Truth must breathe. Force it into the airless coffin of secrecy, and it will die, strangled inside you, only to return as a ghost that haunts eternally. —THE TATTLER, TATTLETALE
CHAPTER 39
I wake the next morning to a delivery of daffodils. They spill from a crystal vase like sunlight slanting sideways in shades of white, yellow, and orange.
My Pinkie says the flowers were left outside my suite without a note, but I don’t need one to know William Lee sent them. He probably asked Harrison what my favorite flowers are and told his Pinkie to handle the rest.
Still, curiosity gets the better of me, so I check the security footage outside my door. It shows no Pinkie, but William himself, trailing behind Vincent.
Both brothers are wrapped in white bandages, their bodies flecked with dark welts and stitched-up cuts. Vincent holds the vase in both hands, walking carefully, while William follows a step behind, fussing at him not to spill the water. Vincent sets the vase in front of the door and adjusts it first to the right, then to the left.
William walks off, waving for him to follow, but Vincent lingers, his eyes still on the daffodils. With a focused squint, he crouches again and shifts the vase to a new angle, his fingers moving with care.
I glance at the daffodils, now on the side table in my salon. They should feel like a gift, but I can’t enjoy them. The flowers only remind me of last night, and I don’t want to be reminded.
I don’t regret helping William. It’s what I saw that’s lodged in my mind like a stray piece of shrapnel. The images hit in waves as the day drags on. I see the Coppers slam William’s head into the frame of a chair as I ride in Edmund’s hovercar to the first-year Lecture Hall. I see the sergeant’s fist crack across Vincent’s face as the five of us sit through classes. I see the brothers screaming, arms reaching for each other, as we eat lunch in the
dining hall.
I can’t eat. Students bustle around our table, caught in their routines as if it’s just another day. For them, it is. The campus hasn’t changed. It still looks, smells, and sounds the same. The marble floors still shine, and the sun- umbrellas still flutter on cafe patios, while drones sweep overhead, displaying class schedules right on cue.
Yet, I see the campus differently now. A tiny crack has appeared in the illusion, and through it, I see the campus the way I did when I first arrived, before I learned to listen for the applause instead of the screams that followed.
A hand gently brushes mine under the table, then closes around my fingertips. I stir from my daze and glance up to see Edmund watching me. He offers an encouraging smile, though it fades before it touches his eyes. Where I expected relief in his expression—that Vincent, William, and I avoided disaster—I find worry instead, as if the disaster is still on its way. I hold on to him, comforted by the steady warmth of his hand, even as I realize something is wrong.
But I don’t understand what until my last class of the day.
I’m walking into Political Theory & Governance, reading over an assignment I’m due to turn in, when an alert sounds from my Bond.
4:43 P.M.: FAILURE TO USE FORMAL LANGUAGE IN A REQUIRED AREA. MINUS ONE CIVIL CREDIT.
I frown, thinking there must be a mistake. But when I see the official badge of the Office of Civility stamped next to the message, my breath cuts
off.
What? I didn’t misspeak once today.
I tap the notification, and the alert expands into a block of text that pulses red at the header.
CIVIC NOTICE: CREDIT LIABILITY ALERT
Origin ID: Office of Civility Recipient: Miss Loredana Waldsten
You are receiving this notice because you voluntarily issued a personal civil credit transfer to Mr. William Lee (ID# 9983- 456-A) while his score was below the arrest threshold, thereby constituting a formal endorsement of virtuous character under Article 14.7 of the Civil Trust Act.
As a result, you are now liable for all future civil credit deductions incurred by the endorsed party. Any deductions applied to Mr. Lee’s record will be automatically applied to your own. This liability is not reciprocal. You will not receive credit for his restorations.
This endorsement remains in effect until formally revoked through a petition to the Office of Civility, subject to review.
Maintain vigilance. May you always be virtuous.
What the fuck? I reread the notice, certain I’m misunderstanding it. How can I lose civil credits every time William screws up, but gain nothing when he does something right?
Then I remember the terms of service, the ones I skipped over, focused only on getting the civil credits to him fast enough. Dad warned me that some civil credit transfers come with risks. He warned me to be careful about who I tie myself to. I must’ve agreed to this without even realizing it. The penalty was there, buried in the fine print I never bothered to read. Now, unless I file a petition with the Office of Civility and ask them to revoke the transfer, I’m bound to William forever, until one of us dies. Every violation of his will affect me, dragging me down and stripping me of every civil credit I have.
I clench my trembling hand in my pocket, petrified by the thought. But if I take the civil credits back, William will be arrested and sent to the Pearl Penitentiary, where the mind torture is so brutal that inmates’ memories must be wiped so they can function normally after release.
