Four Of A Kind

Chapter 97: [2.72] Escape from the Valentine Manor

The clock on my phone read 5:47.

Thirteen minutes.

I zipped my bag, checked the contents out of habit. Three shirts, two pairs of pants, one novel I had read approximately six pages of across the entire weekend, toiletries in a plastic grocery bag that looked deeply out of place next to the monogrammed hand towels in the bathroom. The canvas duffel sat on the luggage stand looking exactly as tragic as it had Friday evening, unbothered by the experience of spending a weekend surrounded by things that cost more than my rent.

I took one last look at the guest suite.

The fireplace was off now. The mini-fridge still had two of those expensive sparkling waters I had not touched because drinking anything from that fridge felt like a trap. The bed was made, which I had done myself at seven this morning out of pure reflex because I have been making my own bed since I was eight years old and some habits do not care about your current zip code.

Good room. Ridiculous room. I would miss the shower.

I picked up my bag and left.

The east wing hallway had its usual cast of disapproving ancestors watching me go. I nodded at the one with the particularly judgmental mustache. We had developed an understanding over the weekend. He disapproved of my existence. I found that relatable.

My phone buzzed.

Iris: did u survive

Iris: blink twice if they have you hostage

Iris: actually dont blink just text me

Me: still alive. leaving now.

Iris: boring. did anything happen

Iris: ISAIAH

Me: I’ll be home by nine.

Iris: THATS NOT AN ANSWER

I put my phone in my pocket.

The main staircase came into view, and at the bottom of it, Harlow was already waiting. She had changed out of her V-Girl fitting clothes into a massive pink hoodie with a cartoon bear on the front, her twin tails loose at this point in the day, strands escaping around her face. She spotted me from the landing and her entire expression did the thing it always did, like someone had turned a light on behind her eyes.

“You’re leaving.” She said it like a personal offense.

“Six o’clock.” I came down the last few steps. “That was the arrangement.”

“I know but.” She looked at my bag, then at me, then at my bag again. “It went fast.”

“You kept me busy.”

“That’s because I’m a very good employer.” She straightened up. “I gave you pancakes. I improved your wardrobe. I took you to a manga store. I feel like this weekend was actually very good for you as a person.”

“You also made me lose four unlimited favors.”

“That was a group effort.” She reached up and adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder, which was completely unnecessary but very Harlow. “Don’t forget to eat dinner. Real food. Not vending machine food.”

“I’m going home to make dinner.”

“Make sure it has vegetables.”

“Harlow.”

“I’m just saying.” She stepped back, hands clasped together in front of her. The smile she gave me was one of the real ones, not the public-facing Valentine brand smile, but the one she had when she thought someone actually saw her. “Same time Friday?”

“Calendar says three-thirty.”

“Right.” She nodded. Then she grabbed my arm and hugged it briefly, her cheek against my shoulder for about two seconds before she let go and stepped away and pretended to be very interested in a portrait on the wall. “Safe drive.”

I left her to the portrait.

Vivienne was in the hallway outside the main study, tablet in hand, reading something with the focused expression she used when she was simultaneously reading and cataloging twelve other things in her head. She looked up when she heard me coming and performed the same top-to-bottom assessment she had given me approximately forty times since Friday.

“Bag is adequate,” she said.

“Thank you for that.”

“Your performance this weekend was.” She paused. Selected a word with the care of someone defusing something. “Satisfactory.”

Coming from Vivienne, satisfactory was basically a parade. I accepted it with appropriate gravity.

“The tutoring metrics showed real improvement,” she continued, because Vivienne expressed warmth through data. “Cassidy’s practice sheet this morning had seven correct. If that trajectory holds, the test results should exceed the contract benchmark.”

“It’ll hold.”

She looked at me over the tablet. “You seem confident.”

“She folded the graph paper into her notebook. She’s going to practice tonight.”

Something moved in Vivienne’s expression. Not a smile exactly. Something quieter. She looked back at the tablet. “I’ll update the performance log. The car is already out front. Driver will take you to the station.”

“I have the Lexus.”

“The driver will follow and bring it back. You’ve had a long weekend. Don’t argue.”

I did not argue. I had learned over the past three weeks that Vivienne expressing care sounded exactly like issuing orders, and arguing with either was an equally losing proposition.

“See you Monday,” I said.

“Wednesday,” she corrected. “You have school Tuesday. Check the calendar.”

“It’s on the calendar.”

“Then read the calendar.” But the corner of her mouth moved. Just barely. “Wednesday, three-thirty. Don’t be late.”

I kept walking.

Sabrina was in the doorway of the library. Of course she was. Sabrina existed in doorways and corners and places where the light changed, like a feature of the architecture. She had a book in one hand and her tea in the other and her robe was doing that thing where one shoulder had slipped and she had not bothered to fix it.

She watched me approach with those half-lidded purple eyes.

“Leaving,” she said.

“Observant.”

“Mm.” She sipped her tea. Her gaze moved to my bag and back to my face. “You survived.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I thought you might.” A pause. “Cassidy ran three practice problems before dinner. I heard her erasing.”

“How did you hear that from your room?”

She gave me the look that meant she found the question charming in its naivety and had no intention of answering it.

“Next weekend,” she said. “Extra pearls.”

“I know.”

“And the ramen was better Friday than Saturday. Less salt.”

“I’ll adjust.”