Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone will know you don’t belong in our circle,” she said, as if she were doing me a favor by warning me.
I stayed silent. Not because I agreed. Because I refused to feed her.
Margaret reached for the collar. “It looks like a discount knockoff,” she declared. “The beadwork is clumsy, and this silk is clearly synthetic.”
David’s hand tightened on my back. “Mom,” he warned.
Margaret ignored him. She flipped the collar to check the label.
Her face changed so quickly it was almost startling.
The blood drained from her cheeks. Her lips parted. Her eyes widened like she’d seen a ghost.
“This is impossible,” she stammered.
Beatrice leaned in. “What is it?”
Margaret’s voice came out thin. “This can’t be authentic.”
I watched her carefully, my heart steady now.
“How would you possibly—” Margaret began, then stopped, because the words couldn’t find a path around her shock.
“It’s genuine,” I said quietly.
Beatrice’s mouth dropped open. “Who—who would give you something like this?”
“A gift,” I said. “From my godmother.”
“Your godmother?” Beatrice echoed, incredulous.