It’s more dangerous for a high-citizen and a low-citizen to fall in love with their differences than to believe no differences exist at all. —CRISPIN ROTH, GENETIC ENGINEER
CHAPTER 26
By the time Charlotte and I reach the Tangerine Tree, the parking lot is gridlocked. Luxury hovercars with custom finishes in glossy chrome, midnight lacquer, and soft pearl are packed together, and valets rush to park them in neat rows. Even the private docking bays are full. I’ve never seen so much traffic here. Word must’ve gotten out. Today, everyone wants to be where Edmund and Rosamund are.
Charlotte and I trudge across the icy lot toward the entrance, carrying our gifts. Mine: the Hellion’s badge. Hers: my gold-plated pocket watch chain.
While the chain isn’t worth much, it’s all I have, besides a half-eaten chocolate bar left in the backseat by Dickie.
At the door, a Pinkie checks our entourage badges, then waves us in. The cafe is a burst of electric blue marble, with geometrically ridged pillars and gold-potted tangerine trees between the tables. But beneath the aroma of espresso and orange zest, the air reeks of impatience.
A long line winds through the cafe, starting at Edmund’s private booth and spilling into the snow. Unlike at the Blue Dormitory, this isn’t a queue of Pinkies. These are high-citizens draped in winter coats of cashmere and silver fox fur, their shoes polished to a mirror shine, their arms cradling gifts wrapped in indigo and silver.
The high-citizens’ eyes track Charlotte and me as we pass, their glares biting into us like teeth. Two low-citizens cutting the line, walking straight to Edmund’s private booth. They look at us like dogs going to sit at our master’s feet. But I let their stares roll off me. They’re not better than me. If anything, since the Tangerine Tree duel, Edmund has been their master, too.
At the private booth, the doors are closed. A Pinkie steps forward and announces that Edmund is taking a brief pause from receiving visitors to eat and that no one is to wait on his account. “Mr. Prew requests that all guests join him for breakfast instead,” the robot says. “He has arranged for the meal to be complimentary. He will greet each of you personally once he is finished.”
The tension in the line eases at once. Conversations resume. Coats are unbuttoned. The high-citizens, unaccustomed to waiting for anything, move toward the cafe’s tables, smiles breaking across their faces as they sit and eat.
Charlotte and I enter Edmund’s private booth, and as the cafe’s noise fades, I realize we’re the last to arrive. The boys are already sprawled on a cerulean velvet couch, dressed to the nines. Their bow ties are anchored by gold stick pins, and their suits, though distinct, harmonize in richness.
Dickie’s is burnt orange and custom-woven; Jack’s is a forest green three- piece with a velvet lapel; Edmund’s is a midnight blue tailcoat, dark as water under moonlight. Their pocket squares, each a shade lighter than their ties, tuck neatly into place. Black onyx cufflinks glint at Edmund’s wrists, while Jack’s oxblood shoes show just enough wear to suggest regular use. Beneath Dickie’s cuff, a vintage watch gleams, its polished face like a constellation under glass. Even Jack’s hair, for once, is slicked obediently into place.
They’re like a portrait that shouldn’t exist, colors that shouldn’t mix, yet somehow, impossibly, they do.
When Edmund notices us, he throws down his napkin, rises quickly from the couch, and bows.
“Happy birthday,” I say. “Snow on your birthday’s meant to be a lucky sign, you know.”
He glances out a nearby window toward the hovercar-filled lot. “It’s not
snowing.”
“It will.”
“The weather report says it won’t.”
“They’ve been wrong before.”
Edmund tilts his head, intrigued. “All right, Miss Waldsten. If it snows, I owe you a drink. If it doesn’t, you owe me two.”
I smile. “Fine by me.”
He gestures for Charlotte and me to sit. As we move toward the table, his eyes flick over my hair, almost too quickly to notice. My Pinkie styled it up today in a sleek rolled tuck. The way Edmund looks at my bare neck makes
me self-conscious, and a warm flush spreads to my cheeks. I don’t usually wear my hair this way. Maybe that’s why he’s staring.
