I spent the afternoon of Anders’ party at Jo’s house, getting ready. I’d never been to a gala before—I’d never even been to a formal dance or a church social—and apparently I had a lot to learn. When I showed up at the Dougalls’ door, they immediately took pity on me.
“Oh, Maren, dear, it’s . . . You’re looking lovely,” Mrs. Dougall said, trying but failing to hide a smirk behind the back of her hand.
Jo was blunter. “Great dress, but what happened to your face?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I didn’t usually wear a lot of makeup—just concealer and blush and sometimes mascara—but I thought I’d given myself smoky eyes rather well. Especially for my first time.
“I mean, you look like Cleopatra meets Catwoman meets a stripper,” she said.
“Jo!” her mom scolded, playfully slapping her shoulder. The simple loving gesture made me ache for my own mom. “It’s not that bad, honestly!”
They took me inside, sat me down at the small vanity in the bathroom, and proceeded to scrub my face clean to start over.
“Whatever made you think to put eyeliner on the rim inside your eyelashes?” Jo marveled. “Doesn’t it burn?”
“Well, yeah,” I admitted, gritting my teeth against the rough washing. “But I figured it was supposed to. Like how no one tells you how much high heels really hurt or how scratchy a bra strap is.”
“Did your mum never teach you how to apply makeup, love?” Mrs. Dougall clucked.
I shook my head. My mom was too busy fighting the forces of darkness, I thought bitterly. Before I could even start to feel sorry for myself, though, my brain conjured up an image of Gavin. I missed him with a pain inside that echoed how much I missed my mom. Maybe even more. I guessed this was what love was all about. When you reached a certain age, you stopped needing your parents and started needing a soul mate to love and to love you. I wondered if Gavin was my soul mate. Why else would I be so obsessed with him after so little time together? I would have given anything to see him again. If I could gaze into his eyes just one more time . . .
“Hey, dreamer,” Jo said. “Open your eyes.”
My reflection in the mirror startled me. Mrs. Dougall had worked a small miracle. My eyes were somehow brightened, and framed by dewy black lashes I didn’t know I had. My skin was glowing and a little sparkly. My blonde hair was suddenly shiny, and half swept up in a neat chignon with loose curls dancing on my shoulders.
“You clean up pretty good, Hamilton.” Jo grinned.
I smiled back, and noticed I had sticky lips. “Lip gloss?” I smacked. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” Mrs. Dougall pressed her hands against my arms. “Makes your lips extra kissable. The boys won’t be able to resist the pair of you!”
“Mummy!” Jo giggled.
There was only one boy I wished couldn’t resist me, and smile as I might, I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to see him.
I’d never been in the back of a British limousine. I’d only ever been in the back of an American one, and that was when I was five and the flower girl in my next-door neighbor’s wedding. I’d had too much soda and candy—everyone kept bribing me to shut up or stand still—and their plan backfired quite horrifically when I threw up all over the bride’s dress. I was hoping this ride would end better.
“How is it that Anders can have a big party on a Friday night when he didn’t even go to school today, and hasn’t even been for more than two weeks?” I asked Jo, who was perched next to me on the slippery leather seat. I still couldn’t believe they’d sent a car to pick us up. “Everyone knows he’s been back from the Bahamas for days. You can just skip school in Scotland?”
“The Campbells can do anything they want,” Jo replied, staring out the tinted window. “They practically own the whole county.”
“Is it true what they say about the Campbells?” I asked. “About them murdering innocent people in their beds?”
She turned back and grinned wickedly. “Where’d you hear that?”
“My grandfather. So, is it true? For all their wealth and fanciness, do people secretly hate the Campbells?”
“Not everyone. Elsie and her pack would change their name to Campbell in a heartbeat. But, yeah, a lot of the Highlanders don’t like the Campbells. There’s a famous hotel in Glencoe, near where the massacre took place, called Clachaig Inn. They have a sign that says, ‘No Campbells.’”
“Shut up!” I said.
“No, ’tis true. I’ve seen it.”
“That’s awesome,” I said.
