Page 68 of How to Kill Your Rival

Coffin caws and hops towards the bedroom door, the shiny coin in his beak.

Conversation over, I guess.

I make my way to the family kitchen, not quite ready for a full-dining-room breakfast with the guests who stayed over.

I’m rooting around in the cupboards trying to locate bread when Mrs Cairns catches me and shoos me into a seat. She leaves and then reappears with a loaded plate of toast and toppings. The biggest pot of tea I’ve seen is set down beside my breakfast.

‘Thank you.’ I smile.

‘I don’t blame you for hiding out in here. Biggest bunch of arseholes through there.’ Mrs Cairns must see my expression because she laughs. ‘Not your family. Those twats from down south.’

Must be some of the Death Council guys.

‘If they’re bothering you, I can go and sort them out,’ I offer.

‘No, you eat up your toast. I’m sure you worked up quite the appetite last night.’

I nearly choke on the bit of buttered toast I’ve just eaten. What the fuck does that mean?

Heat rushes up my neck as the housekeeper pats my cheek and moves off to deal with the other breakfasters.

Fuck, has a member of staff seen Eliza and me?

Then I shake my head and pour a cup of tea. Let’s face it: in a big house like this, nothing gets past the staff.

I’m on my second cup of tea and scrolling through the news feed – nothing good – when Maggie slinks into the small kitchen and throws herself down onto the seat next to me.

Her hair is wilder than mine was. I imagine she and Roman likely got up to similar antics to Eliza and me. The two of them are still as loved up as ever. Even if they didn’t start their relationship in the most conventional manner.

‘No Roman this morning?’ I ask. I’d seen him at the party, but only briefly.

‘He’s still feeling a bit drunk, so he’s taken Gaston for a walk to try and sober up a bit. Clear his head, you know? Got to get cleared up for the wedding.’

Her oversized sweater slips off one shoulder as she lifts the gargantuan teapot and pours herself a cup, adding two heaped spoons of sugar and some milk.

She doesn’t normally bother with sugar.

‘Needing a buzz yourself?’ I say, nodding to the sugar pot.

‘Fuck, yes. Honestly, I need to nail a can of Irn-Bru or a flat Coke, but I’m working up the energy to locate one.’ Maggie butters her toast, then liberally covers it with strawberry jam.

‘Eliza came and found me last night,’ Maggie says, ‘after her trip to a certain library.’

I swallow my toast and wait for her to continue, putting my phone down.

‘Eliza told you?’

‘Indeed, and she was giddy as a fucking schoolgirl,’ Maggie says. ‘Flushed face, hair like she’d run through a howling gale. She crawled into my bed, thankfully, while Roman was passed out, and she bloody well swooned.’

There’s no hiding the smile that coats my face. Eliza swooning over me? It’s an addictive feeling.

‘She told me all about what went down with Vivienne and the truncated version of your nearly public tryst. Which, I mean, I can’t speak, but way to be a risky fuck.’

‘It wasn’t my idea…’

‘And then,’ Maggie continues, holding up a finger to shush me, ‘she told me that she’s falling for you. Eliza, the stone-cold sister. Falling for you. The way my flabbers were gasted.’

‘I’ll try not to be offended by that.’