Men are too mysterious. One day, they’re spitting in your hand, and the next, they’re tearing up the gardens, furious that the flowers tried to
mask your scent when you walked by. —VIVIAN WALDSTEN
CHAPTER 21
It’s Saturday.
I roll out of bed early to see the Green Dormitory gardens buried under a fresh layer of snow. The darkness is broken only by the glow of ice-encrusted lampposts, but it feels colder this morning, so bleak that even the moon must feel lonely.
No one is outside except the Pinkies. They operate according to their programming, with some guiding shoveling machines to carve clean paths through the snowdrifts. Others work in pairs, steam hissing as they defrost hovercars, scraping away the night’s freeze so everything looks untouched when the rest of the campus wakes.
After an early-morning training session with my fencing stick, I head to Edmund’s suite. Charlotte drained my hovercar’s charge the last time she borrowed it, and I don’t have time to wait for a Pinkie to top it off, so I grab a hoverboard.
I find a row of public boards outside the Green Dormitory and choose a matte black anti-gravity model. It’s a lightweight composite with a built-in computer that syncs with my Bond. I slide into the foot bindings, power the board on, and lift off. For a few seconds, I hover above the ground, feeling the board vibrate beneath me, then push it forward with smooth, surfing motions to steer. Two Coppers are talking in the snow-covered Guillotine Yard as I glide past, but their voices are drowned out by the rush of wind in my ears. The streets near the dormitories are nearly empty. A few students stumble out of bars, their faces lit in fractured colors by holographic ads. One
ad for Dad catches my eye. He’s in the center frame, frozen mid-speech on the Capitol Estate steps, surrounded by flashing cameras. Below him, a scroll of text flashes by: Support for the Bliss Prohibition Act is growing. Once stuck at forty-eight percent, it’s now at fifty-three.
As support for the ban grows, Dad’s popularity is climbing, too. He’s got fan sites now. Vivian sent me a link to a gallery of filtered photos and edited videos that highlighted his face and body in ways that made me uncomfortable. But not as much as it probably makes Mom.
At the Blue Dormitory, I return the hoverboard to a public rack. The halls are a rush of Pinkies delivering breakfast. Security teams are extra cautious with the Blues under house arrest. The Coppers stationed at their doors inspect every trolley, scanning for hidden devices, notes, or anything else that could slip through.
The two Blues accused of attempting to assassinate President Reeve are still on trial. It’s dragging on endlessly, with every detail analyzed and twisted by the press. Benjamin Bogart says the case will likely go to the jury in early May. After that, the lesser trials will begin, including Irene’s.
Irene and her parents haven’t made any public statements, and I think I know why. They’re waiting to see how the first Blue trial turns out before deciding on a strategy, which could range from hiring a top-dog lawyer to suffocating me with a pillow in my sleep.
When I arrive at Edmund’s suite, a Pinkie welcomes me and guides me through the grand foyer, so warm that the snow melts off my hair.
“Please wait here, Miss Waldsten,” the robot says. “Mr. Prew is currently engaged with another guest.”
Another guest? It’s barely past 5:00 a.m. Jack and Dickie wouldn’t be here at this hour. Could he be with one of his mistresses? The thought lands like a pebble in still water, small yet impossible to ignore. My curiosity grows as I inch closer, straining to hear the muffled voices drifting from the salon. They grow louder until Edmund walks into view, a woman at his side.
The woman looks eerily like Rosamund but lacks her sultry flash. Her fair skin, velvet-petal lips, and dark, curved eyebrows are far more subdued. Her brown hair is twisted into a bun, with loose strands resting against her neck.
The midnight blue suit she wears complements her lithe, robust frame, which sparkles with sapphires. The shine is almost disorienting until I notice the bracelet on her wrist. It’s a thin gold chain, weighed down by a dull, misshapen pearl, the kind of thing you discard, not wear. That means it’s
significant.
Then I notice the badge on her breast: Phillipa Prew.
Edmund’s mother. The Headmistress of Grandmaster University.
When Edmund’s eyes meet mine, everything grinds to a halt. For a moment or two, he stares, his face draining of color, as if I’ve walked in on him in the middle of committing a murder.
I don’t understand his shock. Before I can even try, anger hits like a laser aimed before the shot. It flattens his mouth and tightens every muscle in his face. The two Doberman Pinschers at his mother’s side feel it, too. The dogs’ ears snap upright, their hackles rise, and low growls rumble in their throats.
That look—set-jawed, bone-deep, full of rage—I haven’t seen since the day Edmund and I met on the Regal Express. My hands automatically reach for my coat. I step back, my heart pounding, ready to vanish and undo
whatever line I’ve crossed.
