The Crimson Coat

Frivolous Spenders

CHAPTER 3

ROAN'S P.O.V

My woollen blanket is abruptly ripped away from my body.  I wake with a start and curl into a tight ball in attempt to maintain my body heat.

“I said, get up,” Simone sings, leaning down so her lips almost touch my ear.

I make a guttural sound of displeasure and roll further to one side of the bed to put some distance between us. 

She sighs dramatically, “Come on, up you pop,” she teases in a melodic tone.

Apparently she’s chosen to forget that I’m still angry with her from last night’s events.  I turn this over in my mind and decided it’s best to follow suit.  There’s not a lot of purpose in prolonging an argument with Simone.  She deflects any insult you throw at her and she does have a point in that it was my first hunt. 

I massage my eyes with the heels of my hands, rubbing the sleep out of them before sitting up.  Simone is regarding me with an expectant expression.  She’s dressed in her coal coloured knee high boots and dark winter coat.  Her hair looks even whiter against the black clothing choice. 

“Going somewhere?” I ask groggily.

“We sure are.  Come on, get dressed.”

“Tired.” I groan.

“That’s a brilliant self-diagnosis Roan,” she exclaims in an overly perky voice with just a pinch of sarcasm, “I believe the cure is getting out of the house and actually doing something.”

“I do stuff,” I mutter resentfully.

“We got here last Tuesday and it’s already Sunday.  It’s been almost a week and all we’ve done is unpack boxes.  Tomorrow you’ll rush off to school and I’ll go get myself a job and we’ll be eternally busy.  I just want a day with my little sister to check out the new town.”

I chew my lower lip.  She sees me considering it and takes the opportunity to go for my weak spot.

“We could go to an antiques store.  You can feel up mahogany dressers while I drink coffee and check out hot shop assistants.  What do you say?”

She wears the smile that says she knows she’s won.  I don’t give her the satisfaction of a verbal answer; I just push myself off the bed and head for my wardrobe.  Simone makes a squealing noise of delight before leaving me to change.

I pull on a comfortable pair of jeans and my purple coat, then meet Simone at the foot of the stairs.  She grins until she sees my shoes. 

“What are you wearing, my dear girl?”

“Leave me alone,” I say, ignoring her, moving towards the door.  She catches my arm and reels me back.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Change them.”

“But I like them.”

“I will not be seen with a girl who wears those shabby sneakers out in public.”

“Well, don’t be seen with me then.  Go by yourself.  I didn’t arrange this outing.”

“Roan,” she takes my hand in hers like she’s about to impart crucial information, “You’d look so stylish if you’d just let me choose your shoes.”

“No one will be looking at my feet,” I protest.

*** 

Ten minutes later Simone has forced my feet into a pair of her caramel lace-up heels.  Her feet are half a size smaller and that, paired with how I’d never really worn high heels, ended with me walking around town in a sizable amount of pain and mine.