When Charlotte and I settle onto the couch, Jack glances up from his breakfast and gives us a quick once-over. His distant, hazy eyes linger on Charlotte a little longer than on me before drifting away. In that moment, I feel the sharp edge of the pain I’ve seen on his face so often. And finally, I understand it.
Dickie tips an imaginary hat in greeting, then resumes his conversation with Edmund, his hands gesturing wildly as he recounts the Ranger spur Edmund missed due to his meeting with Irene.
“The spur was brutal,” Dickie declares, snapping his fingers at a Pinkie and ordering chocolate crepes. “Not as advanced as our tech, of course, but still a real weapon of war.”
Edmund sets his forearms on the table, his face lit with curiosity.
“Wycliffe said there’s still blood on the rowel.”
“Yep. Red blood.” Dickie grins. “As a thoughtful man, I snapped a picture for you.” He activates his Bond, flips through the camera roll, then freezes.
His eyes bug out. “What the devil? It’s spoiled.”
“Yeah, because photographing the spur isn’t allowed,” Jack says. He picks up a whiskey bottle, adds a splash to his coffee, then, as if deciding he doesn’t want to get drunk on Edmund’s birthday, pushes the cup away. “The display box has an onboard AI. It detects cameras and triggers a distortion field.”
Dickie’s head snaps toward Jack. “No photos? Why the devil not?”
“Because if images of the spur are online, people will stop lining up to see it.”
Edmund spears a poached pear with his fork, his eyebrows slanting downward as he leans back against the couch. He loosens his bow tie with his thumb, disappointment flashing across his face before he smooths it away.
The depth of his feeling surprises me. I never thought of him as someone who cared about the Rangers.
A buzz vibrates in my ears. I check the name blinking on my Bond screen, and my heart skips a beat. Vivian. After ignoring me for days, there’s only one reason she’d be calling now. Coquette must’ve arrived.
I’m eager to see her reaction, but I know that if I answer now, she could catch a glimpse of Edmund in my feed. Instead, I text, “Can’t talk right now.
I’ll call you back.”
Charlotte and I both order small meals, so we can eat fast and get out before Edmund resumes accepting visitors. Halfway through the meal, Dickie hauls a bulky package onto the table and slides it toward Edmund.
“Stop feasting your belly and feast your eyes.”
Edmund sets his knife and fork parallel at five o’clock on his plate, a cue for a Pinkie to clear it. As a robot whisks it away, Dickie inches closer to the package, vibrating with excitement, like he might rip the paper open himself if Edmund doesn’t move fast enough.
When Edmund finally does, I see why. The gift is a custom riding outfit, straight from Lemon’s workshop: leather breeches, a tailored vest, a riding hat, a crop, and boots. Dickie’s parents must be loaded.
“I used the measurements Lemon’s got on file. Should fit like a glove,”
Dickie says.
Edmund smirks as he runs his thumb along the saddle stitching.
“Hopefully not everywhere.”
Dickie huffs a laugh. “Don’t worry. Asked for a glove fit up top and a mercy fit below.” He leans back, arms hooked behind his head, and throws us a wink, as if daring us to top him.
Charlotte slides her gift across the table like a pool cue shot, her eyes fixed on the floor. She looks like she wants the moment over before it’s even begun.
Edmund seems to feel the same. He unwraps the gift without ceremony, gives the gold pocket watch chain a brief glance, then offers Charlotte a curt nod before handing it to a waiting Pinkie.
Jack is the only one who really notices. His eyes follow the chain, then cut sideways to Charlotte, as if he knows exactly how much it cost and wonders what the hell happened to the rest of the money he lent her.
“Happy birthday, Ed,” Jack says, tossing him a small velvet pouch.
Edmund catches the pouch and upends it over the table. Out falls a battered, dull tin spoon, bent slightly at the neck.