I pull up the alert again. William lost the civil credit over a formal language mistake. It’s something I often do myself, not out of defiance but out of exhaustion. Absolute adherence to the rules feels impossible some days. I know that. I live it. So how can I blame him for slipping?
The truth is, it isn’t William’s fault at all. It’s the fault of our system, this gleaming, brutal machine built to crush people like us. Laws like this aren’t accidents. They’re designed to punish compassion and discourage low- citizens from helping one another. Who in their right mind would risk so much to be kind?
I sink into the seat beside Edmund and Jack, barely noticing when Professor Fleming strides into the lecture room and starts the class. No matter how hard I’ve tried to forget, I remember what danger looks like for the average low-citizen. I remember what survival costs. I remember crawling
through the ceiling shafts of the Speakeasy with bloodied hands and feet, every breath a plea to stay alive. Back then, death was everywhere. The Copper on the Regal Express wanted me dead. Irene Hussey and her friends wanted me dead. So did thousands of other students.
That’s what low-citizens face every day. That’s what their lives are shaped around. The only difference is that they don’t have a bailout like I do.
They don’t have Edmund.
Professor Fleming meets my gaze from his floating platform, as if he’s about to call on me. But when he notices the twisted knot of tension in my face, he chooses another student instead. I nod at him, grateful.
I don’t want to take Dad’s call on Saturday anymore. I don’t know how to face him. I promised Hillaire I’d convince him not to run for Governor of the Rainbow District, but after this, after everything, how can I?
Asking Dad to step down would mean endorsing the very system I oppose: the unjust executions and arrests, letting someone like William rot in a filthy prison cell for months of torture over a few hot-tempered mistakes.
If I tell Dad not to run, I’m telling him not to fight. Not to try. And the worst part—the part that guts me—is knowing why he’s waited so long to tell me.
It’s not my permission he wants. It’s my belief, like the soldier who stands tall when his enemies tell him to quit, but breaks when someone he loves says the same.
If I say no, Dad will walk away. If he does, nothing will change or get
better.
And that will be on me.
After Political Theory & Governance, we head to Edmund’s suite to study for exams. I’m not in the right mindset to study, let alone finish a single thought, but I go because there’s comfort in being near Edmund, in standing in the gentle side of his shadow.
In the foyer, Edmund asks if we can talk in private. Charlotte, Jack, and Dickie exchange stiff glances as they file into the salon, making it clear that they think Edmund is angry at me for giving William the civil credits while I was under the arrest threshold.
And suddenly, I wonder if they’re right.
The Pinkies close the foyer doors, sealing us alone inside. Edmund takes off his suit jacket and lays it on a coat tree before turning to me. A few strands of hair have come loose from his pomaded style and fallen over his forehead, highlighting the worry lines on his face.
“I’m sorry, Edmund,” I say, “for not asking you first. But there wasn’t time.”
He drops a hand to his side. Between his clenched fingers, his Blood Ring glitters, the source of all the sickness in our world, yet the one thing that can cure it, too.
“I care about you,” Edmund says, “and I want to keep you safe. But I’m not going to use that as an excuse to stop you from doing what’s right.”
I straighten, caught off guard. “You think it was right?”
He nods, though there’s conflict in his face, as if some part of him would rather challenge William to a death duel and rid me of the problem altogether.
“Jack says William’s got a short fuse, always quick to blow. People like that can drag you under fast, and now you’re tied to him for life. Are you sure
you’re okay with that?”
“I have to be.”
Edmund sighs, his eyes creasing as if he’s still caught within himself, forcing his resistance down. Then he moves closer and takes my face in his hand, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “How many civil credits do you
have?”
“More than I need.”
“If you run low, you’ll tell me?”
“Yes,” I promise, though my voice quivers.
He leans in and presses a kiss to my throat, as if to steady it. “Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as it could be. And even if it were, I’d be worse.” His other hand lifts to join the first, framing my face. “Trust me to look after you.”
I do. And it reminds me of something Dickie said once, long before I ever looked at Edmund as anything other than a Blue: If Ed got struck by lightning, the only thing that would happen is that his cigar would light. I laughed then, thought Dickie was ridiculous, but I see it now. Edmund is the tallest, strongest tree in the forest, with roots so firm and immovable that trying to tear them out would only drive them deeper, all the way to the other side of the world. People like him can lose, but they can never be defeated.
“It’s more than that, Edmund,” I say. “I believe in you.”
