When I first met Edmund Prew, I felt as if our fates were meant to be intertwined. The feeling was so overwhelming, so undeniable, that I
knew then he wasn’t a stranger. —IRENE HUSSEY
CHAPTER 17
Over the next few days, I limit the time I spend alone, knowing what awaits me in the silence: Irene’s voice in my ear, the cold edge of her threat as she tried to blackmail me into becoming her rat. The violent recoil of her bullet as it ricocheted off the energy shield. The sprint down the corridor and the scramble into the ceiling shaft, with the deathstalkers inches behind. Worst of all, the student hanging from a noose over the Diamond floor, his lifeless form swinging as the Blues jeered below.
So I avoid my suite.
I stay out late until my body is so worn down that I crash the instant the door closes behind me. Out here, in the public eye, there’s no room for tears, breakdowns, or nightmares. Instead, I exist in the quiet space between, as if the world has exhaled, and I’m left drifting in the breath it left behind.
I’m quiet when I give my statement to the Coppers. I’m quiet when I walk Mom and Dad through the attack over a video call. I’m quiet when I sit through my lectures, working hard to expel the violent memories, locking them out with the thought that should’ve been my last before I thought I’d die. The only hours I find reprieve are during gymnastics training, too exhausted by new floor routines to consider anything beyond exercise. Or when I lock myself in my suite, with the curtains drawn, and practice with my dull fencing stick.
No one would understand how I feel, even if I tried to explain it.
No one except Hillaire.
I understand her now in ways I never did before. She’s stood here too, on
the line between living and dying.
Three years ago, Vivian and I convinced Hillaire to take a boat out on the river with us during a storm. The river is always choppy, but it’s even wilder in a storm, with foam-tipped water rushing down from the mountains past Waldsten Mansion. Hillaire didn’t want to go with us; she hates risk. Every decision must be carefully planned, and every activity scheduled and logged in her daily routine. But Vivian and I begged, laughed, and teased until she finally gave in.
The river was brutal, its cold, angry waves rocking our boat as if in warning. Currents twisted beneath like unseen hands trying to snatch us. We hadn’t been out five minutes when a wave struck our boat broadside, flipping the hull. Vivian and I surfaced, coughing and shivering, clawing our way to the dock. But Hillaire… she was nowhere.
We screamed her name as we searched, our voices swallowed by the storm. Terrified, we called our Pinkies, then Dad and Mom, then the Coppers.
They organized a search party. Vivian and I stayed rooted at the dock, shivering and sick with guilt. We thought we’d killed our sister.
An hour later, the Coppers found her. She was a mile downstream, not far from our tree fort in the forest, trudging along the shoreline. Her body was caked in mud, her clothes torn, and her face stiff with shock, as if she’d seen something horrifying beneath the water. Hillaire was cradling her arm, which was wrapped in a bloody tourniquet made from a scrap of her pants.
Her hand was gone.
Only a jagged, bloodied stump remained.
To this day, we still don’t know how she lost it. She never told us what happened, even when Vivian and I begged her to explain. Her behavior didn’t change, at least on the surface. She was the same Hillaire in almost every
way.
Except for one.
She never took a risk again.
THE DAY DEMOCRACY STOOD STILL
By the Tattler, Tattletale Grandmaster University, October 1st
Some call the assassination attempt on our great and glorious President Theodore Reeve a “Blue conspiracy.”
Others prefer the dramatic flair of “a foiled coup.” But let us not mince words. The fateful night of September 27th was far more than political treachery. It was THE DAY DEMOCRACY STOOD STILL. A day when twenty-eight high-citizens, paragons of privilege and propriety, chose betrayal over duty, aiming to remake the law in their image and for their own gain. Shocking, is it not?
Yesterday, fresh from his discharge at Pembroke Hospital, President Reeve returned to the Golden Gate Manor to a thunderous show of support. The silence among his peers, once deafening, has given way to a chorus of contrition. The high-citizens who stood idle are now rallying around President Reeve, granting him the mandate to deliver justice.