For a moment, he stares at the spoon, blinking slowly. Then recognition sparks, and he bursts into a loud, deep-chested laugh that knocks off the walls. The sound pulls Jack and Dickie into it until all three are doubled over, heads thrown back, shoulders clutched, red-faced and breathless.
I glance at Charlotte, silently asking what the spoon means. She arches an eyebrow, shrugs, and lights a cigarette.
I pull my gift from my purse, neatly wrapped in black-and-gold paper. I
wait until the boys stop choking on their laughter and settle back into themselves before I place the small box in front of Edmund.
He looks down, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. When he notices the gift, my pulse slows. Anticipation builds like water rising behind a door. I want the badge to mean as much to him as Coquette meant to me.
Edmund dips his chin politely, but just as he reaches to open the gift, the door slams open with a bang so loud that Charlotte jumps in her seat.
“What the fu—”
Charlotte cuts off as Rosamund sweeps in, her monkey perched on her shoulder and a mountain of parcels balanced on her hip. Her perfume rolls in first, heavy with peony, and her lynx fur coat trails so far behind her that two Pinkies have to carry the hem.
“Happy birthday, Duke.” Rosamund beams at Edmund. She snaps her fingers, and the two Pinkies step forward with cannons, blasting confetti across the room. The monkey shrieks, leaps from her shoulder, and lands in Edmund’s lap. For a moment, the world dissolves in a burst of color. When the confetti settles, it’s everywhere: on the table, in our food and drinks, even down my dress.
“Hoppola. I hope I’m not interrupting,” Rosamund says, shaking confetti from her coat. Then she drops the parcels onto the table, right on top of my
gift.
I frown. “Actually—”
“You, Miss Rosamund, are never an interruption,” Dickie says, spitting a piece of confetti from his mouth and patting the empty seat beside him.
Rosamund ignores Dickie and sits next to Jack. She leans in and kisses his cheek, leaving a full lip print.
Beside me, Charlotte’s mouth flattens into a hard line. Her eyes lock onto Jack’s face, onto the smear of red he doesn’t notice.
Rosamund turns to Edmund next and loops her arms around his neck.
“How does it feel to be twenty-two?”
“It’d feel better if it weren’t Saturday,” Edmund says, slipping the monkey a date from the table. “I thought you were meeting us at the Lotus.”
“It’s already crawling with guests.” Rosamund slides out of her lynx coat.
“I’d rather keep our gift exchange private.”
She drapes the fur over one of her Pinkie’s arms and smooths her gown with the tips of her nails. It’s a cobalt blue velvet piece, handcrafted by Lemon, with sheer mesh panels that shimmer along her sides and décolletage.
A high slit on one leg flashes jeweled garters, while a spray of sapphires sparkles at her throat, drawing the eye up to her painted smile.
“I already sent your gifts to the Lotus,” Edmund says.
“No matter.” Rosamund pushes the parcels toward him. “You can open mine.”
I lean back, sipping my confetti-laced champagne to mask my annoyance.
Rosamund props her chin on her hand as Edmund unwraps her gifts and narrates each one like a storybook: why she chose it, how far she went to find it, and what it’s meant to signify. Where I expect pride, I find only devotion.
She watches Edmund the way someone struggling with addiction watches Bliss, as if he and Jack alone have the power to make her happy. Around them, she’s less like a spider weaving traps and more like a butterfly desperate to land on the only two flowers in her world.
My Bond buzzes again. I glance at the screen, already expecting Vivian.
This is the second time she’s called without leaving a message, so I answer.
With Rosamund dragging her feet through honey, I know it’ll be a while before my gift reappears in the pile. So I slip off to the lavatory to take Vivian’s call. Inside, I weave past groups of high-citizens crowding the mirrors and head for the row of private rooms along the back wall. Each is sealed from floor to ceiling, with plush seats, full-length mirrors, and brass doors. Real privacy.