His throat tightens, and for a moment, his face shows the torn expression of someone watching a path split, as if my belief conflicts with the kind others place in him. It’s a firm reminder that trees don’t grow alone, especially where the earth runs blue. I can almost hear the voices around him, loud and insistent, pulling, demanding, shouting for which way he should turn. And yet, when I speak, no matter how quietly, his head always tilts upward, as if he hears my voice above all the rest.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
“You never have to ask me that.”
Edmund pulls me toward him with one arm, his mouth already tracing a soft, burning path down my neck as he closes the curtains with his other hand.
We don’t leave the foyer until we have to.
By the time Saturday arrives—the day I’ve planned to tell Dad about Edmund—I’ve chewed my fingernails down to the quick. I’m curled up on the sofa in the suite, my head drooping as I leave my half-eaten breakfast on the table. I’m too tired and distracted to eat a full meal. I haven’t slept well in days. All around, the air is almost oppressively sweet with the scent of daffodils. William and Vincent have been leaving a fresh vase of them outside my door every morning without fail. I haven’t asked the brothers to stop, and they probably won’t until the year ends.
But I hardly see the flowers. The only daffodil I see is the wire one Edmund made for me, glistening in my open palm. I wish life could stay like this, the way it’s been over the past weeks: Edmund kissing my open, laughing mouth, and me safe in his arms. I want to hold onto a version of our world where happiness feels possible, and peace doesn’t have to be earned with blood.
Unlike Dad, I’m not eager to be brave. I’m not burning with the desire to stand against injustice. I’m afraid. And the climb, the endless fight against people whose power dwarfs my own, feels futile. I want the easy way out,
even though I understand now… It’s never been about what I want.
When the clock chimes ten, I kiss the daffodil gently and slip it into my pocket. Dad said he’d call today, but he never mentioned a time. I’d rather not sit waiting, gnawing at what’s left of my fingernails.
So I call him.
Dad picks up on the third ring, his tone pleased yet surprised, as if he hadn’t expected me to call so soon. The camera shakes as he walks, holding his phone at an angle that suggests he’s trying to hide his location. But I recognize the willow trees swaying behind him, their long branches trailing like fingers across the stone paths. There are six of them in the back garden of Waldsten Mansion, planted in a row near the rear wall.
But Dad only ever visits the one on the far-right side, because it’s the tree that shades her grave. His younger sister. Daisy.
I never knew Daisy because she died shortly after Vivian was born. But from photographs and videos, it’s clear I look like her. So similar that sometimes, when I walk into a room, Dad glances at me wistfully, as if, for only an instant, he thinks his little sister has come back to him.
Neither he nor Mom talks much about Daisy, but Vivian once pried a story out of one of our Pinkies. The robot told her that the last time it saw Daisy, she’d been with Mom in her office behind a locked door. When Daisy finally came out, she looked sad and shaken, almost as if she were saying goodbye. Six months later, my parents received a call saying Daisy had died of a Bliss overdose.
The news broke Dad. Mom says he was already driven before that, already angry and working to change things. But Daisy’s overdose was the moment that focused his fire. After she died, he dedicated himself to destroying Bliss. Every speech, every policy, every battle he fought centered on that one goal. He went up against high-citizens who had the kind of invisible power that could erase a man like him if they wanted to.
But he never backed down.
At the edge of the garden, Dad sits alone on a bench beside a red-brick wall. “How are you doing, honey?” he asks, loosening his tie. “You look a little tired.”
Now that the camera has stopped moving, I can see he does, too, though not in the same way. Mine comes from a few sleepless nights and too much anxiety. His tiredness looks older, like it lives beneath his skin, buried deep in the joints of his calloused hands, quietly aging him from the inside out.
It makes me wonder how many times Dad has wanted to stop politics. Not
quit, exactly, but slow down and live a quieter life, one that doesn’t demand so much from him. Maybe he’s imagined waking up late beside Mom, letting the world turn without him, watching Vivian, Hillaire, and me grow up without the weight of fixing a broken system pressing on his shoulders. I know he’s thought about it. He’s not a machine. He’s as human as I am.
Still, he’s never walked away. Neither has Mom. They’ve never said they’ve done enough or given enough, or that it’s time for someone else to take over.
They stay. They fight. And they carry each other along the way.
“So do you,” I say.
Dad gives a soft laugh. “Yeah, well, old men like me always look tired.”
He crosses his arms and looks out over the garden, as if tracking the sway of the willows. “Listen, Loredana. The real reason I called is that six weeks ago, the Green Party held an internal vote in our Civic Assembly, and I—” He pauses, clearing his throat. “I won by a thirteen-vote majority. They’ve asked me to run for Governor of the Rainbow District.”
He sets the phone on the table beside the bench and glances into the camera. Even though his face is half-shaded by the garden trees, I can see how restless he is, as if bracing for the blow that might put out whatever’s
left of his fire.
