Blood and Wine - Margot Scott Page 0,9

frowns at her plate. Christopher listens intently, like a soldier awaiting orders. As for me, I’m just trying to get through the moment with a straight face.

Blood is everything? Is this guy serious?

“Mariah is a member of this family,” says Edward. “I hope that we can all do our best to welcome her into the fold. Her lineage is rooted deep within these lands. Her blood is in the soil, the fruit, in the wine itself. I have no doubt that she will bring something very special to this operation.” He lifts his glass higher. “To the bonds of family.”

“To family,” Chastity says flatly.

“To family,” Christopher echoes.

Lilliana glares at her brother. “To family.”

Four pairs of eyes settle upon me.

I clear my throat. “Right, family.”

Edward brings the glass to his lips and drinks deeply. Chastity follows suit. Christopher and Lilliana drink, as well, and although I’ve never been a big fan of the stuff, I figure I might as well finish off the tour with a tasting.

I don’t expect to like the wine as much as I do. It’s smooth, but not bland. Bitter yet sweet, with hints of ripe plums, tart cherries, and the tang of copper pennies.

Before I know it, I’ve downed half my glass.

“Good, yes?” Edward says, smiling at me.

I dab the corners of my mouth and nod.

“Delicious.”

Chapter Five

Mariah

Mercifully, the rest of dinner goes by without another cryptic speech. The food is decent, the conversation light, though Edward’s odd habit of pitting his kids against each other actually has me feeling sorry for them. It’s no wonder they started out hating me; he did everything he could to put them on the offensive, short of introducing me as the next challenger for the Red Cliff throne.

Before anyone can suggest a game of Monopoly, I thank Edward and Chastity for dinner and excuse myself to my room for the night. I take a hot shower and crawl into bed to listen to some Nirvana. Halfway through “Come as You Are” I have to switch to The Cure, because thinking about Kurt Cobain has me missing my mom again, at a time when all I want is to forget about my own life and the things I’ve lost.

In three weeks, I’ll be home, I tell myself. The house I grew up in will be mine, and I’ll have enough money to live there by myself for a while, as I figure out my next move.

I’m drawn into the shallow depths of a restless sleep by the breathy voice of Robert Smith promising to always love me.

My mind wanders through various dreamscapes like an innertube floating downriver. I’m in a car on the highway going eighty, even though I don’t have my license. I’m trying to order spaghetti at a restaurant, but I have no mouth. My server, a large red-haired woman, gets impatient with me and moves on to a different table. I cry red-wine tears that stain the tablecloth.

I’m pulled back to consciousness by the sound of laughter tittering through the window. I open my eyes and realize that I’m no longer in bed. I’m not even in the guestroom. I’m in the conservatory.

Rising from the chair I’ve somehow found myself in, I take a few tentative steps toward the open French doors leading out to a patio. It’s twilight, though I can’t say for certain if the sun is setting or rising. The sky is a gradient stretching from cotton-candy pink at the horizon to deep violet up above. I pass through the doorway, and a light breeze ruffles my hair and makes my nipples tighten inside my tee shirt.

I inhale the perfume of lilacs, and watch the horses grazing among the vines. Then I remind myself that it’s October, and there aren’t any horses on the grounds anymore.

That’s how I know I’m still dreaming.

I’ve been a lucid dreamer since I was little, capable of controlling my consciousness at whim while asleep. It’s the one Greyson-like talent I’ve been blessed with, and it’s not even that interesting.

A burst of laughter calls my attention to a couple drinking champagne on the patio. I approach them. They ask if I’m wearing that to the party, and it’s not until I notice how they’re dressed—her in a silk blue wrap dress with ruffles, and him in a fedora and striped jacket—and the way their silhouettes dissolve slightly into the air around them, that I realize they aren’t just stand-ins manufactured by my dream engine.

They’re ghosts. My mom tried describing them to