I find an empty room and lock the door behind me. As I drop onto the sofa in the corner, my pulse ticks as if waiting for the curtain to rise. I tap my Bond and focus on the screen, already picturing the moment before it hits: Vivian’s face lit with surprise, that sharp, slight inhale, the half-laugh she gives when she’s caught off guard but happy, before joy takes over her whole expression. I want to see every second of it.
The screen flickers, and Vivian’s face appears.
But she’s not smiling.
And she’s not wearing Coquette, either.
She’s bent over her desk, her brow furrowed, her dark hair twisted into a bun and pinned back with a jade comb. Her face is bare of makeup, and she’s dressed in the velvet green pantsuit she wears when she expects to get dirty.
The only sound is the slow scrape of cloth on metal. She’s polishing her Vanguard badges, one at a time. Black smears stain the tips of her gloves as her fingers move with gentle care.
A Pinkie stands behind her, its arms twitching with agitation. The robot is programmed to polish, not sit idly while a human works. But Vivian doesn’t trust it to get the shine right.
She glances up at the screen, and her eyes narrow. “Finally, you answer.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, still processing my surprise. “I’m in the middle of something, but…” I scan the room behind her. “I thought you were calling
about my package.”
Vivian arches an eyebrow.
“You didn’t get it yet?” I ask. “It was overnight delivery.”
Vivian swivels in her chair and glances toward a corner of her room.
Through the mirror on her vanity, I see a mountain of gift boxes, all wrapped in shades of green and gold.
“I thought they were all from Harry,” she says.
But her tone has changed. There’s a note of curiosity now. Hope.
Vivian stands and runs toward the gifts, tearing off her gloves. She starts sorting through the pile, her lips pressed tightly, eyes darting between labels.
“There,” she says.
She holds one box up, squints at the sender’s name, then pulls the comb from her hair and slices it open. The gown spills from the box in a ripple of silk, lace, and diamonds, wet with shine.
Vivian’s head snaps toward me, mouth parting, and her eyes turn glassy.
“Really?”
I smile, the weight behind it full. “Yes.”
Vivian kneels to scoop up the gown, and the silk folds into her palms like water as she runs her fingers along the bodice and the embroidery. She holds it up, eyes wide, taking in the sweep of the train, the constellation of tiny diamonds, and how it glows against her skin even when held, not worn.
“I’ll never forget this, Lore,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Never.”
She clutches the dress to her chest, squeezing the fabric with both hands as if grounding herself in it. Then, slowly, she lifts her head, and I get what I’ve been waiting for. It’s not her usual sly grin or the curved-lip expression she pulls on Harrison when she wants something. This is her real smile, soft
and lit from within.
“Try it on,” I say.
Vivian drags the dress free of its wrappings with a laugh that makes it feel like we’re in the same room. The Pinkie steps forward to assist, already tugging gently at her suit jacket. But just as the first button slips free, Vivian stiffens, and her eyes snap back to the screen.
“Lore,” she says, hurrying closer. “I’m sorry—I completely forgot to tell you. You didn’t already give the Hellion to your friend, did you?”
“No.”
Vivian’s shoulders drop in relief. “Good. When you do, make sure they don’t say a word. The badge has to stay under wraps.”
“Why?”
“Because the Prews are looking for it.”
“The Prews?” I push up from the sofa so fast my head spins. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says. “One of the sons—Edmund—is obsessed with it. He’s been searching for it for years. I don’t know how the family lost ownership of it, but Edmund has issued press releases and offered rewards. He even sent collectors to the low-citizen Districts, desperate to turn up something. Harry almost came forward once, but when he realized how badly I wanted the
badge, he gave it to me instead.”
I stare at her.
And for a moment, the whole room tilts.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Vivian reaches for the phone, her hand outstretched. “Lore, talk to me. I thought you wanted me to try on—”
“Later.” I’m already moving, unlocking the door and flinging it open. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
The lavatory is empty when I step out, but the hallway is a sea of blue. Every booth, every barstool, every inch of space overflows with silk and satin.
Between now and my call with Vivian, dozens more high-citizens have arrived. The line toward Edmund’s booth has reformed, winding through the cafe like a current, glistening with rings, canes, and watches.
