And after months of watching me suffer through gossip at Beauty High and misunderstanding my depressed state over not getting the magazine internship, Evie thinks a First Night party—the right party—will help my social situation. Which is nonexistent by choice, but she thinks if I tried to reach out to people, they wouldn’t gossip as much.

Okay, fine, but I definitely can’t explain why I’m not sticking around Beauty long enough to make friends due to my entire exit strategy to Los Angeles. And I love Evie, but like everyone else, she would just tell me I’m too young, and how much it would hurt my mom. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to live with Winona Saint-Martin. She only sees Fun Winona. Or Dedicated-Manager Winona, who is smart and determined to run the bookstore and trying really hard not think about hooking up with nameless guys in bars across town right this minute.

Evie doesn’t know the Never-There Winona.

Or my favorite, the We-Don’t-Talk-about-That Winona.

“Look, cuz, I’ve got a ticket to a great party. Not a Beauty High party. We’ll go together. You’ll meet some new blood. Maybe I will too. Not everyone is horrible here, believe it or not.”

Evie just briefly dated and broke up with some Harvard guy named Adrian who’s been low-key stalking her and being a total dick. Evie hasn’t talked about it much, but I think it’s starting to upset her.

“I thought book relationships were better than real-life ones?” I remind her.

“They’re teaching me to have better real-life relationships,” she says.

“Because you run into so many dark dukes and gothic widows in Beauty?”

“The world is a haunted castle on a moor,” she says. “Your duke can be anywhere. Maybe at a First Night party tonight, even. Just have to be receptive to letting him into your life.”

“Until the Saint-Martin curse hits, and my duke is drowned in a lake or cheats on me with three mistresses.”

“I’m not entirely sure how I feel about the Saint-Martin curse anymore.”

“You aren’t a believer?”

She shrugs. “Yes and no? I believe all the women in our family are a little weird, but that’s another matter,” she says with a grin. “Now, come on. Let’s get out of this apartment. Fresh air and new faces will do us both good. Let’s just relax and have a chill night out, okay?”

Fine.

The house party we’re heading to isn’t that far, fifteen or twenty minutes, and we dare to walk down Lamplighter Lane to get there—a tiny street between our neighborhood and the Historic District that’s full of old shops and a wax museum, and, according to my superstitious mother, the actual, precise location of Beauty’s portal to hell.