That’s when Phillipa notices me.
Her face lights up so brightly that I do a double-take. She spreads her arms and steps forward as if I’m someone she’s been waiting to meet.
“Edmund,” she says, “will you not introduce us?”
He drags a sleeve across his face, his nostrils flaring, his eyes still ticking
with fury.
But he makes the introduction.
When Edmund finishes, Phillipa steps closer and takes my hand. The warmth of her fingers is startling, like standing in a patch of sun after hours in the cold.
“Miss Waldsten. It is an honor to meet you at last.”
“The honor is mine, Headmistress Prew.” I greet her with a curtsy.
“I was pleased to see your father’s recent poll numbers,” she continues.
“A well-earned rise, following such a courageous showing at the Bridge Banquet.” Then, with a glint in her eye, “The prevailing rumor is that President Reeve is urging your father to run for Governor of the Rainbow District.”
That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Dad hasn’t spoken a word to my sisters or me, and nothing like that has appeared in the media or even on the gossip sites. Is she fishing for information, hoping I’ll confirm the rumor?
I can’t tell because her voice is so full of kindness. The way she looks at me is pleasant yet strange, as if she’s searching for traces of my parents in my face. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I see a flicker of disappointment
when she finds only Dad.
Edmund, meanwhile, remains rigid from the eyebrows down, breathing so shallowly that I’m surprised he hasn’t turned as blue as his blood. Whatever line I’ve crossed, it’s one I didn’t know existed. I can’t tell whether it’s anger, embarrassment, or something worse he’s trying to swallow.
“Good day, Mother,” Edmund says, offering her his arm.
Phillipa catches the cue. “Good day, Miss Waldsten.”
She offers me a final smile, then slips her arm through Edmund’s, and they walk to the door. Edmund shoulders past the Pinkie and helps his mother into her coat, his fingers gentle at her collar, his voice low as he murmurs something I can’t hear. The tenderness feels jarringly out of place. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve never seen him like this before.
When Phillipa leaves, she takes the light with her.
Now it’s just Edmund and me.
And I wish it weren’t.
He turns, his head lowered, fury radiating off him like a solar flare. It hits me so hard I half expect to be shoved backward over the terrace railing.
His voice drops into his chest, bordering on a growl. “Explain.”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve waited outside.” I resist the urge to step back. “I didn’t know your mother would be here. I came early because I need to talk to you.”
Edmund’s chin dips, and the veins in his neck swell. “Talk to me when it’s our scheduled time.”
His response gives me the nerve to step closer. “Maybe I would if you’d ever let me get a word in. You pause so rarely that I’m shocked you haven’t choked to death on your own voice.”
He lifts a finger. “You won’t do this again, Miss Waldsten. You won’t come here outside our schedule. And you won’t come alone.”
His anger is still there, but there’s desperation too, almost dread. I can’t make sense of it. Why is he so upset? What’s wrong with me meeting his
mother?
I nod and say, “All right.”
“Pardon my intrusion, Mr. Prew,” his Pinkie calls from the door.
“Breakfast is served.”
Edmund steps past me, stripping off his dress gloves as he strides to the table on the terrace.
I glance after him, caught between staying and going. He didn’t tell me to
leave or order the Pinkie to throw me out into the hall. We still need to talk. If it came down to it, Dad would give me all the civil credits I need, but asking him would mean explaining how I lost so many in the first place. That means I have to solve this with Edmund. I need to find a solution before I lose enough civil credits to land on the expulsion list.
So, I follow.
The table is set with a full, steaming meal. Edmund arches an eyebrow as I sit across from him, but says nothing. He chooses a flank of steak with a steady hand, his anger cooling slowly. His eyes are distant now, as if whatever’s running through his mind is miles away and has nothing to do with me.
Behind him, the sun rises slowly, spilling golden light over his features. It highlights the sharp, proud angles of his face in a way that makes him seem elevated, as if even the sun itself knows Blue is best.
“Next Saturday, the schedule is changing,” Edmund says, intercepting the coffee pot just as my hand moves for it. He pours himself a cup, then sets the coffee pot out of my reach. “You and Miss Deering are getting let off early.”
I keep my expression neutral, hiding the fact that I’m pleased. Edmund has never given us a full day off before. At first, I wonder if he needs privacy to meet his mistresses, but then I recall a passing comment from Dickie: Edmund will be twenty-two soon. It’s a late age to enter Grandmaster University. Most students start at eighteen or nineteen. What’s he been doing
all this time?