I shoulder through the crowd, trying to be gentle yet quick. The faster I move, the sharper the irony cuts, the sheer luck of what I pulled off. And I’m
not even there to guard the badge. It’s alone, at risk of being lost or ruined.
When I finally push through the door of Edmund’s private booth, Rosamund is no longer narrating the backstory of her gifts. The room is so quiet I can count the heartbeats. Jack, Dickie, Rosamund, and Charlotte are hunched over the table, all eyes fixed on something.
I don’t need to see it. My gut already knows. But I step forward anyway.
And there it is, the Hellion badge, glinting in Edmund’s open palm. He looks at it the way you might look through a scope, the whole world narrowing to a single point. His thumb moves across the metal slowly, almost reverently, until it rests on the name, Ernest Prew. Edmund’s throat works, his jaw locking tight. He blinks once, then again, as if something fierce is burning behind his eyes and he’s struggling to hold it back.
He grips the badge like it’s both a relic and a wound.
My heart swells, pressing painfully against my ribs. I step back without meaning to. My T-strap heel catches the hem of my dress, nearly pulling me off balance. I brace a hand against the wall and steady myself, careful not to ruin the moment.
That’s when Edmund’s eyes lift and meet mine. The cold blue has softened, as if the badge in his palm is drawing out every sharp edge of him, leaving an echo of something gentle. Someone gentle.
Then he lifts a hand and signals something I don’t understand.
Before I can ask, Edmund looks away. I slide into the seat beside Charlotte as the others look up.
Jack lets out a low whistle, squinting as if the sun just broke through the clouds. “Well, shit, darling. You really did it.”
“Golly, broad,” Dickie breathes. “That’s the real cat’s meow.”
Confusion clouds my happiness. I double-check, then triple-check, but the angles don’t lie. Not one of them is looking at me.
They’re looking at Rosamund.
“I knew how badly you wanted it back, Duke,” she says, sliding a hand down Edmund’s arm. “So, I just had to track it down for you.”
Then she tilts her head enough to let her hair spill over one eye and stares at me from across the table. Her smile is like an open wound, her lipstick smeared on her teeth like blood. One hand drifts along the stem of her glass, her nails tapping in a steady rhythm as she texts my Bond.
“Steal from me. And I’ll steal from you.”
She turns back to Edmund. “I found it in a private collector’s stash in the
Orange District—a big name with an even bigger ego, but he was hopeless.
He had so much junk he didn’t even realize our Hellion was among it.”
That’s all it takes.
The whole table ripples with awe. Jack whistles again. Dickie actually
claps.
And me— I burn.
The heat starts in my hands, a pulse deep in my knuckles. Then it climbs up my arms and slips between my ribs, turning the air in my lungs to smoke that threatens to suffocate my self-control. I can feel the rage coming, building, rising. And this time, I don’t think I can keep it down. I’m going to explode. I’m going to leap across the table, rip that smile off Rosamund’s face, and shove it down her throat.
I shift, ready to kick back my chair and stand.
That’s when I feel a flash of movement, a hand pressing down on my knee. At first, I think it’s Charlotte, trying to step in without making a scene.
But as the pressure holds steady, I realize the hand is too big.
My gaze shifts to Edmund. He’s leaning forward, his arm stretched under the table, fingers splayed wide on my knee. His palm burns hot against my skin as his eyes lock onto mine in warning.
I try to shake my knee free, but his grip tightens.
Don’t.
I glare and shove at his hand beneath the table. He resists, matching me inch for inch as I claw at his fingers, desperate to peel them off.
He’s stronger, but I’m angrier.
Edmund knows the Hellion is my gift, yet he’s letting Rosamund take it, covering for her like a treacherous, backstabbing Blue. I thought he was better than this. The revelation settles in my heart like dead weight.
I push back harder against him, all my pain, anger, and humiliation screaming in the fight. At last, his hand drops away, and with it, everything skews sideways.
