Training can’t prepare a man for his end. In that moment, his spirit rises, and more often than not, death is the first to see his true face. —RAFE HARDY, CHIEF OF PRESIDENTIAL SECURITY
CHAPTER 16
By the time the Coppers clear Edmund’s hovercar for departure, I’ve already called Charlotte three times. I grip the armrest of my seat tighter with each unanswered ring until I give up and text Dickie instead.
He replies instantly: “We’ve got Lady Charlotte.”
I sink into the seat, my head tipping back as I let the weight go. My eyes close, opening only once we’re in motion. The Speakeasy shrinks to a smear of amber light as it fades behind us. The farther we drive, the easier it is to breathe. The adrenaline that’s been coursing through me all night finally burns out, and for the first time, I allow myself to believe the danger is over.
Charlotte is safe. I’m safe in Edmund’s entourage.
But I don’t feel safe.
I feel something is deeply wrong.
Heat rises under my skin, sharp as a sparking fuse, then vanishes just as quickly, replaced by a wash of deadening cold. Numbness prickles down my arms, stabbing through my hands until even my fingertips tingle with static.
My chest feels squeezed. Crushed. My heart beats too slowly, and the world around me is too loud and distant all at once. I try to take a breath, but the air feels too thick in my throat.
That’s when Edmund turns his head toward me. His forehead creases, and his voice sounds muffled, as if he’s talking underwater. “You’re going into shock, Miss Waldsten.”
He dims the cabin lights and slides a hand around my waist, gently cupping my head to lower me onto the seat. He unbuttons his suit jacket, reaches inside, and pulls a platinum pocket watch from a chain looped
through his vest. The watch rattles as he leans over the seat and presses it into my hand. My fingers barely curl around it.
“Hold it tighter,” Edmund says. “Use it as an anchor.”
My body starts to shake, but I squeeze until the platinum’s coldness bites into my skin. I focus on the watch’s midnight blue dial, where rhodium- plated indices gleam under the overhead lights, each set with a brilliant sapphire. The subdials tick in perfect rhythm, tracking nine time zones across the Civilized World. Altimor. I don’t recognize the brand, but the watch keeps me here, even if I feel only half-conscious.
In. Out. I focus on the second hand’s movement, the ridged bezel pressing against my thumb, and the fact that I’m still alive. I didn’t die. Someone else did. My grip on the watch loosens as I struggle to push away the memory of
the student’s swinging corpse.
Then the world slips sideways.
And I black out.
A familiar scent draws me back: bergamot, orange blossom, and something bitter beneath. I can’t remember where I first smelled the scent, but I know I hate it. It punches into my skull like a blade, and I gag.
I jerk upright, and my forehead slams into something warm and hard. I think I hear a bone crack. A loud grunt rings out, followed by an even louder curse. I blink through my blurred vision until the shape across from me comes into focus. Edmund is holding a cologne bottle in one hand and his nose in the other. Bright blue blood streams over his fingers, dripping onto the seat.
“I-I’m sorry.” My voice slurs. “Your face was right above—”
“Shit, woman.”
I wince as guilt flares. He tips his head back and tries to slow the bleeding.
“I said I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Why were you leaning over me like that?”
Edmund tosses the cologne bottle onto the carpet. “To bring you back before they stuck a toe tag on you.”
“You didn’t have to be close enough to steal my air.”
“Be grateful I bothered to make sure you had air to steal.”
The change in his language finally registers. “I am grateful,” I say. “For
your help and for finally speaking to me like a normal person.”
“This is how I always talk.” Edmund pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, chin lifted as he scrubs the blood away.
“I was sure you kept your nose too high in the air for that.”
“Is that why you broke it?” He shoves the handkerchief into his jacket with a grunt. “You will maintain all the rules of formal speech, Miss Waldsten, even if I choose not to.”
I shrug, pretending I’m not irritated enough to duck and roll out of the moving hovercar. “That is not a problem, Mr. Prew.”
While Edmund works to stop the bleeding, I turn away and rub my throbbing temples, vaguely aware of shapes blurring outside. The hovercar is still gliding over a cliffside road, so I was probably out for only a few minutes. Cypress trees rush by, distorted by the salty ocean wind, their branches clawing at the dark. Up ahead, a formation of security drones hovers in a phalanx formation, guarding a massive stone door embedded in the cliff face. The drones’ sensors scan us as we slip through the opening door and descend deep into a mountain tunnel.