Twenty-six Blues are under house arrest, awaiting trial for crimes that defy comprehension.
Let us outline the specifics. Two Blues are charged with the brazen attempt on President Reeve’s life. Six face allegations of murdering two low-citizen representatives who supported the Bliss Prohibition Act. Eight more are accused of snuffing out the promising lives of three Grandmaster University students, and ten stand accused of attempting to do the same to three other students. Grim math, indeed.
The Civilized World watches now with bated breath, for if convicted, these high-citizens will face the ultimate sentence: public execution. The guillotine, long reserved for the lowest among us, is poised to claim its first high-citizen heads.
History waits. Justice looms. And you can trust the Tattler to keep you informed every step of the way.
I close the Tattletale article, my eyes dry from staring too long. The words don’t feel real. They read like a cruel joke, as if the page will dissolve into mocking laughter and be replaced by a giant middle finger.
I move to the window of my suite and crack it open enough to let the birdsong drift in from the gardens below. The melody flutters, light and carefree, as if in ridicule of the crushing weight that hangs over the campus.
Outside, the morning sun burns sharply; its rays cut clean through the cloudless sky, so bright they bleach the Guillotine Yard and reduce it to a hazy blur.
For the first time, the guillotine doesn’t feel like a threat.
At least, not to me.
Justice. The word feels like a stranger in my mind. It’s something low- citizens like me aren’t supposed to rely on, let alone believe in. All my life, the rules were fixed: Blues stood high, the rest of us low. And that was that.
No exceptions or possibilities of change, just thirsty, wilting dreams.
But now, everything seems different. Loyalties have shifted. Power has changed hands. Goals that once seemed unshakable have crumbled in days.
The entire political landscape has been turned on its head, and every step feels precarious, teetering between victory and defeat.
And yet, for the first time, I feel a flicker of hope. I can’t help but reach for it, clinging to the thought that maybe the days ahead could bring something new. Something good.
“Miss Waldsten. Mr. Prew’s vehicle has arrived to collect you.”
I glance up to see a Pinkie standing in the doorway. It’s designed to resemble a young man, with slicked-back dark hair and a pencil mustache.
Going from six Pinkies to only one feels like a steep drop, but as long as I remain in Edmund’s entourage, it’s enough.
I grab my bag and head down to the lobby of the Green Dormitory. The butterfly doors glide open, revealing a campus bustling with the usual morning rush before class. Holographic jazz bands blast brassy tunes from the street corners, while drones drift merrily overhead, displaying class schedules and the fastest routes to the Lecture Halls. Yet the liveliness clashes with the students’ unsettled mood.
They huddle in groups as I walk past, their whispers cycling through the same shocking list: the Speakeasy murders, the assassination attempt on President Reeve, the fallout, and the high-citizen arrests.
Like me, nobody can quite grasp it. But beneath the disbelief, a current runs through all of us, a terrifying yet hopeful possibility that the Blues might soon learn what it means to bleed.
Edmund’s hovercar idles at the curb. It’s larger and flashier than the one I rode in at the Speakeasy, luxurious from the ornamental grille to taillights.
No doubt he has a private garage tucked away somewhere on campus, filled with vehicles like this, each customized to suit a particular whim.
As I approach, Jack’s and Charlotte’s muffled voices seep through the hovercar’s tinted windows. Their fiery tones cut through the jazz music from across the street. I hesitate, hand hovering over the door handle. Edmund doesn’t tolerate lateness, but stepping into the middle of this feels wrong.
“I was never the one for you, darling,” Jack says, his voice eerily matter- of-fact. “I see that now.”
“Don’t do that, Jack,” Charlotte snaps. “Don’t cheapen what we had. Yes, I screwed up. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Yes, it does,” he interrupts. “Because you can’t ruin something that’s meant for you.”
The tension between them is suffocating even from outside the hovercar.