Edmund moves fast. He grabs the badge, tucks it safely into his vest, then stands and motions to the Pinkies. “Our guests have waited long enough.”
The Pinkie opens the door, and a wave of high-citizens floods in.
Overlapping voices crash together in a swell of birthday wishes as they scramble to get close to Edmund and Rosamund.
I stand as a rush of blood floods my head, leaving the room spinning. I try
to move, but the booth is jammed, bodies pressing in from all sides. Charlotte and I are pushed first toward the restrooms, then the kitchen. A high-citizen’s sharpened cane catches my dress, tearing the hem. We’re squeezed between silk-clad arms and crystal glasses, pushed past snippets of conversation that flare and then vanish. Someone mentions the Lotus Lounge. Someone else laughs, a shrill, grating sound. I’m tossed, spun, and dragged through a fog of faces and voices that blur together.
Ten minutes pass, maybe more, before Charlotte and I finally spill into the parking lot. Snow falls in thick sheets, the wind cutting across my skin and chilling the sweat on my face. I hurry forward, biting my lip. The cold clears my head, but not the way I want.
Behind us, streaks of blue spill into the street, summoning hovercars, draping themselves in fur, and laughing as if they own the whole world. I force myself to keep walking, carried by anger, dragged down by hurt and humiliation.
Charlotte frowns at me, concerned. She activates her Bond and sends a text to bypass the formal language rules.
“What the hell happened back there, Lore? Where’d you disappear to?
And why didn’t you give Edmund a gift? You didn’t give me the only one you had, did you?”
I tug my gloves on sharply, then text, “I did give him a gift, but Rosamund stole it.”
Charlotte stops so suddenly that her sequined velvet shoes skid across the
icy snow. “The Hellion was YOURS?”
“Yes.”
Her expression bounces rapidly between shock and disbelief, before her lips curl into a sneer. “That bitch… that skeevy little thief. I told you she was a spider, Lore. Worse than Irene. It’s why Jack—”
Charlotte halts mid-thought, her mental stream cutting off. “Wait a damn minute,” she texts. “Since when are you and Edmund friends?”
“We’re not.”
“Then why the hell did you fork over something as priceless as the Hellion?”
I manage a stiff shrug. “It’s not priceless to me.”
“Well, it is to him—and not just because it belonged to his grandfather.
Back when Jack and I were together, he and Edmund wouldn’t shut up about the Vanguards. They were always talking about how they wished the program
still existed and how they’d do anything to be part of it. Sometimes I got the feeling they wanted the shield to be attacked again so they’d have a shot at glory.”
I give Charlotte’s text a quick once-over, barely registering the meaning.
After what just happened, I don’t give a shit about Edmund or his dead dream.
“I want to go somewhere without any blue,” I tell her, clutching the torn, dirty hem of my dress as we hurry across the parking lot.
“If that’s the case, we’re gonna have to walk home,” Charlotte replies.
I turn, step over a snowdrift, then glare.
Edmund.
He’s here, leaning on my hovercar, calm despite his cruelty. His footsteps have carved deep grooves in the snow, dark veins stretching across the ground as if he’s been out here searching for me for hours. Snow melts on him, soaking into his hair, his pressed tailcoat, and his polished shoes.
He looks like a crown left in the gutter.
“How do you wish to proceed, Miss Waldsten?” Charlotte asks, aloud.
I step forward so abruptly that she sucks in a breath.
“Very well. I shall… go enjoy a cigarette.” She slings her handbag over her shoulder and sidesteps between two hovercars.
The Blues’ voices behind me fade out. So does the rumble of idling hovercars. The world around me stills as I walk forward, trying to hold myself together, but the sight of Edmund standing there—calm after what he did to me—hits me like a spark to airborne propane. My pain flares back to life, and my steps quicken, fueled by a force that tears down my formal posture. My heels click to a stop in front of him.
Edmund opens his mouth, but I cut in.
“So, that’s how you treat people who give you gifts? Like the gifts were already yours?” My voice cracks. “Why, Edmund? Why the hell did you do that to me?”