I glance around the brightly lit shaft, confused. The Grandmaster University map says the Speakeasy can be reached only by hovership, but that’s clearly false. This road isn’t meant for students or even staff. It’s a secret path reserved for Blues like Edmund, and probably the Coppers as well. But if this road exists, how many more are out there? How many passageways twist beneath the campus, whole arteries of status running parallel to ours, just out of sight?
Nausea hits me, and I let my head fall against the window. I barely notice the sudden weight in my palm until I look down. A tube of rejuvenation cream, left there by Edmund. His nose has stopped bleeding, with only a slight redness remaining.
“Thank you,” I murmur, unscrewing the cap and spreading the cool cream over my injuries. The sting fades as it’s absorbed into numbness.
Edmund nods, retrieves the Altimor pocket watch from the seat beside me, and clips it to his vest. Then he leans back far enough that his shoulders sink into the cushions.
He looks both relaxed and tense at the same time. One moment, his forehead is smooth; the next, the skin appears stiff. His mouth presses flat, then loosens. His fingers tighten on the armrest, grip it, then release, then grip again. He looks like a horse that’s spotted a weakness in its pen, nudging it,
testing it, ready to batter it down and bolt, but not quite convinced it’s the right time.
Still, his breathing slows, as if something is rolling off his chest in heavy pieces.
Heavy as an engagement, maybe. A marriage he never wanted.
But I don’t ask.
I crack open the window, hoping the cold air will wash away the cologne.
That scent, still unnamed, clings to my lungs like a fingerprint. I want it gone.
I breathe deeper, until each inhale hurts a little less than the last.
The night’s horror is finally receding, tucked inside my mind like something half-asleep, but I know it’s still there. It’ll return, probably later tonight, as soon as I’m alone.
“How are you feeling?” Edmund asks as he syncs his Bond with the overhead holographic TV screen. His left eye flashes electric blue as he flips through channels, but I know he’s watching me, too.
The strange part is that it’s not with his usual condescension, as if I’m beneath him. No. This look is new. It’s still calculating, but more polite,
almost attentive.
It makes my skin crawl.
This can’t be kindness, not from him. Even I know Edmund Prew doesn’t change without a reason.
“I’m in your entourage, Mr. Prew, and it’s your duty to ensure nothing bad happens to me. I’d say I’m feeling perfect.”
A small, amused smile. “Glad I could help… again.”
He flips past The Civilized Voice.
“Wait.” I lurch forward, nearly dropping the tube of rejuvenation cream.
“Please. I wish to know if there is any news about my father.”
Edmund hesitates, then switches it back.
Benjamin Bogart’s striking face fills the screen, framed by rose bushes in full bloom. He stands outside the Golden Gate Manor, bathed in the amber glow of lampposts. Rose petals dance on the evening breeze, swirling upward before drifting away. The scene’s beauty is overshadowed by the cold gleam of his bulletproof purple suit.
“…that some are calling a miracle,” Bogart says, his voice edged with disbelief. “President Theodore Reeve was rushed to Pembroke Hospital, but his injuries are minor. Thanks to a daring intervention by a courageous low- citizen, the president is expected to make a swift recovery. We will speak
with the low-citizen shortly, but first, let us revisit the moment that shook the nation.”
The screen transitions to a sweeping aerial shot of the ballroom at the Golden Gate Manor. Men and women in formal attire mingle and dance among gilded columns adorned with daisy bouquets. It’s a sea of tuxedos and silk, with high-citizens and low-citizens eating, drinking, talking, and simply existing in a world vastly different from mine, where the struggle for political power flavors the very air they breathe.
At the center of it all is President Reeve. His blue suit cuts a mighty figure, and his poise is as solid as a mast in a storm. The crowd applauds as he mounts a marble stage to speak before the opening waltz.
Near the podium, his chief of security, Rafe Hardy, observes the crowd with gruff intensity. He’s an enormous Green, with legs like tree trunks and a long scar across his dark-skinned cheek. Dad says Rafe has protected Reeve long before he became president, but in all that time, he’s only ever heard Rafe speak a few words.
