The only sure way to stop a thief is to cut off their hands. —ROSAMUND PREW
CHAPTER 24
Almost every student in the lecture room lines up to see the spur. They examine it inch by inch, as if staring long enough might reveal clues about our old enemies.
Aside from me, the only other student who stays behind is Rosamund.
She’s draped across the couch of the private booth, her monkey in her lap, watching me through half-lidded eyes that never blink when I expect them to.
Up close, her resemblance to Edmund is unsettling: the bone structure, the curve of her mouth, the slope of her nose. Still, the twins strike me as opposites. Where Edmund burns hot, Rosamund holds her fire. Edmund moves like a blade drawn without warning, while Rosamund moves like the shadow of that blade, biding her time until the strike will matter most.
“Miss Waldsten.” Rosamund pats the cushion beside her with the tips of her fingers. “Come join me.”
Part of me wants to slip away with the excuse that I’d like to see the spur.
But another part knows I can’t avoid Rosamund forever. Whatever cards she’s holding, it’s better to get her to lay her hand on the table so I know
what I’m up against.
“As you wish, Miss Prew,” I say.
When I sit beside her, she orders a Pinkie to pour her a glass of water. Her hand trembles as she drinks, droplets sliding down her neck and pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. She hands the empty glass to the robot, then turns to face me. I notice her pupils are so dilated that they nearly swallow all
the color.
Is she high on Bliss?
If she’s still using, she’s burning through the kind of civil credits that
would send a low-citizen to the guillotine. With Bliss now illegal, the penalty for using is a hundred civil credit deduction each time you’re caught. But I doubt Rosamund cares. If she’s got as many civil credits as Edmund seems to, the loss probably wouldn’t even make a dent.
“I couldn’t help but notice your name is missing from my brother’s guest list,” Rosamund says, stroking her monkey’s head fondly. “Is there a reason you’re not attending our birthday celebration tomorrow?”
The curiosity in her eyes is revealing. She’s clearly unaware that my position in Edmund’s entourage isn’t because we’re friends but because he lost a bet. Why didn’t Edmund tell her? Does he not trust her?
“Mr. Prew did not include me because I have a prior engagement,” I say, tugging lightly at my earring.
Rosamund flicks a sharp fingernail through the air, as if popping the bubble of my lie. “Come now, Miss Waldsten. Don’t you know the only way one liar convinces another is to tell the truth?”
Her speed catches me off guard. No one’s ever picked apart my lies so quickly, not even Dad.
“What’s your arrangement with my brother, exactly?” she asks, lighting her monkey a fresh cigarette. “Do I finally have the pleasure of meeting one of the mysterious mistresses Miss Hussey keeps talking about?”
Mistresses? The fact that she’s asking me about her own brother’s side pieces confirms it: he doesn’t trust her.
“No, Miss Prew. I am afraid I know nothing about any mistresses.”
“Is that so?” Rosamund flashes a polite smile that fades before it reaches her eyes. The only time I saw genuine warmth in them was when she spoke with Jack. “Then why else would he offer you protection?”
“That is between your brother and me.”
“Oh, he won’t mind if you tell me. We’re awfully close, you know.”
“Then why not ask him yourself?”
Rosamund’s bottom lip curls faintly, a ripple so slight it barely disturbs her flawless face. She’s as beautiful as Edmund is handsome. That Jack manages to resist her, even when she openly offers herself to him, makes me think he must’ve really loved Charlotte. Maybe he still does.
“No need to be so defensive, Miss Waldsten,” Rosamund says. “I’m only trying to help you, especially since my brother’s marriage to Miss Hussey is set for next autumn.”
“Why should that alter our arrangement?”
“Because as soon as they are married, Miss Hussey will have rights over Edmund’s entourage.”
I pause, wondering if this is why Edmund set my membership for a year.
Is it because he knows that as soon as he says “I do,” Irene will force him to kick out every last one of us?
“I will no longer be in your brother’s entourage,” I say.
“I see.” Rosamund’s gaze drifts to my waist, lingering on the absence of a saber. “Well, until then, might I suggest a few fencing lessons.”
“Why?”
Rosamund tugs the monkey’s tail, and the animal hands over the cigarette.
She takes a long, slow drag, then exhales the smoke into my face with a pointed grin. “Because Miss Hussey is eager to settle the score.”
Why does she keep dragging Irene into this as if they’re close friends? I saw the way Rosamund looked at her in the dining hall. She clearly hates Irene as much as she hates Charlotte and me.
