"Catherine," she slurs, the champagne in her coupe sloshing and threatening to spill on my mother's dress. "Is this a real Fragonard? Impossible. Itmustbe a copy?"
My mother's eyes go around the room, searching for something. That's when I understand she has no idea what herfriend is talking about. She went up in the world, but she still isn’t one of them. She never took the time to care about art or culture. It doesn't matter what social class she's in. She only cares about what shines, not what has meaning.
Eugene jumps in, pointing at the painting of a woman on a swing so his wife can catch up.
"Absolutely is the original," he says. "The Wallace Collection lent it to me. I've got it for a month."
"Isn't it wonderful?" Catherine beams. "It was a big chunk of money, but Eugene doesn't count when it comes to my happiness."
My God, she's as tacky as she used to be. We're looking at a piece of art, and all she can mention is the cost.
"What period is this again?" the woman asks.
"Uh, Neoclassism," Catherine answers right away.
It drags a loud cackle out of me, bringing everyone's attention my way. Amazing, a chance to show everyone who my mother really is.
"This is Rococo," I say simply.
Catherine laughs carelessly, waving a hand. "Similar. I'm just tipsy. Anyway?—"
"Actually," I cut her off. "One is early eighteenth-century romance and playfulness. The other was born in the mid eighteenth-century quite literally to fight the former. It's moralistic and structured. They're not similar. They’re practical opposites. For pointers: Rococo is Fragonard, Boucher, Battista. Neoclassical is Ingres, Canova, Kauffman."
Achilles explodes with a genuine laugh that has the group turning to him. It's so real that it burns in my own heart, so carefree and proud that his hand falls off my neck, and my first instinct is to grab it. He wraps his around mine tightly, and I don't know if it's because he's so used to doing it, a muscle memory he didn't think of fighting off, or if he truly wants to.
But when it stays there, his thumb caressing the back of my hand, I feel like turning into a puddle of tears at his feet.
Achilles Duval loves me, no matter how much he wants to stop.
Catherine cocks an eyebrow at me as the woman next to her coos at how smart I am.
"Does North Shore High teach art now?" she spits.
"Catherine, darling," Eugene says politely. "Don't be so silly. She must have learned this at Silver Falls University."
"Of course," my mother confirms. "The bright young lady got a scholarship after all. Educated poor people are so touching."
My mouth drops open at what she dares to say to my face.
"I learned this when I was in middle school, Catherine," I say, with a little too much venom for someone trying to act undisturbed. "If you must know, it was my violin teacher who taught me. Because she believed you can't care about music without understanding the history around it, and the culture it was born in. North Shore High doesn't teach art. It teaches you how to survive stabbings and fights. But you wouldn't know because you left when I was in elementary school so you could whore yourself out to a rich man. Uneducated rich people who think one's social class defines their intelligence are so sad."
I take a deep breath, thinking I'm done, but more comes out. "And, by the way, I don't learn about paintings at SFU. I'm at the music school. Because that's what I do,Mom." I love the way she flinches at the word. "I play the violin. I'm going to be our soloist before the end of the year, and probably in a famous orchestra soon after, andyou, you still won't know the difference between any art period by then."
This time, Eugene is the one who snorts. I'm pretty sure he means to laugh.
"Nyx," he says condescendingly, as if talking to a child. "I'll proudly support you being the soloist of SFU's orchestra.But you won't be part of anything after that. Heras have the important duty of taking care of our home and our children. Being a housewife is the only future you have, darling. I hope you understand how lucky you are."
My eyes round, my heart sinking. I turn to Achilles, refusing to understand. "W-What?"
His hand tightens around mine, but any word he means to say is cut off by his dad.
"Now." Eugene claps his hand. "It's time to get to business. Our Heras must go home so our Aphrodites can join us." He slaps his son's shoulder. "I'm looking forward to you finally being part of this, Son. But don't be so surprised if most people here want you dead. We all know you were Hermes now, and they're still convinced that the only way for their secrets to stay safe is for you to be buried six feet under." He laughs heartedly. "You've got a lot of work to do to gain their trust back, and we better get started."
My ears are ringing as the doors to the reception room open, and a line of at least thirty women in see-through long dresses come in. They're wearing a necklace too, but their pendant is a seashell.
The Aphrodites. Achilles told me they were the sex toys for the Circle. The ones who failed to make it as Heras during initiations. If Achilles hadn't caught me in that forest, I would be in that group.
I look at my Shadow, worried to death about what's about to happen here.
