and wrap over her shoulders. “I’ve found it,” she says wistfully.
“Heck yeah, you have,” says Emma.
I laugh at her Montana slang. Heck yeah?
Charlotte swirls around en pointe. “Can you imagine me going to prom in this? Henry will die!”
“You’re stunning,” I remark.
Emma asks at the same time, “You’re going with Henry?”
“Well, he hasn’t asked me yet, it’s months away, but I’m sure he will soon.”
And the way Charlotte says this, looking away from Emma, I am certain it isn’t Henry who she wants to ask her, but Mason. By telling Emma, Charlotte probably hopes word will get to Mason, and he will feel jealous and ask her instead.
Maybe I am starting to understand Waterford.
As Emma zips into a scarlet gown with a full petticoat and a string of chiffon roses up the shoulder, Charlotte twirls around the room, jumps onto my window seat, and leaps off. “I can dance in this!” she squeals.
“Those were my mother’s specifications, ‘Must be able to run while wearing.’ ”
I toss a pair of satin Prada heels at Charlotte, who clasps them in her fingers, openmouthed. “Do you have anything less than four inches? I’m five ten!”
I open the armoire and retrieve a box. “Try these.” I reach across a pile of lavender tulle to pass her a pair of cream suede heels with a thin ankle strap.
Charlotte giddily buckles into them. “YOU AND I ARE THE EXACT SAME SIZE!” Charlotte falls onto her back, spread-eagled onto my bed; the pointed suede toes poke the air. “How can I thank you?” she sighs.
“Don’t worry about it,” I answer, embarrassed.
Charlotte rolls forward, struggling to sit upright with the voluminous fabric swirling around her thighs. “Seriously, this is so nice of you. Can I, like, buy you a Waterford key chain with your name—”
“Sophia!” Emma gasps.
How could I have been so careless?
Emma is immobilized, holding a diamanté headpiece in one hand and my FN 5-7 in the other.
We were at the presidential palace in Jakarta, staring across the vast tropical grounds, draped amber at sunset, when my father handed me my first 5-7. With privilege comes responsibility, Sophia, he said as we watched the gilded sun sink into the sea.
Calmly, I walk over to Emma and gently ease the pistol out of her trembling hands.
“My dad has hunting rifles locked away in the basement, but I wasn’t … expecting …”
Charlotte turns off the speaker. “Are you okay, Sophia?”
They often ask questions about my life before Waterford, usually with dreamy, wistful looks in their eyes. Occasionally they look at me as they are now—like I am fragile, mysterious. Dangerous.
Can they be my friends if I can’t trust them with the truth? If they can’t trust me?
“It’s not loaded.” I show them the empty chamber. “For so many years, living in certain locations, it was normal. Diplomats, any foreigner, really, from a wealthy country, can become a target; it’s both simple economics and complicated geopolitics.”
Charlotte looks stricken. “Sophia, what do you mean a target?”
“Depended on the year and place, really …” With one preparatory breath, I tell them about Katu, Peter, and Samuel. It’s easier now, having told Aksel. My panic doesn’t center on the memory; it centers on concern for Charlotte and Emma.
How do I explain my life?
As I finish, I place the gun on top of my armoire. “Things are different now. Here, I have to break those habits.”
Charlotte and Emma glance at each other. I can’t tell whether they are going to run, cry, or—
“I know whose side I want to be on in a fight.” Emma whistles under her breath.
“Sophia …” Charlotte opens her mouth, then shuts it.
“You can ask questions,” I say, “it’s okay.”
“Are you in the witness protection program?”
I wrinkle my nose. “What?”
“Like when people testify against the mafia, the FBI creates new identities for them and—”
“No,” I laugh, “I am Sophia.”
“You don’t have to tell us anything else, but you can if you want,” Charlotte says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “And I’ll never tell a soul. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
Stick a needle in my eye? I laugh, “You, Charlotte, are weird.”
Giggling, she turns the music back on, and things return to normal. Mostly.
Eventually I’m alone in my room.
I take down my FN 5-7 from the armoire, eject the mag, and unload the bullets. I count, then shove them back in, and replace the 5-7 beneath my pillow.
I sit down on my bed. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I rest my