The ticking of falling civil credits echoes in my ears, but all I hear is my pounding heartbeat. “You knew the Hellion was mine. You knew Rosamund stole it from me. How could you sit by and let—”
“Think about it, Miss Waldsten.” Edmund leans in, close enough that his saber hilt presses against my hip. “You stand up in front of everyone and call my sister—a high-citizen—a thief. What happens next?”
I rise to fire back, but my words catch in a sudden rush of images: the
accusation in front of witnesses, with Rosamund’s own brother standing there. It wouldn’t just be about the badge anymore. It would be about honor and defending the family name.
“That’s right—a death duel,” Edmund says, pushing off the hovercar.
“And not the sort you’d walk away from. You don’t fence or even carry a saber. That means you’d last about as long as the first cut. Rosamund would gut you for the whole Tangerine Tree to see, and when you’re lying in the snow, choking on your own blood, will the badge still matter? Is that what
you want to die for, Miss Waldsten?”
I lift my chin higher. “No.”
“That’s what I thought.” He drags his arm across his face to brush off the snow, his expression marred by frustration. “Look, I don’t know what the hell my sister’s got against you, but it ends today.”
“So, you’ve talked to her, then? Told her you know the badge is mine?”
“No. Not yet.” Edmund pauses, his jaw tight, as if trying to work the harshness from his tone. “I will. But first…” His eyes come back to me, softer now. “I wanted to thank you.”
I want him to thank me, too. But after how he acted, I’m not about to make the moment easy. My anger hasn’t gone anywhere, and it’s only growing fiercer the more his eyes soften. I brace myself against his stare, even as it presses warmly against my fury, like sunlight slipping through a window onto winter skin. This soft expression suits him better than the irritation, the anger that’s almost always there, weighing him down like a stumbling ox. Why that side of him always wins out, I don’t know, because the gentle one is stronger.
I push my hands into my coat pockets. “If you really mean it, say it. Spell it out, like you made me do on your balcony.”
Edmund’s eyes narrow, hesitation flickering before he lets out a quiet laugh. “All right, then.” He steps closer and lowers himself to my eye level.
“Your gift, Miss Waldsten. I’m grateful for it. More than you probably guessed when you gave it.”
“Good,” I say, easing slightly. “Because it wasn’t easy to get.”
“I’ve been chasing it long enough to believe you.” His gaze runs over me, as if checking for a missing pound of flesh. “What did it cost you?”
“A lot. But giving it cost even more.”
“Right.” Edmund rubs the back of his neck, then sighs. “I would’ve paid a lot for the badge, you know.”
“I didn’t give it to you expecting money.”
“Then why’d you give it to me?”
A dozen answers fight their way up, from balancing the scales to finally owing him nothing. I could say all of it. I could even ask for more. But I don’t. While I tell myself it’s because I’m tired of bargains and debts, the truth is, what I want between us is peace.
“Because I thought you’d like it,” I say.
Edmund’s brow lifts, stunned, as if my words are more of a contradiction than an explanation. Still, he doesn’t push back. For once, it’s as if he notices the cliff’s edge beneath my heels, the steep fall I’m risking by being in the entourage of a Blue. And this time, he doesn’t shove me closer to it.
He nods, almost to himself, then falls quiet. Only the Bond’s warning ticks on, the loss of civil credits a steady drip in my ear.
“I know you’ve been looking for the Hellion,” I say. “How’d it get lost?”
“It was never lost.”
“Then what happened?”
A shadow crosses Edmund’s face, as though the memory is a wound still raw enough to feel fresh. He leans back against the hovercar, unmoving as the snow clings to the dark wool of his sleeves, melting into small, sullen stains.
“My father sold it,” he says at last. “Auctioned off my grandfather’s Vanguard uniform as a publicity stunt for his campaign.”
I remember that campaign.