“I already know,” I say.
“You do?” His eyebrows knit sharply. “Who told you?”
I avoid the question, knowing better than to rat out Hillaire. Still, she’s going to hate me after this call. So is Vivian. But it’s either their anger at me or mine at myself. And I know which one I can live with.
“I get why you waited to tell me,” I say. “But you don’t have to worry. If you want to run, I’ll support you.”
Dad’s head tilts, and for a long moment, he stares, expressionless, as if his mind is still catching up to my words. “Really, Loredana?”
My throat is too tight to answer, so I nod.
He nods back, slower. Then a soft, stunned smile begins to form, brightened by a flicker of light in the tired depths of his eyes. His shoulders loosen, the strain in his face eases, and for the first time in weeks, he looks less like a man fighting to stay upright and more like someone who still remembers how to hope.
I don’t know what I ever did to deserve mattering this much to him.
Dad runs a hand through his hair, still smiling, as if caught in the
afterglow of relief. But slowly, the expression fades.
“You should know, honey. If I go through with this, things might get rocky, like they were before. Some moments more than others, like when I make the announcement or near the end of the campaign.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I say, realizing this is my cue. My chance to finally tell Dad the truth, or some version of it. “I’ll be safe.”
He studies me. “You’ve made some good friends?”
“Yeah. Four, actually. And… one’s a Blue.”
Dad sits up straighter, his hand closing on the edge of the bench. “A Blue?
Friends? What do you mean by that?”
My stomach hardens, roiling in a way that makes me thankful I ate a light breakfast. But I force out the words, keeping to broad strokes and leaving out the thornier details that might catch and bleed. Dad’s face stiffens when I explain how I joined a Blue’s entourage because it was either that or die at the Speakeasy. But he eases slightly when I admit that the Blue and I became friends after we started to trust each other, and even more, when I say I don’t have to do service work and that the Blue treats me well.
When I finish, Dad leans back on the bench and goes quiet. The silence lasts only a few moments, though it feels long enough to turn my hair gray. I brace against the sofa, heart pounding, waiting for the same storm he’d been prepared for when he told me his news.
But when he finally speaks, all he says is, “Guess it makes sense why you’ve been holding up so well.”
The breath I’ve been holding escapes in a rush. “You’re not mad?”
Dad rubs his chin, suddenly sheepish. “I, uh, never told you this, honey, but I was friends with President Reeve back when we were students at Grandmaster.” He pauses, and a small, proud smile edges across his mouth.
“Still am, in fact, even though Reeve and I sometimes butt heads over politics.”
I pretend to be surprised. “Was he your closest friend?”
“Yeah. He was. We had a whole group, though. Theodore. Winston. Your mom. Daisy…” Dad’s mouth tightens around his sister’s name. “And a few others, too.” He rubs his neck and shifts on the bench, as though the weight of the memories is still too heavy to sit with. “The point is, not all Blues are bad. If you’ve found one that’s good, I trust your judgment.”
Relief stirs in my chest, but I press it down, knowing it’s too soon to celebrate.
“Which Blue is it, by the way?” Dad asks.
“I—uh…” My throat dries. “It’s Edmund.”
His eyebrow lifts, as if he senses I’m being evasive. “Edmund, who?”
“Edmund… Prew.”
Dad lets out a short, disbelieving breath that’s half laugh, half cough. “For fuck’s sake, Loredana. That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking, Dad.”
The laugh dies. His mouth goes slack. “Really?”
“Yes.”
I blink, and for a moment, the world on his side of the call seems to stop.
When it resumes, a frame is missing—the instant before he realizes.
Suddenly, Dad is on his feet, the bench crashing backward with a splintering crack. A blue jay darts from the wall, wings flapping wildly, as he slams his fist against the table hard enough to send the phone skittering to the edge. His face drains instantly, the color vanishing into a dead white mask so quickly it shocks me.
“Prew?” Dad’s roar shreds through the speakers. “How could you, Loredana? What did I tell you? What the fuck did I tell you?”
I flinch, stunned. “I—Dad, I don’t—”
“Who was the one Blue family I told you to stay away from?” He claws both hands through his hair, pacing as if he wants to rip his thoughts from his skull. “You used to listen. You used to be careful. How could you do this?”
“I didn’t—” My breath snags. “You said the parents were dangerous. You never said Edmund—”
“You think that matters?” Dad’s shout tears through the garden, its echo almost mournful. I’ve never seen or heard him like this. He’s unraveling right in front of me, cursing wildly as his body breaks into frantic, uncontrollable tremors.
