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didn’t strike me as emo; I couldn’t think why laughter would make him pause. There were already so many versions of Ethan, but this one was clearly the most dangerous.
    I could actually like this Ethan.
    He cleared his throat. “I meant actual cougars,” he added. “Like really big cats.”
    “Well, shit,” I said. “Do we live in a zoo?”
    “Dad did used to have peacocks.”
    “Peacocks,” I repeated.
    “He likes having things no one else has,” Ethan said, and the layer of scorn was back in his voice. “Peacocks are rare around here. Also, loud and obnoxious. And then they crapped on Dad’s Porsche and he nearly shot one.”
    “What happened to them?” I would have noticed peacocks in the gardens.
    “Abby managed to lure them into a crate and then took them to an animal sanctuary. She has a habit of cleaning up his messes.”
    Something about the studied nonchalance in his face made me press. Because I was a pro at studied nonchalance, and it always hid something else. “Abby and your dad. They’re not…you know?” I asked, suddenly horrified. She might be a grandmother, but she wasn’t that old. It was conceivable.
    Thank God, he shook his head. “Not that I know of. Abby’s not his type.”
    “I’ll bet.” He probably dated sophisticated French women, and Abby was flannel and garden dirt under her nails. Mr. Blackwood was expensive cologne and handmade suits.
    Ethan shrugged. “She can’t be bought off with diamonds and trips to the Riviera.”
    “She might be bought with new power tools,” I said.
    “Dad wouldn’t know a hacksaw from a chainsaw. And anyway, he needs her. She keeps the house running.”
    “Some house,” I said as we drove past the guardhouse and up to the castle, gleaming like something out of a fairy tale. Shutters closed over Ethan’s face.
    “Yeah, some house,” he said, getting out of the car. “Side door’s that way.” He flicked his hand idly before loping up the front stairs without a backward glance.
    The prince had returned. And clearly I was Cinderella, relegated to the back kitchens. Whatever. It was stupid to feel hurt. I didn’t care what Ethan thought of me anyway.
    The kitchen was warm and fragrant, as usual. Clare was cheerfully chopping at raw pink meat with a huge cleaver. Abby was sitting at the pine table, drinking coffee. She looked up. “Kia Alcott.”
    So much for her being so glad to have me here. “Hi.”
    “Don’t you ‘hi’ me, young lady.”
    I sighed, flinging my bag onto a chair. “That sounded downright parental, Abby.”
    Her cup clattered when she set it down. I could see her taking a deep breath. I nearly told her to count to ten, the way Mr. Yang taught me, but I didn’t think it would help.
    “Your principal called.”
    I leaned my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands. “He’s actually a headmaster.”
    “Are you trying to be obnoxious?”
    I grinned despite myself. “No, it’s just a gift.”
    “You’re wet and you smell like smoke. Your headmaster”—she stressed the word tightly—“called to tell me my granddaughter set fire to the girls’ bathroom at the prestigious Havencrest Academy, to which her acceptance should be considered an honor.”
    “I didn’t set the bathroom on fire,” I said. “There was a fire in the garbage can. Someone else must have thrown a match or a cigarette in there or something.” I repeated the lie.
    “Justine said you set the fire when you cornered her.”
    “How exactly would I do that if I was cornering her? And why would I bother?” I stood up sharply, my chair scraping on the floor. Clare paused, cleaver hovering. “And was this about the time she and her two friends shoved me against the sinks?”
    Abby stood up, too, her brown eyes narrowing. “She did what?”
    “Never mind,” I said, suddenly tired. It was like the incident with Peter. He’d grabbed me first, but because there were no witnesses and I had a better right jab, it was obviously my