oh crap, I forgot," she says, lowering her voice. "You don't know, do you? No, of course you don't, I would have had to tell you. Willow, we always get outings when someone dies."
"What?!" I whisper-hiss back.
Trixie nods emphatically. "Well, either they die or they almost die, like they try to kill themselves and get really close. It's just like an unspoken rule here. When someone goes bye-bye, we get an outing. Maybe it's to keep the peace after the subsequent lockdown or whatever, I don't know. Is it bad that I'm excited though?"
Her smile falters a little more, and it's in borderline frown territory now.
"Who died?" I ask.
She shrugs. "I have no idea. Heard one of the other girls say she heard it was one of the boys. Is it wrong, though, you think?"
Is Saint all right?
"I, uh . . ." I begin, trying to solve her crisis of morality.
"I don't think it's wrong," I answer finally. "I think it's okay to be excited about the outcome, but sad about how we got here."
Trixie nods, looking across my seat and out the window before she taps a finger against the side of my head. "That's some smart thinking from one smart cookie."
I laugh, which would at least earn me a curious glance back on campus, but no one seems to notice. The guards don't turn around, and the students are too busy laughing and carrying on themselves to care. It's so weird, seeing all of them this way. They don't even toss me a glance back at the Asylum and some of them actually turn and walk in the opposite direction if they see me coming. I'm not sure if that's because of what I did to Saint in getting him locked up or Saint's reputation, but right now, they're acting almost like normal high school students.
An hour later, we arrive at the city, and it's exactly as Trixie described, all the way down to the handmade butter churn next to a souvenir-pressed penny machine. Still, it's cute, and when we depart the bus, I am right beside her, ready to explore and pet the baby goats the signs on the highway advertised.
But I stop walking when I don't see Saint.
Surely, he can't be . . .I can't even think the word.
Wait, hold on. I don't see any male students.
"What's wrong?" Trixie asks, turning around, her wide grin faltering and watching me as I hesitate.
"Where's Saint?" I murmur.
"Oh no." She shakes her head. "Yeah, they'll come later. I'm sorry, Willow. I should've told you. On outings, they normally try to space us out. I guess they don't want anyone trying to go all Romeo and Juliet in public."
"Oh," I manage.
This sucks. I don't want to care where Saint Laurier is, but damn if he's all I thought about for the past three days and now I want to see him because the memories aren't enough. It doesn't matter that they send heat boring down into my belly and corkscrewing back up to burn my breath away.
Or that they make me bite my lip and try to remember exactly how it felt like when he was inside of me.
Or that they recall the sound of sloshing water on each savage thrust.
Memories can't compete, not with the real thing.
"Come on," Trixie says, grabbing my hand and pulling me forward across the parking lot. "Your lover boy will be here later. Let's go see the ggoooooaaaaattttssss!"
And we do. In fact, I think we see nearly everything in the tiny town—if it can even be called a town, and that's a stretch given its population is less than three hundred per the giant electronic sign in the front of the log cabin general store.
Trixie and I pet goats. We churn butter and watch people dressed in colonial attire milk cows. We buy matching bracelets from a gift shop and watch five minutes of a video about industrial agriculture before we sneak back outside. Then we make our own rock candy and dig for gemstones too, all before noon.
Trixie's still ready to go, wanting to beeline to a free design-your-own jewelry class that's for sure trying to sell you something, but I'm starving. My stomach does its best impression of a howling cat as I hug my middle and give her a sad face.