As the car pulled into the sweeping, circular drive, I got my first peek at Campbell Hall. “Hall” really didn’t describe it. Neither did “mansion.” It was a palace crowned with two giant turrets, glittering lead-paned windows, numerous carved stone balconies, and a four-story entrance more ornate than the front door of a cathedral. There was something eerily familiar about it that made the hairs on my arms stand on end, but I couldn’t place what it was.
“Why is it black?” I asked Jo, noting the eerie color of the stones on the front façade.
“Soot,” Jo answered. “They made their money mining coal on their property. I guess everything comes with a price, even the biggest private residence in Europe.”
A giant, glistening fountain, big enough to swim laps in, stood in front of the house, circled by a line of chauffeured cars like ours.
From the car to the foyer, we were greeted by five different people (“Servants,” Jo whispered in my ear). A uniformed man opened our car door and helped us step out; another man opened the huge, carved front doors and welcomed us; two stiff-lipped women, one for each of us, took our coats; and a man wearing bright white gloves escorted us down the hall to the grand ballroom.
The walls were set with stone columns and lined with tapestries and huge paintings of scowling men, all wearing the same dark-green-and-blue tartan. Our heels clicked on the marble floor, and I grabbed Jo’s arm tightly, terrified I might slip and break something. Jo was spinning around, taking it all in, and literally shaking with excitement.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “Do you have a fever or something?”
“This is exactly how I imagined it. Only a little better,” she whispered. “I can’t believe I’m here. Me. A Dougall, in Campbell Hall!”
Our guide pulled open a six-paneled door, and we were blasted in the face with a song. “It’s getting hot in here! So take off all your clothes!”
I had expected a string quartet and crumpets, but it seemed even Scottish lords had MTV-style birthday parties. The room was dark but bouncing with strobe lights, a huge disco ball, a DJ booth, and more than two hundred revelers.
Jo was apparently expecting exactly this, since she grabbed my arm and dragged me inside, shaking her body to the pulsing beat. Thankfully, she was too shy to actually join the mob, so we skipped past the throbbing mass on the dance floor and headed directly for the back wall. It was lined with long banquet tables covered in food. Turns out there were crumpets after all . . . and sushi, sausages, shrimp, mini meat pies, and even iced “biscuits” that had “Happy Birthday Anders” printed on them.
Just as I picked up a cookie, Elsie and her friends spotted me. Game on.
“Love your dress, Dewdrop,” Elsie said. “It really flatters your bits.” She motioned at her breasts, and I realized she was making fun of mine.
“Yours too,” I replied, happy that I had practiced for this very insult since my first humiliating day at Kingussie. “Better to hide the bee stings, yeah?”
I hardly got to enjoy her shock at my Scottish comeback highlighting her own lack of “bits,” because her friend jumped in.
“Let’s go get some britneys,” she said, steering a speechless Elsie away from us.
“That was pure dead brilliant!” Jo exclaimed.
“It was, wasn’t it?” I said. “Thanks for teaching me the bee stings slang, but what’s a britney?”
“A beer,” she replied. I stared at her, not comprehending at all. She expounded: “Britney Spears . . . beers . . .?”
“Because it rhymes?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Jo confirmed. “Like ‘baked bean’ refers to the queen, and ‘brown bread’ means ‘dead.’”
“I don’t even want to know how those last two are related,” I said, biting down on what turned out to be a surprisingly good cookie.
Jo and I soon figured out that there was more on tap than just britneys. A full bar in the corner of the room was staffed by three very busy bartenders, all handing out free liquor as fast as kids could grab it.
Jo handed me a crystal tumbler with clear liquid and a lime hanging on the rim for dear life.
“Vodka?” I guessed.
“No, club soda,” she answered. “My mum has a portable breathalyzer at home. She’d literally kill me if we drank.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“My dad was an alcoholic.” She shrugged. “I guess she’s just afraid it runs in the genes.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I assured her. “You’re nothing like your dad.” I realized how lame that must sound, since I didn’t know her dad at all.
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to make things more difficult for my mum. She has enough to worry about. But once I go to university, all bets are off! Cheers!” She clinked her glass against mine. I smiled and took a drink. I was surprised to see a sparkly lip print on my glass. I wasn’t used to wearing anything on my lips, and the remnant grossed me out. I smudged it away with my thumb.