“Edmund’s not like them,” I say, standing too, my voice trembling. “He’s not. You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t need to know him! I know his blood. I know what family raised him. And you think you’re safe with that?” Dad’s laugh is hollow, already broken. “Hell, Loredana—you might even be right. Edmund Prew might be a flower in a field of grenades, but guess what? You’re still standing in a fucking minefield.”
I reel back, suddenly dizzy. “Why? Why them? Why does it matter so much?”
Dad stops, turns, and when his eyes lock with mine, the look on his face guts me. It’s darker than fear and rage, and much more horrifyingly familiar.
It’s the same look he gave me when I staggered out of the locker room, covered in blue blood.
“The reason I told you to stay away from the Prews,” Dad says, “wasn’t because they’re cruel, powerful, or corrupt. Most Blues are. I warned you
because of Charles.”
“Charles Blackwell?”
He nods, a slow, solemn dip of the head.
“They weren’t—” My voice breaks. “Edmund and Charles weren’t friends, were they?”
“I fucking wish.” Dad’s eyes hold mine, each word a sharper knife.
“Charles was Edmund’s cousin.”
One time, when Hillaire and I were training at the compound back home, I let my guard down. She was small then, maybe eleven or twelve, but fast. She caught me square in the chest with a roundhouse kick, and I slammed into the wall, the wind ripped from my lungs. For almost a full minute, I couldn’t breathe. I clawed at my chest, gasping, wide-eyed and panicked, because no air would come.
That’s how it feels now, like I’ve been hit again, only this time it’s internally. And there’s no wall behind me… just the horrible, ugly truth, watching as I collapse to the floor.
“Loredana.” Dad fumbles on the table for his phone. When he grabs it, his hand stretches toward the screen as if he could reach through it. “Loredana.
Are you okay?”
I blink, trying to see him through the camera, but tears blur everything. I can’t breathe. I can hardly move. When my response finally breaks free, the words fracture into a low, broken moan scraped from deep inside my chest, a sound that doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like grief wearing my voice.
“Loredana,” Dad repeats my name, but his voice is drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears.
I hunch forward on the table beside the sofa with a strangled gasp, as if life is leaving my heart along with its break. I don’t believe it. What I feel for
Edmund won’t let me. And yet the grief is changing now, twisting into the familiar, panicked instinct to run, to get out before it’s too late.
“I-I’ll leave Edmund’s entourage,” I say, barely able to work my throat.
“No.” The word rips out of Dad, before he reins it in, softening. “No. If you two are as close as you say, backing away now will only make him suspicious. He’ll ask questions. He’ll want to know why.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Stay put until the year ends. Just a few more weeks. After that, during summer break, you start pulling away. Make excuses if he invites you out.
Don’t reply to his messages right away. Bit by bit, you fade. By the time your second year begins, it won’t feel sudden. He’ll already be getting used to life without you.”
I shake my head, still dizzy, still taking short, shallow breaths as I try to steady myself. This plan will never work. With the way Edmund looks at me now, he’d follow. He’d follow me to the edge of the earth, never giving up until he knew why I gave up first.
But I can’t tell Dad this. And that’s when it occurs to me how senseless this is, how horribly avoidable all of it was. I whirl on Dad, my throat shredded raw by the scream.
“Why, Dad? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
He flinches, pained for me, but the one thing I’m searching for—regret— isn’t there.
“Because you’re obedient, Loredana. Or you used to be. I thought you’d stay clear of him. And I figured not knowing would make it easier for you to focus. To survive there.”
“Edmund still could’ve found out,” I say. “Even if I wasn’t his friend.
What, then?”
“He could’ve, yeah. Any Blue could’ve. But I’ve been keeping an eye on that. Ted gave me—” Dad stops, frowning as he corrects himself. “President Reeve allowed me to put an alert on the file. If anyone ever unseals it, I’ll know before they do.”
He sets his phone back on the red brick wall with a white-knuckled grip.
Then he leans against the wall, almost as if he needs it to hold himself up, and watches me. I know he’s waiting for more questions, but there’s nothing left to ask. The truth has already done its damage, and the damage is complete.
I feel blindly for the sofa until my body folds onto it. My arms and legs go
first, before the numbness seeps into my chest, burrowing deeper than skin and bone, until even my frantic, uneven heartbeat begins to quiet.
Edmund told me not to betray him. That was the one rule. The only rule.
And I promised I wouldn’t, never realizing I already had. The worst part isn’t what I’ve done; it’s the timing. If I’d known sooner, I could’ve survived it. I could’ve left him, because back then he was nothing more than another spot
of blue in the endless, shifting tide.
But now… now he’s everything.
Now I love him.