To the left of the stage, a group of politicians who support the Bliss Prohibition Act watches with approval. Among them is Dad. His satin tuxedo blends into the crowd, but his posture is all sharp edges, as if he’s not here to socialize. His gaze flicks over Reeve now and then, stoic yet attentive.
Reeve speaks of unity, weaving a vision of high-citizens and low-citizens working together for the good of the Civilized World. Applause ripples through the room as he paints a picture of a stronger, fairer society. But when he mentions the Bliss Prohibition Act, the atmosphere seems to sour.
“With the ban in place,” Reeve continues, “we shall finally be a nation without a crutch, a nation without—”
A loud, jarring pop cuts through his words. The crowd gasps, then falls silent for a fraction of a second. Rafe Hardy moves, his hand twitching toward his pistol as his eyes scan the ballroom.
Another pop, louder this time.
The video slows, each frame lingering in agonizing detail. The first angle shows two plasma bullets carving through the air, leaving streaks of searing light. As they arc toward Reeve, the camera tracks their trajectory: two shots
aimed directly at his forehead.
Then comes the flash.
Winston Glass’s shield, brilliant and impossible, erupts in a burst of light that engulfs Reeve in a protective wall of energy. The pulse is so powerful it
knocks Rafe Hardy back, slamming him into the wall and dropping him to the floor. My heart thunders as I take in the sight. From this angle, the shield is overwhelming, as if Reeve stands at the center of the sun itself. The plasma bullets slam into the shield with relentless force, the first bullet disintegrating on impact. The shield pulses once, twice, then jagged cracks spread across its surface, and the shield shatters. The second bullet breaks through and grazes Reeve’s shoulder.
Chaos erupts so violently that I barely see the blur of motion slam into Reeve. Dad. Amazement and terror hit me at once as he tackles the president, driving him to the ground as a third shot cracks through the air. Dad’s arms lock around Reeve, twisting to shield him. Dad’s back forms a barrier, bracing for the bullet, but it speeds past and hits the wall behind them with a dull thud.
Pride burns through me, and I can barely see the rest of the footage through the hot tears in my eyes. Rafe Hardy staggers to his feet. Behind him, a wave of Coppers floods the stage, a thunder of boots and drawn weapons.
As they form a barricade around the Reeve and Dad, the camera pans to the ballroom, where high-citizens and low-citizens alike scramble over each other in a frenzied stampede toward the exits. Screams slice the air, tangled with the shriek of alarms and the Coppers’ barked commands as they work to secure an escape route.
Back on stage, the camera zooms in on Dad. His face, streaked with Reeve’s blue blood, is hard to look at, carved with a desperation so fierce it’s clear he’s driven by more than political loyalty.
My thoughts flash back to the photo in the Blue lounge: Dad and Reeve, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning as if they had the world in their pockets. Now, that history between them reveals itself in the way Dad shields Reeve with his body, holding his hands steady even as they’re
drenched in Reeve’s blood.
He’s not just protecting the president.
He’s protecting his friend.
The Coppers escort Dad and Reeve away behind a moving wall of bulletproof shields. The camera zooms out to reveal the aftermath. The ballroom is a wasteland of overturned chairs, shattered glass, and discarded stilettos. The scene lingers briefly, the destruction clashing with the opulence, before the screen cuts back to Bogart.
He’s still standing in the rose garden, but now Dad is beside him. I’m only
half-aware of Edmund watching me as a tear drips from my chin onto my clenched hands. I’ve never felt a desire so strong as the one that hits me now.
I wish I could be with Dad, hugging him and telling him how proud and grateful I am—despite the Bliss ban, despite everything it’s cost our family, and despite what it might cost us in the future.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand as Bogart interviews Dad about the assassination attempt, praising his courageous intervention that saved the president. Dad stands tall in his tailcoat tuxedo, looking put together except for a swollen welt on the side of his cheek. Bogart calls him the man who stood between Reeve and death. Dad downplays the credit, pointing instead to Winston Glass’s energy shield.
“Your dad?” Edmund asks, nodding toward the screen.
