Page 214 of Silver Sweet

Eliot eyes our sister. “Bird couture?”

I stifle a laugh. “She looks like Mister Feathers. Sort of. Maybe Audrey is going to babysit Ben and Harriet’s cockatoo.”

“Maybe.”

Talk of the bird at our apartment reminds me of Phoenix, who I thought was still there. I start typing out a message on my phone. He looked so spent when I left, like truly exhausted in every sense of the word. I don’t know how he forced his body out of my bed.

TOM CARRAWAY

You’re having dinner with the demon?

I send it to my boyfriend and flip my phone face down next to my place setting. The room is dead silent. Bizarre energy. Jane gives Audrey an encouraging nod, and she gives one back.

Eliot points the wine bottle between our sisters. “What is this fowl play?”

“Fowlas inpoultry,” I chime in, opening and closing my lighter.

“Is chicken on the menu, sisters?” Eliot questions.

“Perhaps,” Audrey says. “You might all be chicken-shit scared.”

Ben snorts out a swig of water.

I’ve never heard her saychicken-shit.Normally I would rise with applause, but I am disturbed. “This is disturbing behavior now,” I tell her.

“Just wait and watch,” she sips wine.

“Ominous,” Eliot and I say in unison, but I sound tenser than he does.

Jane takes a cautious sip of sparkling water.

Charlie rubs harshly at his eyes, not entertaining Audrey or this mystery, and Beckett rises to pile green beans and carrots on both of their plates. They speak too softly in French to each other. I can’t pick apart their words.

I am really baffled. Eliot swigs the wine, then passes it back to me. Yeah, I’m going to need that. I drink more straight from the bottle. The dry, smoky flavor hits my throat.

Our parents enter, but their presence can’t even cut the thick tension. I ignore the clench of my stomach. Neither Mom nor Dad seem surprised by the arctic blast frosting the table.

They both take their places at either head. No usual banter. No verbal insults. I almost want to fucking leave.

Especially when Dad says, “Opening remarks have commenced.”

Eliot and Audrey rise to their feet at the exact same time, so forcibly, so quickly, that their chairs are shoved backward and clatter to the ground.

I’m holding my breath.

Eliot normally takes the lead on opening remarks. It’s not so much a rule as it is a tradition, and Audrey lovestraditions. I’m unsettled she’d even want to break it.

“You always go first,” Audrey tells him pointedly.

“Claim it then.” Eliot extends a hand to me. I fork over the wine, and he fills his goblet to the brim, then raises it to our little sister. “First to finish off their wine wins.”

Determination cinches her blue eyes, and she raises hers back. “I accept.” They don’t break eye contact as they both start chugging the wine as fast as they can. Crimson liquid drips down Eliot’s jaw, down Audrey’s chin.

Our little sister keeps up with him for five seconds before Eliot outpaces her. He sets his goblet on the table first, but Audrey doesn’t quit. She keeps going, her throat bobbing, until she empties her glass.

Her chin, neck, and collarbones glisten with red wine. Eliot’s the same.

He arches his brows, an impressed smile flicking across his lips. “The floor is yours,” he waves her on and lowers himself in his seat.