I glance toward the line of students, where Jack, Charlotte, and Dickie still wait to view the spur. Their backs are turned, unaware of our exchange. I know I shouldn’t take the bait, but I can’t help it. When I look at Rosamund, I don’t see Edmund’s twin; I see the woman who almost destroyed my best friend.
I turn back to Rosamund, matching her cold demeanor. “Perhaps Miss Hussey should focus on settling her legal situation first.”
Rosamund arches an eyebrow, as if questioning whether I truly want to walk this road. “She won’t be convicted.”
“That would be more unfortunate for you than for me,” I say.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I know you do not care for your brother’s fiancée, Miss Prew.”
“How are you so certain?”
“The same way I know you are only being nice right now in the hope that I will answer your questions.”
Rosamund reclines for a moment, watching me with a slow-building scowl, then snaps upright and shoves the monkey off her lap. “You’re right, Miss Waldsten. And do you know why? Because I don’t tolerate thievery. If you don’t believe me, ask your friend, Miss Deering. Ask her what happened when she tried to take what’s mine.”
“I know enough about what you have put Miss Deering through,” I say, letting the edge show in my voice. “But if your claim is true, why do you
tolerate Miss Hussey?”
“Because her marriage to my brother was arr—”
Rosamund cuts herself off, but it’s already too late. I incline my head enough to let her know I’ve seized on the slip, and I’m now certain the only reason she hasn’t slit Irene’s throat in her sleep is that she knows Edmund doesn’t love her.
A soft, startled flush spreads across Rosamund’s cheeks. Her fingers curl around the edge of the table, and the polite veneer cracks as she slowly rises onto her knees. “You’re blackmailing my brother, aren’t you?”
“You know him better than I do,” I say. “Is he the sort of man who could
be blackmailed?”
“Answer the question.”
“If he wanted you to know about our arrangement, he would have told you himself.”
Her lips peel back, showing teeth. “What are you insinuating?”
“Nothing at all, Miss Prew. I am simply reading it from the outside… just as everyone else is.”
Rosamund’s eyes narrow to slits. She inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring, before her hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist. Her nails dig in, a sharp sting at first, then a slice deep enough to break the skin. I try to pull back, but she only tightens her grip, harder and sharper, until I feel the warm drip of blood down my arm.
“Careful, Miss Waldsten,” she says. “I happen to know my brother despises low-citizens like you. However you’re blackmailing him, whatever trick you’ve used to con your way into his protection, I’ll find out. And once I have proof, not even that fawning parasite you call a father will be able to save you.”
I snap toward her, biting back a snarl. “What did you say?”
A slow smile spreads across Rosamund’s face, as if I’ve just given away my weak point. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. Everyone knows your father is one of Reeve’s most devoted regulars, always turning up to those… infamous gatherings of his.” Her gaze glides over me, taunting and amused. “The kind of parties no decent man admits to attending, let alone returning to. One does begin to wonder how far loyalty like that really goes.” She clucks her tongue softly. “Your poor mother.”
Heat courses through me. I try to control myself, to calm down before I slip up and lose more civil credits. Instead, I jerk upright, tearing free of
Rosamund’s grip so forcefully that blood streaks down my wrist in a bright green line.
Rosamund’s lashes flutter in surprise at the sight of the wound.
“Hoppola,” she says. “What have you made me do?” She unfolds a handkerchief and wipes her nails clean, as if erasing the evidence means the assault never happened. Then she tosses the bloodstained cloth at me. “Go on, Miss Waldsten. Defend your father’s honor. I know you want to.”
My chin drops, and my legs burn with the urge to lunge. Rosamund’s throat is exposed; one clean strike and her voice would die mid-syllable. I can almost feel the collapse in my knuckles, the way her breath would choke in her windpipe before she even realized it. The effort to hold back makes my
entire body shake.
I need to get out of here. Now.
I spin on my heel and dart from the booth, my vision blurring with black
spots as I hurry toward the elevator.
A loud sigh follows me.
“So, you’re as cowardly as Miss Deering, then?” Rosamund calls. “How lucky for me.”
By the time I step into the elevator, I’m shaking so badly I can barely press the call button. I try to pull on my coat, but the sleeves twist around my arms as if fighting me. My fingers fumble at the zipper until I finally rip the coat off and hurl it to the floor.
I understand why Charlotte calls Rosamund a spider now. It’s not just the smile or the strike; it’s the way she weaves her web around you, slowly at first, then all at once.
