Page 104 of The Villains of Winter

​​ CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

“WILL JAMES BE JOINING US?” Professor Ilaria asked as if it were of little consequence to her, as though she simply needed to know how many chalices of wine or pomegranate extract to set at the banquet.

Finch answered, oblivious to her frenzied stare. “Ah, no. He’s busy.”

Elliott added, “He sends his regards.”

“Regards?” She repeated, not even noticing Finch was there or that he’d spoken. She barked at the stage hands and technicians to fix the lighting. “Light Designer, we need empyrean white, not tinsel silver! He’s not coming then?”

What had Professor Ilaria mentioned before? Elliott stammered, “Um–the fates and the furies sent him a vision. He had to do something important.”

“What did the Moirai and the Erinyes disclose to him?”

“Sorry, the what?” Elliott asked.

“The fates and the furies.” Her eyes locked on him.

Finch laughed, playing along. “I don’t think you’re meant to repeat the oracle of the Morah so he wouldn’t know.”

“Moirai,” Professor Ilaria corrected him, the first time she’d directly spoken to him since the elaborate banquet began. Professor Ilaria mentioned that she believed the Erinyes hounded James due to matricide. Thus, it was very important for her to know their premonition for him. He was never properly cleansed after he caused the death of his parent. She was raised by pagan leaders, Finch figured she understood more than him on the matter. However, Elliott was mystified. Did she decide to mentor James because she thought he was a murderer? Even worse...did she believe that James intentionally took his own mother’s life? On stage, there was a performance of several actors, and in the wings of the theater there were instrumentalists, but she hardly deigned to glance at them. “It’s pronounced Moirai.”

“That’s what I said. The Morah are sworn to secrecy with oracles, aren’t they?” Finch asked. He only knew Greek mythology second hand from James.

She seethed with irritation. “Do not presume to know what Moirai are sworn to, if you can only speculate.” Professor Ilaria momentarily left the banquet table in a flurry of annoyance.

Elliott drank from James’s chalice to keep it from going to waste. The sweet, aged wine had a raw, overripe taste. Heady and fragrant.

He didn’t know what else to do in the awkward silence but sip.

A few students began to pick at berries and apples, complaining about staying up all night to endlessly paint and re-paint the set designs by hand. A couple of costume crew students lamented about hand-stitching the intricate robe Elliott didn’t want to wear at first, glowering at him then still.

Elliott drained the wine in three swallows, abashed.

The lighting designer tweaked the ambiance of the direct fixture lights, in case Professor Ilaria became upset about it again. The lighting crew followed after the designer, nibbling on the spiced cheeses.

The scenic painters and scenic carpenters double-checked that the imported Mediterranean paint had dried.

A handful of senior stage managers moaned about the expensive wine and how rare it was for them to find. “I drove six hours to Montréal for it, and she hasn’t even taken a sip. I think we bought the wrong one.”

“No, she insisted on this wine. It’s his favorite port.”

As she returned, Professor Ilaria’s face was powdered, her pale skin blemished with rubescence, as though she’d freshly been crying, but she clapped her hands for attention. Every student went obediently silent.

“All is well. All is perfect. Let the stars above bear the witness instead, shall we?” She declared, sweeping Elliott onto his feet, winking at him as though she were thrilled on his behalf. In her next breath, she announced, “Behold! Meet your winter Erôs!”

Expletives and groans resounded around the overcrowded banquet, and a trickle of students left the banquet early, grumbling how they’d broken their necks and spines for the part.

“The rope burn made my throat sore all week.”

“I was hung from a tree for almost three minutes. I could’ve died.”

“When did he audition?” One of the actors questioned her, a rare act of mutiny.

“Ah, he didn’t need to. I knew at once, he’d be our beauteous Erôs!”

A sparse applause occurred only after she staked her glare into each of them. She squeezed Elliott, and it dawned on him to make a magniloquent speech to the rows of make-up crew, prop makers, musicians, and dancers.

James would’ve smirked and winked in return, entertaining them with a well-timed quip to win them over. To assure them all that he was the only one that could exceed expectations in the role.