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FIFTEEN
Letter from Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam to Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated November 11
My dearest Frederick,
I will not beat around the bush with you.
I have it from the Jamesons directly that you have continued to ignore my entreaties and are still returning Miss Jameson’s gifts to you unopened.
This will not stand.
I have booked passage on a direct flight from London, where I am currently on holiday, to Chicago next Tuesday evening. Given that the mail is not a speedy business, I suppose there is a chance that I will arrive in Chicago before this letter does. If that happens, so be it. Perhaps it would be better if you have no forewarning before I arrive. That way I will be able to see for myself the mess you have made of your life.
Despite all, I do love you, Frederick. In time I hope you come to understand I have only ever had your best interests at heart.
With kind regards,
Your mother,
Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam
After Frederick and I got off the train we walked towards Sam’s apartment in lockstep. Even though we sprang apart the instant the train stopped moving I could feel his touch as acutely as if we were still embracing.
Frederick drummed the fingers of his right hand rapidly against his leg—what I’d come to recognize as his most obvious nervous tell. He kept his eyes straight ahead, not sparing me so much as a sideways glance.
“I have made a list of several topics of conversation for this party,” he said, repeating himself from earlier in the evening. He slid his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and extracted a small, folded piece of paper. His hand was trembling. He must have been affected by what happened between us on the train, too—because his hands rarely shook, and he never repeated himself.
The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.
“You already told me that,” I said.
A car drove by us, its windows rolled down. Hip-hop music I didn’t recognize blasted on its radio.
“I already told you that?”
“You did.”
“Oh.”
Fortunately, it wasn’t far to Sam’s building. When we got there I pushed the buzzer on the front door panel to let Sam andScott know we’d arrived. The door lock clicked a moment later, and I grabbed the door’s handle to pull it open.
Frederick put his hand on my upper arm, stopping me. The urgency of his touch cut through my thick winter coat like a knife.
“Remember? I need explicit permission from them before I can enter their home.”
I blinked, trying to understand what he was saying. “What?”
He looked away, sheepish. “Remember, when we watchedBuffy, how I told you that some vampire legends are rubbish while others are legitimate? This one is legitimate.”
Then it clicked. That evening with him on the couch, when we’d discussedBuffy—shortly before I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder.
“Oh,” I said abruptly, warming at the memory. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I forgot about that.” I pointed at the button I’d just pushed. “But they unlocked it for us. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.” His eyes were on his shoes. He was embarrassed, I realized. My heart clenched. “It... must be a direct, explicit invitation. Could you possibly text Sam or Scott and ask them to invite me in?”
Laughter drifted down to us from an open window. The party was already in full swing. “They’re going to think that’s weird, Frederick.”
“Be that as it may, I don’t have much of a choice.”