The question pulls me back to the hovercar and the cold press of leather against my back. “Yes,” I reply, not bothering to hide the pride in my voice.
Edmund watches the feed silently for a moment. His brows are slanted downward, narrowed in thought, as if he’s slotting this new variable into place and trying to predict the fallout.
“Your life’s going to be different now,” he tells me.
From the way he says it, I can’t tell whether he means for better or worse.
I’m about to ask when I notice his eyes drift from my face down to my chest.
I know what he’s searching for. My fingers brush the bruised skin beneath the fabric of my gown where my energy shield used to be. I mentioned the shield when I told Edmund about Irene’s attack. He hadn’t seemed interested
then, at least not the way he is now.
And he’s not the only one.
By morning, half the Civilized World will be scrambling to get their hands on Winston Glass’s shields. What happened tonight is history, rewritten in real time and broadcast live into every home. The defense technology no one thought possible has finally become a reality.
For decades, our brightest minds tried and failed to develop personal energy shields. They were just theories, a whisper of possibility locked behind layers of impossible science. But from adaptive sensing to live calibration, Winston Glass managed to break through every barrier. He was already respected for inventing the Bond, but this achievement will immortalize him.
“I don’t have the shield anymore,” I say. “I lent it to a Copper.”
“Lent it?” Edmund smiles to himself, and I know he thinks it was stupid to
let the shield out of my sight. Maybe it was. But I don’t regret helping
Sergeant Croft.
“Yes. Lent it.”
“Well, I hope you weren’t too attached. The Copper’s probably already got it listed for a fortune. Hell, maybe I’ll take it off his hands myself.”
It’s possible. But Sergeant Croft struck me as one of the good ones. Even if I’m not sure he’ll give it back, I want to believe he will.
When Edmund switches off the television, I forget all about the shield.
The screen goes dark, taking the rose garden, Bogart, and, worst of all, Dad with it. It’s a cruel reminder that I’m not with him and that we’re fighting on entirely different battlefields.
I turn my head enough to view Edmund’s profile, dimming as the electric blue light fades from his left eye. “Please, Mr. Prew. I wish to finish the
interview.”
“Bogart’s gonna rerun it all week.”
The hovercar veers smoothly inland. Through the window, the ocean line falls away behind us. In its place, the manicured lawns and iron-crowned hedgerows of campus rise. We’re still ten minutes from the dormitories, plenty of time to hear the rest of Dad’s interview.
But Edmund holds the line.
“The Coppers will pay you a visit,” he says. “Tomorrow. Maybe tonight.”
His voice is so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it takes me a moment to grasp what he means. “For a witness statement?”
“Yeah. But that’s just the start. There will be a trial, Miss Waldsten.”
A trial. The word falls like a gavel, and suddenly his slight lean toward niceness makes sense.
“How convenient for you, Mr. Prew, that I’m now in your entourage,” I say. “You need me.”
Edmund’s head tilts coolly, just enough to feign confusion. “Need is a strong word, Miss Waldsten. I need to take a piss right now. I need a good whiskey on Saturdays. I don’t need you.”
“I think you do,” I say. “I think you need me to testify against your
fiancée.”
He doesn’t deny it.
And now I see it all too clearly: Edmund didn’t bring me into his entourage out of generosity or even to honor our formal agreement. He did it because he had no choice. I’m the one thing standing between him and his
freedom.
If I die before they get me on the stand, there’s no case. Irene walks free, and Edmund is trapped in marriage to her. That’s why I’m here. That’s why he’s suddenly playing nice. He’s not protecting me; he’s protecting his witness.
“To be clear,” Edmund says, “yeah, I want you to testify against Miss Hussey, but you’re gonna be called to testify no matter what.”
“Yes,” I agree, “but now I have leverage.”
The lines in his face deepen.
“I will not be used and discarded at your convenience,” I continue. “Do not think I failed to notice the time constraint you placed on my entourage membership. One year is precisely enough to see the trial through. Precisely enough until my usefulness expires. Then you intend to cast me—”
“We’re not friends, Miss Waldsten,” Edmund cuts in. “We’re not even allies. I don’t owe you anything beyond what we agreed to.”
“You do,” I say, “if you wish for me to cooperate.”