I flatten my palms against the elevator wall, hoping the pressure will stop my hands from shaking. Rosamund’s words about Dad are already festering in my mind, rotting like dead tissue. She’s not the first to insult him; he has plenty of enemies. But Mom always kept that world at bay. She shielded us from the news reports tearing Dad apart and the gossip sites spreading lies about him cheating on her. Now the lies are everywhere, closing in without filters or buffers. There’s a sea of people frothing at the mouth, desperate to see Dad fall. And the worst part is that I could silence them. I could make
them eat their words.
If only I were allowed to use a saber.
I clench my arms against my chest, trying to smother the burning anger. It doesn’t work. My breath is still ragged, and my shoulders still shake. When the elevator dings open, I step out too quickly and slam into a wall of blue.
I stumble backward, arms seeking something solid, until a hand shoots out
and catches me around the waist.
“Pardon me, sir,” I gasp. “I did not—”
I cut off when I see Edmund staring down at me. He rights me, then steps away and clasps his hands behind his back. His face is taut, his cheeks pale enough to dull his tan. A rapid twitch runs through his left eye, as if he’s tunneled up from underground and the sunlight is still too harsh.
He always looks like this after visiting Irene.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Prew,” I say, tugging my sleeve down to hide the scratches his sister left. “I must return to my suite.”
“Your suite?” He steps in front of me, eyebrow lifted. “Since when do you
skip class?”
“When I have a reason, as I do now.”
“What reason?”
“It is not serious.” I tug casually at my earring. “I drank a little too much wine last night at Jolt & Jive.”
“Oh, really?” Edmund leans in, nostrils flaring slightly. “Well, if you’re bleeding from a hangover, you need a hospital, not a nap.”
“Pardon?”
“Enough bullshit, Miss Waldsten. I can smell it.”
“The bullshit?”
“The blood.”
I touch the wound on my arm, frustrated to be caught, even more so when I lose one civil credit for repeating the same curse in public that Edmund just did.
“The blood is mine,” I say. “I have not injured a Blue.”
He squints as if I’ve just insulted him. “You think I didn’t know that when I asked?” He gestures at my wrist. “Show me.”
I wince as I peel back my blood-dampened sleeve. Edmund’s eyes track the long, clean scratches, one deep enough to leave a bloody groove on my wrist. The twitch in his eye vanishes, replaced by a hardening of his face until his jaw locks. Then his gaze lifts, following the walls up toward the fourth
floor.
“Which fucking Blue?”
I hesitate long enough to remind myself that the Blue isn’t a stranger in the Tangerine Tree. This is Rosamund, his twin sister.
“Mr. Prew, given the circumstances, I believe it would be wiser to—”
Edmund lowers himself to my level, clearly trying to be patient, but the twitch in his eye has returned. “You’re in my entourage, Miss Waldsten. This isn’t just a slight to you. It’s a slight to me.”
“That is precisely the problem. The Blue responsible is the only one on that floor you are not permitted to challenge.”
He tilts his head, looking confused. Then, when it finally clicks, the fire behind his eyes dies in an instant, like a blade sheathed mid-swing.
“Rosamund?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason she attacked Miss Deering.”
His brow furrows. “Miss Deering? What the hell did Rosamund do to her?”
I suddenly realize how pointless this conversation is. Edmund is clearly on the outside of the situation. Jack might not know the full extent either. The boys are blind to Rosamund as she runs free, throwing knives at us behind their backs.
“I wish to leave now, Mr. Prew. Good day.”
“Wait.”
Edmund touches my arm, gentler than usual. Still, I keep walking until I notice a trail of blood dripping from my sleeve onto his fingers, forming a dark green smear. I lock eyes with him over my shoulder, waiting for him to recoil, to wipe the blood away as if I’ve contaminated him.
But he doesn’t.
“The deal was protection,” Edmund reminds me. “And that includes my sister. She won’t touch you again.”
He says it like a promise, and he might even mean it, but family changes everything. No matter how much you might hate them or how deeply they might dishonor you, you can’t threaten what the law forbids you from destroying. Death duels among family members are illegal, which means that when it comes to Rosamund, Edmund’s promises have no teeth.
“I am not requesting your protection in this particular conflict,” I say.
“Nor do I expect you to choose me over your sister. However, I must ask: If Miss Prew attacks me again and I defend myself, what then?”
Edmund’s hand drops, and he steps back as if the question burned him.
I get the sense it hadn’t fully occurred to him until now what it would mean to bring me into his entourage, forcing me to share a room with Rosamund, his Bliss-addicted twin, while I remain the daughter of the man who banned it.