But I can’t wait any longer. Forcing a smile, I climb inside and greet them as if I hadn’t heard a thing.
They both nod quickly, then retreat into their corners of silence. Jack sits stiffly, his legs planted like a braced bull, and lets out an irritated sigh. He pulls out a cigarette case, shakes it, and frowns when he realizes it’s empty.
Charlotte smirks. She takes out her case and slips a cigarette between her lips, deliberately not offering him one. Then she pulls out her emerald- studded lighter, only to find the fluid has run dry. Jack spins his lighter in his fingers with a grin, the metallic click loud in the tense silence. Charlotte grits her teeth until the cigarette in her mouth snaps in half.
The ride to pick up Dickie feels longer than two minutes. Charlotte mutters under her breath as she fusses with her silk scarf and cloche hat, each movement a futile attempt to hide her shaved head. Jack stares out the window, drumming his fingers against his thigh, his usual swagger dimmed but restless. It feels like being stuck in a lifeboat with two people determined to poke holes in it rather than share it, even if it means sinking themselves. I count the seconds until we reach the Orange Dormitory.
When the hovercar stops at a curb near the entrance, I text Dad: “Can you talk tonight?”
Four days have passed since the assassination attempt on President Reeve, and aside from telling Dad about Irene’s attack, we’ve barely exchanged more than a few hurried words. His schedule has been a whirlwind of interviews, calls, meetings, and events. With his name on everyone’s lips, he’s being pulled in a hundred directions. Even a family group call hasn’t made the cut.
“Can’t tonight, honey,” Dad replies. “Got the press conference.”
“Right. I forgot,” I text as a sinking feeling settles in.
The press conference, a joint event with President Reeve and Winston Glass, marks Winston’s first public appearance in ten years. The official focus is on how Winston’s energy shield saved Reeve’s life, but Dad claims Winston’s real goal is to quash the frenzy surrounding the shields. Demand is soaring despite limited supply. Due to their glaring flaws, the shields are still years away from hitting the market.
For now, I’m one of the few people who have one… or at least I was.
Sergeant Croft still hasn’t returned my shield, and at this point, I’m starting to think Edmund might’ve been right. Croft is either keeping the shield for himself or has already sold it for a fortune. After everything he did to help me, I don’t regret lending it to him, but I do regret being so careless. I should’ve found a way to make sure I got it back.
The hovercar door swings open, and the rich scent of chocolate wafts into the cabin. Dickie clambers in, trailed by his Pinkie chaperone, then sprawls across the seat beside me. One hand holds a half-empty mug of hot cocoa, while the other grips his prized carbon-fiber airplane, its wing bent at an odd angle.
“I need help,” Dickie declares, tossing the damaged toy at Jack.
Jack snatches the plane from the air and inspects the break. “What happened this time?”
“Nothing I can be blamed for. I rolled over on it in my sleep.”
“Why can’t you fix it yourself?” Charlotte interjects. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
Dickie shrugs, wiping his chocolate-smeared hand across the seat upholstery. “I’m smart where it counts, broad. You, on the other hand… if I put your brain in a bird, the bird would fly backwar—”
A hard look from Jack silences him.
“The bird would what?” Charlotte bristles.
“Forget it.” Dickie props his feet on the seat across from him. “Not worth it today. Not on a Thursday.”
“What’s special about Thursdays?” I ask.
Rather than answer, Dickie sips loudly from his hot chocolate. Jack, meanwhile, pulls a repair kit from his pocket and begins smoothing the plane’s bent wing. Charlotte shoots me a look, half annoyance, half exasperation, then slumps back into her seat.
The hovercar coasts toward the Blue Dormitory, where the tiered streets
are jammed with traffic. Hovercars inch forward in congested aerial lanes, their shiny exteriors reflecting curious looks from students lingering on the sidewalks below. Ahead, the dormitory is locked down. Copper hovercars patrol the perimeter, and above, two helicopters drone in slow circles, their mounted lasers scanning the rooftops.