He leans closer, the movement a challenge. “So, you’re threatening me
now?”
“I am negotiating.”
He tips his chin up, eyes narrowing as if trying to spot the bluff in my
face.
But he won’t find one.
Edmund doesn’t realize my reasons for hating Irene Hussey run deeper than revenge. He doesn’t know what her family did to mine, how they tried to ruin Dad’s career by killing his bills and dragging his name through the press like a corpse on parade. Until the day the Bliss Prohibition Act passed, Edmund wouldn’t have been able to pick my family out of a lineup of Pinkies. If he calls my bluff, it’ll be for one reason and one reason only.
Because liars recognize other liars.
Edmund’s hand closes slowly around his Altimor watch, as if fighting the urge to pitch it across the hovercar. For a long moment, he stares at me in silence, a tendon twitching in his jaw. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat. “Tell me what you want.”
A warm sense of triumph floods me, but I keep it off my face. “No more formalities,” I say, dropping the refined speech right there.
“Fine. Is that it?”
“No. I want personal time—after six on weekdays and after three on
weekends. I’m not spending the entire year strapped to your side like a saber.”
“Saber?” Edmund jerks a thumb toward my waist. “You’d be the empty scabbard.”
I narrow my eyes, and he laughs, clearly pleased with himself.
Then he adds, “Fine. But stick to low-citizen zones.”
“Your entourage badge won’t protect me?”
“Not from my kind.”
I nod despite my confusion. It’s hard to imagine anyone, even a high- citizen, crossing blades with a Prew. Some names are off-limits. Or at least they used to be. I think about how Irene was cuffed earlier and dragged off like a Heretic. The Husseys used to be untouchable, too. Now she’s in custody, a prisoner in full view, and no one tried to stop it. They stood by and watched, the same way we all do every morning, as students are marched to the guillotine.
“All right, I’ll stick to low-citizen zones,” I say as the hovercar descends and eases to a stop.
A Pinkie circles around and opens the door, letting in a rush of voices that stretch each syllable. I stop, one foot instinctively sliding back. This isn’t where I thought we were going.
The Blue Dormitory towers like a mountain, its upper floors so high they obscure the starlight. The walls gleam in the darkness, a fusion of striated marble, pale stone, and dark ironwork that weaves like vines. Light seeps from the arched windows in warm ribbons, too carefully curated to feel inviting. Like everything at Grandmaster, the Blue Dormitory’s beauty has teeth.
At the curb, Pinkies in rose-colored uniforms rush to welcome the stream of incoming hovercars, guiding each into the underground parking garage.
Blues, returning from the Speakeasy, step out in clicking shoes and flaring coats. A few are already heading through the dormitory entrance, a grand portico with gold-leafed archways. Beyond, mirrored elevators wait, their doors yawning open to carry the Blues to their private suites.
Edmund unbuckles his fencing scabbard, drops it on the seat between us,
then steps out. “Follow me.”
“It’s after midnight,” I point out.
“Won’t take long.”
I still don’t move. More than I don’t want to enter a Blue’s suite alone at
this hour, I don’t want to be seen doing it.
“Give me a good reason to go in there.”
“Privacy,” Edmund says. “Unless you’d prefer an audience for whatever argument you plan to start next.”
“I wasn’t planning to argue. I was planning to sleep. You can pick me up in the morning.”
Edmund leans back into the cabin, close enough that I catch the metallic tang of blood from the scratch on his neck. “Is it physically possible for that mouth of yours to ever say yes?”
“Yes.” I smile pointedly. “Is it physically possible for yours to ever stop firing orders?”
“That would contradict its design.” His gaze drops to my bare, bloodied feet. “My sister left some shoes in my suite you can borrow—unless you’d prefer to walk back to the Green Dormitory like that and risk losing civil credits.”
I set my teeth, irritated that he has a point. While I don’t hate following orders on principle, obeying the Blues feels different, like blowing a kiss to the system I despise. After all the civil credits I’ve lost tonight, I can’t afford
to lose any more.
“Fine,” I say.
I scoot out of the hovercar, startled when Edmund’s hand briefly closes around mine and helps me down. As soon as my feet hit the cobblestones, he slips that same hand into his pocket, turns, and heads for the entrance.