He starts to speak, then stops. The way his eyes tighten at the corners is the same as after the Heretic attack, when he defended Jack against one of his own. It makes me wonder if this is why he’s always so restless, constantly wired with a hair-trigger energy, one wrong word away from springing like an animal. He’s walking a knife’s edge, caught between two sides, with a choice he can’t avoid forever. Maybe Rosamund won’t be the breaking point, but something will. And when that time comes, there won’t be any room left
for neutrality.
Because that’s how it always is.
You can either stand with the high or with the low. But you can’t stand with both.
I know I shouldn’t go back to my suite.
I’ve got three more lectures today, and skipping out means losing civil credits. I still need to buy Edmund another birthday gift, too. All I’ve got so far is a measly gold chain for his Altimor pocket watch. I was supposed to hit the shops on the Swing Strip after class.
But I still can’t calm down.
I don’t want to show my face like this, still twisted and sweating. If I have to go back to class and sit beside Rosamund again, I’ll break. I’ll throw myself at her, pin her down, and beat her until Edmund drags me off.
In my suite, my Pinkie pauses in the middle of vacuuming my salon. The robot’s mouth opens as if to greet me, but I walk past, straight into my bedroom, and close the door behind me.
A moment later, the door creaks open again, and my Pinkie enters, setting a package on a bedside table. “Miss Waldsten, you have received a delivery.”
“From who?” I say, barely getting the words out. I didn’t order anything.
And my parents would’ve messaged me if they’d sent something.
“The sender is unclear. It was addressed to you with no other labels.”
I turn to the small box, which is secured by a blood sample. Curious, I press my thumb to the biometric scanner, and a whirring sound emerges as it verifies my identity.
My Pinkie opens the box and peels back the wrapping paper. I lean in, and as I examine the contents, a sudden wave of emotion washes over me. What changed? I thought Vivian said no deal.
I lift the Vanguard badge from its velvet cushion, and the cool weight of the metal sends a charge through me, as if I’m holding a fragment of a hero’s soul. The badge is beautiful, a finely crafted double-headed eagle medallion in gold and dark titanium, wings spread wide. The filigree edges lend it a fragile elegance, yet the metal weighs at least five ounces. Etched in the center is the callsign Hellion, with a unique numerical code beneath. In the middle, glowing as if lit from within, is the name “Ernest Prew.”
I dig through the box for an explanation until I find a delicate, scented note. I unfold the paper slowly, and when I recognize Vivian’s elegant
handwriting, my hands tremor.
Because my sister asked.
The words blur. I set the note back in the box, barely able to breathe as I turn toward my closet. There, bathed in the soft glow of the light, hangs Coquette. The gown is removed from its garment bag to air out, the green silk shimmering like leaves after fresh rain.
My fingertips tingle with the memory of the fabric’s texture: cool, weightless, like a whisper against my skin. Still, I reach out anyway, careful to avoid staining the silk with my blood. The sewn-in diamonds prick my palm, conjuring an image of my scabbard at my waist, the graphene saber blade gleaming as I slide into en garde. My heart races wildly until the image
falters and breaks.
Now I see Vivian instead.
She’s seated at her rehearsal dinner, candlelight dancing across the soft curve of her smile as she leans into Harrison’s shoulder. She’s flawless, radiant, a blushing swan smiling around the table at our family. Then her gaze finds mine. For an instant, I see her quiet disappointment, the single imperfection in a day meant to be perfect.
I close my eyes as hot tears sting my cheeks. My fingers curl tighter around the lace, trying to squeeze the guilt from the fabric, but the thoughts
slip in anyway.
The dinner will pass. The night will end. But the photos won’t fade, and the videos won’t disappear. That moment will live on, etched in my memory, waiting to poison Coquette before I ever wear it.
Because one day, when my weapons restriction is finally lifted, and I step into the gown, I won’t just see the glittering diamonds or the way my saber blade gleams against the silk. I’ll see Vivian. I’ll see everything I could’ve given her and chose to keep. I’ll see my sister and remember that when she asked, I said no.
I open my eyes, trembling as I’m torn between love and longing, knowing that whichever choice I make, I’ll lose something.
“Miss Waldsten?” my Pinkie asks from the corner. “Do you require further assistance?”
I stare at the gown again, memorizing how it looks unworn and unspoiled.
Even if Vivian only borrows it, the promise I made to myself will be broken.
And yet, the moment she asked for Coquette, I already knew I’d no longer be
able to wear it as I’d hoped.
“I need you to mail a package,” I say.
“Right away, Miss Waldsten. Where to?”
I pull my fingers away from the fabric. The effort makes my body tremor, and a sob escapes as I step back from the closet. Then the word comes, sharp
as the snap of something breaking.
“Home.”