Judging by the number of people chugging beers and cradling their own champagne bottles, Jo and I were the only ones attempting to stay sober. We learned that aside from the staff, there wasn’t an adult anywhere in the building. Anders’ parents were in Tenerife, an island off the coast of Spain, at their vacation villa. Jo said they were hardly ever home. I wondered if that was why he was such a jerk.
By the time a cake the size of a small car was rolled into the middle of the room, and a half-naked woman jumped out and started making out with the birthday boy, I was ready for a break. Jo and I found double doors that led outside to a stone balcony, and we happily snuck away.
The balcony was bigger than the first floor of my grandparents’ house. Topiary trees twinkled under tiny, perfectly spaced lights, and industrial patio heaters hummed softly.
Jo and I walked to the stone railing.
“Wow,” I exhaled.
While the front of the building had seemed massive enough, I now saw that it was only a third of the entire structure. Two more wings, each covered with double French doors and smaller, private balconies, stood impressively on either side. The giant courtyard below seemed to spread for acres—from a manicured landscape out into the forest.
Rows and rows of tall, precisely trimmed hedges lined the garden. Hundreds of rose bushes hugged the hedge bottoms. I marveled at the luscious fruit trees, their branches heavy with the weight of snowball-sized blossoms, and the carved marble benches, their seats held high by miniature gargoyles. In the middle, a fountain corralled life-sized granite horses swimming among arcs of shooting water. A flagstone path wound around the entire garden, set at precise 90-degree angles. Glowing lanterns hung from the trees and small footlights hidden along the base of the stones bathed it all in a soft, shadowy light.
“Why are the bushes all cut with square edges?” I wondered.
“It’s a labyrinth,” Jo replied. “A hedge maze.”
“No way!”
“Yeah, you can’t tell from up here, but I’m guessing those bushes are taller than both of us.”
“Actually,” a new voice added, “they’re exactly ten feet high.” It was Graham. “The yew trees took fifty years to grow that tall, and the gardeners are required to keep them trimmed within a half inch.”
I smiled at Graham. He was wearing a turtleneck and blazer, and I couldn’t help thinking how nice he looked. Not handsome like Gavin, but he was the kind of guy you could take home to meet your family—polite, soft-spoken, and well-mannered. I thought about Anders licking icing off the cake girl’s cheek, and wondered how he managed to miss all the good breeding of his cousin. Graham would never do something so gross in front of a room full of people.
“Are you enjoying the party?” Graham asked.
“It’s fantastic,” Jo offered. “You have a beautiful house.”
“You live here too?” I asked.
“Guilty.” He seemed a little embarrassed about it. “My parents’ estate is in Edinburgh, but I’ve been living with my aunt and uncle since primary school.”
“Why?” I blurted out.
“My parents work for the embassy, and are overseas most of the year. They didn’t want me raised by nannies. Apparently, nannies hired by my aunt and uncle were a more palatable idea.” He smiled, but something sad flickered in his eyes.
Jo’s phone started buzzing. She excused herself, and stepped away to read the incoming text.
“Aren’t you lonely?” I asked Graham.
“Who could be lonely in one hundred twenty-six rooms?” he said, sarcastically.
“Are there really that many?”
“At last count. Ten ballrooms, thirteen dining rooms, four kitchens, seven libraries . . .” He stopped. “I sound more like a tour guide than a tenant, don’t I?”
“No, it’s interesting,” I said. I ran my palms along the cool, concrete banister. “Tell me more about the maze. I’ve never seen one before. Unless you count ones cut into cornfields at Halloween.”
“Well, let’s see, there are more than sixteen thousand trees. The theme is—”
“Theme? It has a theme?”
“Yes, labyrinths have a history of twisted entertainment, if you will,” he explained. “They represent how the path of life is hard to navigate, but that you mustn’t give up until you reach salvation.”
“You mean, ‘get out,’” I said.
“Precisely. But walking through bushes can get boring after a while, so most labyrinths have a theme, usually a humorous one, with little secrets and surprises along the way.”
“What’s the theme of this one?”
He pointed to the start of the maze, where two large statues loomed on opposite sides of the path: a beautiful woman and a man with wings. “Cupid and Psyche,” he said. “The angel of love, and the beautiful human girl he fell in love with.”