“What happened to not touching me because you’re engaged?” I call after him.
His laugh is a dry scrape. “The rule-maker is above the rules.”
He keeps walking, and I cup my bare arms against a sudden gust of wind.
Then I bend back into the hovercar to retrieve my daffodil brooch, which fell onto the floor rug when I fainted. I hold my breath to avoid inhaling the cologne’s stench again. Edmund’s gleaming saber lies on the seat like a forbidden fruit I’m not allowed to touch. Something about the way it sits there, carelessly left yet perfectly positioned, catches in my mind like a thread
tugging loose.
The scent.
I remember it now.
Charles Blackwell wore the same cologne the day he tried to kill me.
Edmund’s dormitory suite is a mansion in the sky. Room after spacious room unspools before me, dripping with luxury. The marble floors are veined with gold, and the ceilings are adorned with hand-painted frescoes. Velvet drapes spill from towering windows, framing a campus bathed in moonlight. The walls shimmer with gilded paper, their colors as vivid as a flock of parrots.
The only thing Edmund’s suite shares with mine is the view, a perfect line of sight to the Guillotine Yard below.
I glance around, taking in the newness of every mosaic medallion and wall sconce. Edmund’s suite must’ve been one of the ones gutted and redone
during the Blue Dormitory renovations.
Which explains why we’re staying.
This year, classes at Grandmaster started two weeks later than usual due to the renovations at the Blue Dormitory, and to make up for it, we won’t get a winter break. The gates will stay closed, and every student on campus will be kept from their families for two full semesters.
I wipe a little mud off my bare foot onto the sparkling clean floor as a Pinkie greets us in the grand foyer. The robot offers Edmund a glass of brandy, which he accepts with a dip of his chin. When the Pinkie moves to take his coat, he strides past it, as if he already has a destination in mind.
I follow Edmund through an art gallery of gold-framed paintings and sculptures under glass domes. Next, a library tiered with carved balconies and draped with rugs so soft you could sleep on them. Then, a training room paneled in polished wood and equipped with fencing gear. When we reach the dining room, voices crash into us, revealing an argument in full swing.
One voice cuts through them all.
“Turn on that light, Dickie,” Charlotte snaps. “And I’ll turn off yours.”
Relief settles in briefly before I hear a sharp crack. Edmund’s brandy glass shatters in his grip, amber liquid splashing onto his shirt sleeve. His shoulders tense, and his face hardens with a fury so visceral that it’s clear he didn’t expect Charlotte to be here.
The crunch of broken crystal echoes beneath his patent leather shoes as he quickens his stride through an arched doorway into a private bar, where poker and billiards tables sit unused beneath stained-glass ceiling lamps. By the bar, Charlotte huddles in a blanket, her legs drawn to her chest. Jack and Dickie
flank her, Jack frowning through the upturned visor of his hoverbike helmet, Dickie stroking her shoulder comfortingly. Charlotte’s face is mostly hidden beneath the blanket, but I see enough to know she’s shaken.
Edmund halts beneath the doorframe. He towers there, glaring, his gaze ricocheting between Jack and Dickie like a blade seeking its mark.
“But, Ed,” Dickie says, stepping away from Charlotte, guilt flashing in his eyes. “We had to help her. She was out cold, and—”
Edmund snaps his fingers. “Dining room.”
Dickie shoots an uneasy glance at Jack, who grabs a bottle of whiskey from the bar. He pops the cork, his expression grim as he follows Edmund out. The instant the door closes, anger erupts in muffled roars. Voices clash and overlap until I can’t tell who’s shouting what.
Still wrapped in the blanket, Charlotte pulls it higher around her head. Her silence is heavy, somehow louder than the fight raging next door. I search for signs of injury as I approach. Nothing. At least, nothing visible. I reach for the light switch to get a better look.
“Don’t.” Her voice wavers, barely a whisper.
I pull back and study her huddled shape. The blanket is wrapped around her tighter than a shoelace knot. “Why not? Char, what the hell happened?”
Charlotte’s throat works as she swallows, and her fingers twist the corner of the blanket. “The shot I chose was spiked,” she rasps. “After the Coppers left, I blacked out. When I woke up, Jack was carrying me out.” She pauses, her words faltering. “Well… most of me.”
