All This Time

5 ⦿ in which i meet the it-girl

December 22, 2010 11:00 a.m.

I am so far out of my depth that I forget to breathe. Only the decisive click of the door as it swings shut shakes me out of my stupor and I breathe that sweet, sweet air again. Only it's not really fresh air, but the expensive scent of polished wood, pine needles, and warm vanilla candles.

We're standing in an enormous foyer that looks more like a ballroom. Horizontal slats of cherry wood cover the floor and a gleaming mahogany table gets pride of place in the center of the room. A pink marble ballerina is poised in a pirouette on the table, her legs impossibly long and thin. It was the kind of objet d'art that would have already smashed into smithereens in my parent's house but Wolf's house is so magazine-cover perfect that I would warrant that nothing in this place even had a crack or smudge on it.

Arched carpeted stairs wrap around both sides of the foyer, leading to the next floor. Nestled cozily into the curve of the bannisters on each side is a large pine tree, replete with red and gold ornaments. Soft notes of jazz make my ears prick with awareness and I look at Xander with wide eyes. He merely grins, like this was the reaction he expected.

"Please see that this is brought up to Miss Wright's room, Humphrey," Wolfram instructs, depositing my luggage into the butler's waiting arms.

A blush suffuses my cheeks. The butler has to be at least sixty and I have two perfectly strong, healthy legs. I'm not used to letting someone else do my work for me but the protest dies on my lips at the warning look Wolfram shoots me, like a parent silently reproaching a child to ward off any potential misbehavior.

"At once, sir," the butler replies pleasantly. I suddenly notice the distinctive lack of a Dutch accent. His words are accented in crisp, mellifluous English.

"Wolf!" a female voice calls out and my gaze is drawn upwards. From the left staircase, a young woman is descending, her form-fitting emerald sweater-dress clinging to her impossibly-tiny waist and flaring out just long enough to cover her ass, barely skimming the tops of her thighs. Even from this distance, I can tell she's beautiful. While all three of us are watching her, my raised eyes notice the deer antler chandelier on top of the gently vaulted ceiling. It's paranoid of me but I subtly shift out of the way; I've seen too many movies where a chandelier crashes down atop an unsuspecting victim. My shimmy moves me closer to Xander and the girl's eyes hone in on me, narrowing.

"I take it this is the girl?" She doesn't even address me.

"This is Charlotte Wright," Wolfram says, taking a step aside in order to gesture toward me with an elaborate hand flourish.

"My best friend," Xander chimes, shrugging an arm across my shoulders.

I wish he didn't; now the girl is forced to look at me and I can tell by the cool way her eyes move from my shoes to my eyes in a slow, languorous show of boredom that she's less than impressed. Her hair is set in large brown curls that would rival Blair Waldorf's, and jade teardrop earrings twinkle in her ears the same shade as the verdant headband peeping out at the top of her head. Her eyes are the same shade of iron as Wolfram's, except hers are fringed in black mascara and a thin, clean line of winged eyeliner.

"And this is my sister, Graeme," Wolfram says. The similarity is obvious now that I see them side by side.

"Charmed," the brunette says with a coquettish smile. "That's spelled G-R-A-E-M-E."

I guess she's a girl who's had to put up with some teasing in her life about having a boy's name. "It's a beautiful name," I offer.

Graeme smirks. "Yes." Her eyes slant at me, suddenly looking feline and sly. "And Charlotte is lovely, as well. Named after the pig, are you?"