Somewhere inside, eighteen Blue students are confined to their suites under house arrest until their trials begin. No one knows how long it will take —weeks, months, maybe longer. Dad once said that politics can slow justice to a crawl. The Coppers, the media, and even the judges are hyper-focused on the Blues involved in the attempt on Reeve’s life. The rest of the trials are on the back burner until the high-profile one concludes.
Edmund’s hovercar parks as close as the barricades allow. We step into the charged atmosphere and head toward the dormitory entrance, where armed Coppers stand guard. After a quick flash of our entourage badges, we’re waved through.
Inside, the elevator takes us to Edmund’s floor. The doors open onto a long corridor lined with gold sconces, as quiet as a blackout. The only signs of life are the Coppers stationed outside the suites of the arrested Blue
students.
Irene Hussey’s suite is one of them.
Every night since her arrest, I go to sleep convinced I’ll wake to news that she’s been released and the charges dropped. Just another high-citizen scandal swept away before the sun blinks over the horizon.
But somehow, she’s still locked up.
I picture her now, pacing the luxurious confines of her suite, shackled by an ankle monitor. She’s prohibited from attending classes in person and is reduced to staring at her Bond screen, connected to the outside world through
pixelated walls.
I don’t pity her.
Months from now, when the Blues who tried to kill Reeve are convicted and executed, Irene’s trial will finally take place. And I’ll be there, called to testify against her and her group of friends.
Inside Edmund’s suite, we wait in the foyer. We’re expected to gather here each morning at 6:55 a.m., five minutes before the execution begins.
Edmund, Jack, and Dickie always skip out, but Charlotte and I are forced to watch.
Edmund appears on the dot, framed in the doorway with two Pinkies
beside him. One fastens his Altimor pocket watch to his vest, while the other secures his scabbard. He draws his saber halfway to check its balance, then slides it back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a handkerchief. As he wipes the back of his neck, his jaw tightens and his fingers shudder against
the cloth.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Good?” Edmund laughs, almost at himself. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He grabs his coat from a Pinkie, then waves for us to follow him out of the suite.
“Wait,” Charlotte calls. “Aren’t you going to wait for Lore and me to finish watching the execution?”
“You’ll have to skip it. Today’s Thursday,” Jack says.
I glance toward the terraces, where students are already gathering to watch the Guillotine Yard below. “What’s so special about Thursdays?” I ask, hoping for an answer this time.
But Edmund, Jack, and Dickie are already heading out, their voices rising and falling as they discuss plans for night surfing.
“We can do better than the usual,” Edmund says.
“You could try the spot where they saw that shark last week.” Dickie drains the last of his hot chocolate with a dry chuckle. “I’ll watch from the shore.”
“How much better?” Jack asks Edmund, a glint in his eye.
“Bring your stun guns.”
Charlotte and I trade a rattled glance as the boys walk out the door, then rush after them, our formal posture slipping as we hurry to catch up.
Edmund never mentioned skipping executions when he explained the rules of his entourage. He never said that following his rules would require me to break the law.
By the time we reach his hovercar, my Bond buzzes with a notification.
7:02 A.M.: ABSENCE FROM EXECUTION ATTENDANCE. MINUS 10 CIVIL CREDITS.
Heat flushes my face. For Edmund, ten civil credits are spare change lost in the couch cushions. But for Charlotte and me, the loss is far more than we can afford on a whim. I glance at my Bond, and the pitiful balance glares back at me: 344 credits.
How the hell are Jack and Dickie getting away with this?
As we climb into the hovercar, I steal a glance at the blue bands on their
Blood Rings, now fully visible, as if they want Charlotte and me to see them.
They’ve worn them uncovered ever since we joined the entourage.
Again, it makes me wonder how much power Edmund has given Jack and Dickie. Are they still like Charlotte and me, still low-citizens? Or have they become something more?