A wave of hot energy burst from the base of my scalp and seeped down my back. “I’ve never . . . never heard of them,” I stammered, trying not to think of Gavin . . . and failing.
“They’re from a Latin fairy tale called . . .”
“The Golden Ass,” I finished.
He ran his hand across his forehead, up into his auburn hair. “I’m impressed. I thought you’d never heard of them.”
“I haven’t.” I blushed. “I have no idea where that came from. It just popped into my head.” I looked down, embarrassed to have interrupted him with my random trivia brain.
He continued, “The labyrinth symbolizes their journey. Psyche must visit the Underworld to earn Cupid’s love.”
Is that all it takes? I thought sourly. I considered the choices, and decided visiting hell to get Gavin back was much preferable to being loved and left behind. I was bouncing between self-pity and bitterness when Jo reappeared, worry creasing her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I got a text that my grandmother had a stroke,” she said. “I have to go.”
My throat caught at the word grandmother. It took me a second to register that Jo meant hers, not mine. I realized I must care about my grandparents more than I thought, since I couldn’t bear the idea of something happening to either of them.
“How awful,” Graham said. “We can have a car take you directly to the hospital.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” Jo said.
“Of course not. Come, I’ll arrange everything.”
“I’m coming,” I said.
“No, stay and enjoy the party,” Jo replied.
“But . . .” I faltered, “I only came for you.” I widened my eyes at her to signal I couldn’t say more in front of Graham without insulting his family, but I wanted to scream, Don’t leave me here with the rich freaks! Unfortunately, Jo missed my silent message entirely.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’ll have a great time. And you don’t want to sit in a tiny visitor’s room for the next five hours, trust me.”
“But . . .” I was stuck. How could I argue that I would like anything better than to stay at the party when one of the hosts was right in front of me?
“You should definitely stay,” Graham confirmed. He turned to Jo. “I promise I’ll take good care of her.”
They left, and I was standing alone. I gazed back over the garden. The moon slid out from behind a patch of clouds and bathed the statues of Cupid and Psyche in an eerie light. I heard a strange, high-pitched scream in the distance. Even though it wasn’t cold at all, I shivered. As beautiful as it was, something about Campbell Hall wasn’t right.
While I was content to stand at the balcony’s edge until the party was over, Anders found me and had other plans.
“It’s our very own American princess!” he said, sucking on a cigarette and blowing smoke above his head.
“I prefer ‘queen,’” I replied. “And you know smoking kills.” Even though he acted like a pig, there was no denying Anders was attractive. Aggravatingly so.
“Eventually, everything does,” he said with a smirk, taking another drag.
“Well, it’s disgusting, anyway,” I retorted.
“You’ve never had a ciggy, then, have you?”
“No. I told you, it’s gross.”
“I’ve been smoking since I was eleven,” he said. “I should probably stop, but I’ve never found a good enough reason.”
“Not even for a girl?”
“Psssh.” He shrugged. “Never happen. Most of the Scottish girls I’ve kissed don’t seem to mind.”
“Ugh, I would never kiss someone who smoked.” I turned back to the garden as if I couldn’t be bothered to continue our conversation, but inside, I was reeling. Talking about kissing with a gorgeous guy, even if he was smoking, was titillating.
“Wouldn’t you?” he asked. “If I gave them up right now, just for you, would you kiss me?”
“Your mouth is already completely ruined for the night,” I said. We were definitely flirting now, and I was sincerely enjoying the rush of power it gave me.
“What about tomorrow?” he asked.
“I’m busy,” I said.
“So you wouldn’t kiss me, even after I gave up smoking for you and everything? I’m crushed.” He took a few exaggerated steps backward, clutching his heart.
“’Fraid not.”
“How about a dance, then?” he asked, putting his cigarette out by squishing it on the stone railing just an inch from my hand. “Look, my last one. You’ve convinced me. I’m through forever. The least you could do is dance with me.”
Like all the guys in Scotland, his accent made him a million times more gorgeous. He bent his head and gave me an impish smile, making him really hard to refuse. What could possibly be the harm of a little dancing?