Page 86 of Salem’s Rise

“It’s less impressive when you know half the rooms are impossible to keep warm.”

I laugh. “If you’re trying to make Blackthorn Manor sound relatable, you should just give up now.”

“I’m simply warning you not to use the rooms in the east wing.”

We follow the caravan of luxury vehicles and limousines down the drive and stop at the valet stand. Silas helps me out of the car and leads me toward the covered entrance. The last time I came here, I snuck in through the side like a criminal. Tonight, I walk through the front door on Silas’s arm.

Warmth closes around me as we step inside, along with the scents of pine, mulled wine, and something vaguely sweet like homemade gingerbread. We pass beneath crystal ornaments hanging from the grand chandeliers, catching the light like icicles, and then weave between towering arrangements of evergreen, deep-red poinsettias, and the same vivid orange roses that fill the gardens outside the manor. Beside the grand staircase, a Christmas tree nearly two stories high towers over the crowd, decorated in silver and black glass ornaments.

Someone takes my coat, and tuxedoed waiters greet us with crystal flutes of champagne as we follow the music into the ballroom, where a twelve-piece orchestra plays a classic Christmas song. Elegant guests mingle on the dance floor and around the bars, a healthy mix of New England socialites, politicians, and even a few actors and athletes I recognize from TV.

Wren spots me, her face brightening as she crosses the room with Lena and Micah close behind. She wears a deep red satin dress while Lena is in a silver suit tailored sharply enough to qualify as a weapon. Micah has somehow acquired a dark charcoal dinner jacket and looks delighted with himself.

“Wow! You look incredible, Jack,” Wren says, taking my hands and pulling me into a hug.

“So do you,” I say.

Micah looks a bit shocked as he notices Silas at my side. “Should I even ask?”

“Please don’t,” I say. “I’m already regretting this.”

“I’m standing right here,” Silas says.

“Hence my regret.”

Silas chuckles, the sound low and unexpectedly warm. My friends look at him, stunned. I’m not sure they’ve ever heard him laugh before. Until recently, I wasn’t entirely sure he knew how.

After my friends wander off to get drinks, I smile over at Silas. “I’m surprised they made the guest list,” I say. “They don’t exactly run in Blackhollow circles.”

“I thought you might enjoy having your friends here tonight.”

I straighten, my mouth falling open. “You invited them for me?”

His lips curve slightly as he reaches for another glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Don’t make a thing of it, Mercer.”

Shit.

My chest tightens uncomfortably. That’s really… sweet. And thoughtful. And unexpectedly UnSilas. It’s giving me those damn warm and fuzzy feelings I don’t want to have for anyone—least of all him.

Thankfully, my friends return moments later, and I do my best to stamp out any pesky emotions. Micah complains that the canapés aren’t as sweet as he likes while Wren points out that he’s eaten twelve of them. Silas recommends a table near the conservatory where the Blackhollow pastry chefs have hidden the best desserts for the biggest donors.

A new song begins, something slow and melancholy. Lena looks toward the dance floor, blinking hard.

“Are you okay?” Wren asks, squeezing her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Lena says. “I was just thinking about the last time I was dancing—with Jonah.”

I wrap an arm around Lena and pull her against me. Wren moves in on her other side, and for a moment, the three of us just hold on to each other, the sadness settling over us. Jonah should be here too.

Micah notices the change in us but doesn’t quite understand. “He never did like parties but always enjoyed dancing, huh?” he asks. “I hope his parents let him come back next semester.”

Lena’s mouth trembles into a smile. “Wherever he is, I just want him to be happy.”

The orchestra shifts into a faster, more upbeat song, and Micah wipes his sticky hands on a napkin, then discards it and gives Wren a shy smile. “Would you like to dance?”

Wren blinks. “Me?”

“No, Silas,” Micah says, deadpan. “Yes—you.”