“Yeah. All better,” I sighed. Physically, I was fine. Emotionally, I was stressed as fuck. But it’s not like I could say that to Asher’s prim and proper mother.

“Are you okay?” I asked her. Last night, she had been in a whole other world, ghost-white and silent, fearful. Not like the confident, bordering on arrogant, Elizabeth I’d known most of my life.

“Of course. I was just worried about you, that’s all,” Elizabeth waved me off.

But she was lying, of course. I could tell last night that she was struggling; the stark hospital walls and that hellish waiting room she must have been stuck in for hours. It probably reminded her of Edmund.

They had been lovely together in many ways. My childhood was sprinkled with memories of Asher’s parents—dancing in the kitchen, half-drunk on bourbon, at their yearly Christmas party. Edmund was always giving her gifts. And the way that man looked at her, like she was the only woman in the world, his eyes lusty and loving even after all those years.

Their relationship was certainly different than that of my parents, and I usually enjoyed being at Asher’s house more than my own.

“No need to worry. I’m fine now,” I told her.

“How about Asher? Have you talked to him? Did you tell him what happened?” Elizabeth pushed.

I tugged on my hair, using the hair tie on my wrist to slip it into a flimsy bun. There had been a chilly breeze coming home in the early hours of the morning, but now the sun peeking through the clouds felt startling, burning down on my shoulders and neck.

“I texted him yesterday, but no, I didn’t tell him about the allergy incident. The last thing I want is to worry him. This event is supposed to be a celebration for Rosalee, and I don’t want to do anything to ruin it for her, or for Asher,” I said.

Elizabeth turned, circling her arms widely in the water. She looked both bird-like and beautiful, all at once. I knew we were supposed to be afraid of aging, but there was something lovely about it. I just hoped I aged like Elizabeth, and not like my own mother, my memories of her fading more and more every day…

“Well, if she didn’t want her party ruined, then she shouldn’t have put that self-centered Mara in charge. Can you believe she overlooked your allergy? I worry it was done intentionally.”

“I doubt that,” I lied. I was definitely still considering it—did Rosalie’s best friend consider me a threat, and try to hurt me or humiliate me by offering cake she knew would make me sick? Or was there someone else behind it?

I forced myself to consider the third, and most reasonable, option—that it was all an accident, a misunderstanding, just like Mara claimed.