Normally Beatrice sent out her invites on perfumed stationery, but because this party was so last minute, she was forced to send an Evite. She chose to send it while she was at school, wanting to have eyes on her guest of honor as she received it. Though the girl in question had no clue she was the sole reason for the hundred-plus-person get-together, that’s exactly what she was.

Beatrice located Anna sitting on the steps in the winter sunshine, bundled up in her white Moncler coat with the fur trim reading The Bone Clocks, and hit send. Bea checked her own phone and saw the new email with the subject line: IT’S MY PARTY AND I’LL DRUNKCRY IF I WANT TO! She smiled at the line; not her best creative work, but it amused her.

Bea looked back up at Anna, who had stopped reading and was now checking her phone. Bea had to move quick.

“Hey, Annacakes, can I count on your presence?” Bea asked, joining her on the steps even though she detested sitting on the ground. “I want you to spend the night. Like officially, as opposed to the rest of the drunken animals who will no doubt crash there, too. We have eight bedrooms and you can have first pick, because your pores are so tiny.”

“Me and my pores totally want to come,” Anna said. “But Eleanor’s birthday is next week and it’s turning into a scheduling nightmare. I’m still waiting to hear when the family dinner will be.”

“Family dinner? Good lord, don’t tell me you ran off and secretly married the Greenwich OG without telling anyone. Think of all the expensive gifts you’d be missing out on!”

Anna laughed. Bea was probably the funniest person she knew, though she’d never tell her brother this. “No, of course not!” Anna responded even though she knew Bea was only teasing her. “You think I’d willingly become sisters-in-law with Eleanor?” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, Anna regretted it. What was it about Beatrice that brought out her catty side? “That was mean of me. I take it back.”

“There are no takesie-backsies in life, babe. You’ve got kitten claws anyway. Trust me, that wasn’t mean. Allow me to demonstrate mean: Eleanor is a blandiose slunt whose skanctimonious drama-dialing must be a real thorn in your pretty French-manicured paw.”

“Bea, stop!” Anna stifled a laugh. “She’s Alexander’s little sister.”