“Most?” The word burns my throat.
Charlotte hesitates, and her eyes dart to the shadows as if they might offer escape. Then, slowly, she lowers the blanket.
The sight knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
Her hair… It’s gone. It’s been shaved into a jagged, uneven buzz cut that reveals the curve of her skull.
“Go ahead.” Charlotte pulls the blanket back up with shuddering hands.
“Say it. I’m hideous.”
“Char, no—”
“You don’t have to lie,” she says flatly. “I might as well not have my head.”
My voice stutters as shock catches up. “But I sent three Pinkies to protect you.”
“Yeah, and Rosamund cut them all to pieces.”
“Rosamund? How do you know it was her?”
Charlotte’s jaw hardens, fingers digging into the blanket. A tear trembles at the corner of her eye, and she brushes it away with a rough swipe.
“Because she left a mark.”
Charlotte turns her head to reveal the back of her scalp, where a deep, jagged cut in the shape of an R splits the skin. As I stare at the sharp edges, realizing a saber blade was used, the room seems to warp around me.
I don’t remember kneeling or reaching for Charlotte. All I know is that I’m holding her now, clutching her so tightly it feels like I’m trying to hold in my guts. I always thought the worst part of my weapons restriction was that I couldn’t defend myself. Now I realize what’s truly worse: being powerless to protect the people I love.
“You told Jack, right? Now he knows who—”
“No. The minute he asked me who did it, I knew it was pointless. He only sees what he wants to see.”
I think Charlotte is wrong. I think Jack might see Rosamund differently if he knew. But I don’t press. I search for a solution, anything that could help her. Rosamund must’ve realized how much Charlotte’s hair meant to her, how it was the only part of herself she didn’t pull apart and scrutinize.
I try to keep my voice gentle, but it comes out rough, sharpened by my anger. “I’ve got a hair growth cream in my suite. It’ll take a few weeks, but —”
“Wait,” Charlotte gasps, snatching my hand. The blanket slips from her shoulders as she leans in, examining the dried blood on my knuckles. “Who the hell did this?”
“Irene,” I say. “She tried to kill me, so I joined Edmund’s entourage.”
Charlotte’s slow, blinking reaction is more restrained than I expected. She pulls a cigarette case from her pocket, sniffing as a tear slides down the edge of her nose. The flame trembles as she lights a cigarette with a flick of her thumb. “Guess you were right, then,” she says.
“About what?”
“You said that if we keep running, it’s who we are. Maybe we ran too long.”
My eyes drop to her Blood Ring, and I suddenly realize. “You joined Edmund’s entourage, too?”
“Not yet, but I’m about to.” Charlotte’s fingers brush the cut on her scalp.
“I already tried to keep my pride. Look where it got me.” She pauses, and a
bitter laugh sticks in her throat. “You can’t fight because you’re not allowed, Lore. I can’t fight because I never learned. If Rosamund challenges me to a death duel, I’ll go down like a damn weed.”
Charlotte grips my wrist, and the pressure aches with surrender. Still, I know there’s no judgment between us anymore. Neither of us wants this, but wanting has nothing to do with survival.
“Don’t forget what I told you about the spider, Lore,” Charlotte says, her tone turning severe. “We might be safe with Edmund for now, but she’ll find a way in. She always does. Rosamund doesn’t just want to be near Jack and Edmund—she wants to own them.”
“Why?” I ask. “We’re not dating them. All we need is protection.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Charlotte plants her elbows on the bar top and sighs wearily. “In Rosamund’s head, just standing near them is stepping on her claim. That woman would cut her own throat if she thought it would make Jack or Edmund look her way.” Charlotte blows out a stream of smoke, then stares me dead in the eye. “The minute you joined Edmund’s entourage, you declared war. So, saber or not, get ready to fucking fight.”
I nod, feeling a twinge of fear, until a flash of blue catches my eye.
I turn and spot Edmund leaning in the doorway, arms folded, a single loose curl falling across his forehead. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need
to.
He owes Charlotte, and he knows it.
I study his face, marred by a proud, angry scowl that burns with
resentment for both of us.
But I don’t care.
It’s the face of our freedom.