I was young, still small enough that a Pinkie had to cut my meat, when Edmund’s father, Lionel Prew, ran for a Blue Representative seat. I recall the dining room lamps gleaming off the silverware, the smell of fresh bread on the table, when the news broke across every channel: sirens shrieking, smoke curling blackly into the sky, a blur of frantic reporters shouting over one another. The words “Heretic attack” flashed across the screen, and then the camera steadied long enough to reveal the twisted wreckage of a hovercar. I can still see the blown-out doors and the crumpled metal, with the Prew crest’s color scorched into a dark streak. Lionel Prew had been inside when the bomb went off, assassinated on election day.
“Have you gotten the whole uniform back?” I ask.
“Not much of the uniform my grandfather died in survived. Just the badge, boots, and flight jacket.” Edmund laughs without humor. “The jacket’s the only piece I don’t have yet, and that one… well, it’s only
changing hands as a wedding gift.”
I swallow hard, trying to quiet the collapse inside me.
Irene.
She owns the flight jacket. That’s why Edmund agreed to the marriage and keeps pushing through despite the endless clashes and slow erosion. In a twisted way that I can almost understand, he’s doing it for love, for his family’s honor.
“You want the flight jacket examined for evidence,” I guess.
Edmund lifts his face toward the snowy sky, as if he can see the ghost of his grandfather’s jet carving a path through the clouds. “I want to prove what I know so everyone else knows it, too. My grandfather didn’t abandon his men. He stayed on the battlefield. He died honorably.”
A dull, familiar pain floods my chest. I know how Edmund feels. I know what it’s like to carry someone’s honor alone while the world insists on a different story. The lies the media has written about Dad come rushing back, entire narratives built to fuel party gossip rather than the truth. There’s very little I wouldn’t give to expose those lies publicly and force the Civilized World to see Dad for who he really is.
“But the trial,” I say. “If Irene’s convicted and the engagement’s called off, won’t the flight jacket—”
“If she’s convicted, the flight jacket goes back to what it was before the Husseys realized they could use it as leverage.”
I nod, understanding now. The flight jacket would still be valuable, but not to the Hussey family. It would revert to being a keepsake that Edmund could quietly buy back through the proper channels for the right price. I wonder if Irene has already had the flight jacket analyzed and whether she knows the truth. She’d never tell Edmund, not when it’s the only bargaining chip she has left.
Edmund draws the badge from his waistcoat pocket and holds it in his palm, looking at it with the hope of someone who’s spotted the glow of the finish line on the horizon. The badge’s glinting, sharp-edged wings catch the snowflakes between us, and for a brief, startling moment, I don’t see Edmund
at all.
I see me.
I see the way my fingers curled around Dad’s daffodil brooch, handcrafted from his Grandmaster graduation medal, and feel how my heart ached when he pinned it to my dress.
Edmund tucks the badge carefully away, then turns to face me. When he speaks, his voice is gentle yet cautious, as if each word costs him something.
“I’ve been trying to piece my grandfather’s uniform back together for a long time, Miss Waldsten. What you did for me today… I won’t forget it.”
The tension in my body eases as he talks, slowly and reluctantly, like an old knot loosening inside me, tied the day we met. The cautious, guarded edge I always walk with him dulls a little, and for the first time, I realize what’s missing between us: the condescension, the knives of pride, the little cuts he so often delivers. Now, it’s just a conversation. Maybe the first real
one we’ve ever had.
And I don’t want to waste it.
I hold out my hand to catch the falling snow and say, “Don’t forget you owe me a drink, too.”
Edmund laughs and glances at the icy drifts. “You were right about more
than the snow.”
I smile, knowing he means the luck.
“Red Imperial, right?” he asks.
“Yes. And I expect a full bottle.”
“Maybe you’ll get two.”
Edmund’s eyes linger, his smile still in place, though he doesn’t add another word. Neither do I. Instead, I let the silence stretch, enjoying the moment for what it is and for what we are, past the Blue and the Green, past the high and the low.
Just a boy and a girl, standing in an empty parking lot, our colors hidden by the snow.