“Saturday is your birthday,” I say.
“And Rosamund’s.” He picks up his knife and slices through his steak.
“My mother is organizing a party for us, so you’re free at noon.”
“I might not be free at all if I end up on the expulsion list.”
Edmund’s hand stops, the knife scraping against the plate with a grating screech. He exhales sharply. “What’s the problem now?”
“My civil credit score.”
“Show me.”
I connect to his Bond. Edmund continues cutting his steak, barely glancing at the screen before his mouth twists in disgust.
“Two thirty-eight? How the hell did you drop that low?”
“I lost over a hundred at the Speakeasy,” I say, reaching for the coffee pot, but Edmund moves it away again. “And you pushing me to break the law every other day doesn’t help. I’m not like you, Jack, and Dickie. I don’t have
civil credits to burn. Sometimes it almost seems like you want to get me expe
—”
A buzz cuts through my Bond.
I glance down at the screen, and my mouth falls open. Two hundred new civil credits appear, impossible yet real, each like an extra breath of life.
Sender: Edmund Prew.
Gratitude floods in, but confusion crashes right behind. I stare at the civil credits, then at Edmund, then back again. I didn’t realize Blues handed out such large amounts. The only place I know where transfers this big happen is the black market. Suddenly, I understand why Miss Linwood wanted an audience with Edmund so badly. One civil credit transfer from him would’ve
eliminated the threat of her expulsion.
Why would he do this? What’s the catch?
“How much do I owe?” I ask.
“At this point, enough to start you a tab.”
“Yes, but what do I pay it with?”
“You pay it by following my rules.”
“You mean the loyalty rule?”
“Exactly. And after today, you’re gonna make sure you don’t come to my suite alone anymore.”
I don’t understand why he’s so hung up on us not being alone together, but I nod anyway.
The sun climbs higher over the terrace, shining directly into my face. I squint, trying to adjust my angle, until Edmund gestures for a Pinkie to open the striped sun umbrella beside the table.
“I’m not going to let you get expelled, Miss Waldsten,” he says. “Sending you back to the Green District would make my life a lot easier. Safer, too.
But it’d cost me more than it’s worth. I don’t take hits to my name for convenience.”
I know what he means. If I get expelled, it’ll make him look weak, as if he can’t protect his entourage. And that would pour enough blood in the water
for every Blue on campus to smell.
“So, the credits are free?”
“You could say that.” Edmund gives a slight, amused shrug. “My birthday’s coming up, and yet here I am, giving out gifts.”
He drains the rest of his coffee, then moves on to a second cup. He adds no sugar or cream, just a slice of butter melting in slow swirls. What a freak.
I inch toward the coffee pot, hoping to avoid drawing his attention, but once again, he places it out of my reach.
“There’s a cap on civil credit transfers: two hundred per day,” he says.
“Remind me tomorrow if you need another two hundred.”
Another two hundred? How many civil credits does he have? The Blues get more than we do—everyone knows that—but the exact numbers are a mystery. They say it’s to keep jealousy at bay and avoid unnecessary tension.
But if Edmund can turn out two hundred civil credits like water from a tap, he must be sitting on thousands.
Questions gnaw at me, but I push them aside for now.
Across the table, Edmund picks up his eyedropper and tips his chin back, dripping the clear liquid into his eyes. He looks like he’s already moved past
the civil credits.
To him, they’re nothing.
To me, they’re time. Life. They’re also out of my reach without his help, like the damn coffee pot he keeps moving.
The words catch in my throat, but I push them out anyway. “Thank you, Edmund.”
His hand pauses midair, the eyedropper hovering in front of him.
“I realize it’s to protect your reputation, not because you care,” I add quickly, “but I’m still grateful for the credits and… for what you did in the Tangerine Tree.”
Edmund lowers the eyedropper and watches me. “And what was that?”
My fingers bunch in my lap. He’s going to make me spell it out. Fine. I will. The truth is, this is the first time since the death duel that we’ve been alone together. I never had a chance to thank him.
“You saved my life,” I say. “Then and now, almost every day since we met. And I’m grateful.”
Edmund tilts his head, as if needing certainty. His eyes don’t just look; they pick me apart, piece by piece, searching my face for any sign of a false note.
Finally, he sets the eyedropper aside. “Well, if you’re gonna lay it on thick like that, I guess I’ve got no choice.”
He pushes back his chair, grabs the coffee pot, and leans over the table to
pour me a cup.
“Thank you,” I say, looking up at him.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, dropping a sugar cube into it. “And not just
for the coffee.”
