Now and forever, although they are dead, We remember the nine great gentlemen who bled, Who stood against evil—unyielding, undone— Who challenged the darkness, who fought it—and won.
—EXCERPT FROM THE NATIONAL ANTHEM OF THE CIVILIZED WORLD
CHAPTER 42
The fireworks outside my suite, trailing across the sky like pale jellyfish, aren’t part of tonight’s official display. These are set off by students, whistling past with an uneven crackle, leaving streaks of smoke that curl and fade through the open windows.
It’s May 13th. Founder’s Day. The two-hundredth anniversary of the Civilized World. And the day I’m going to tell Edmund the truth about Charles.
I’m in my bedroom, seated at the vanity while my Pinkie fusses over my face. I’m sweating from head to toe, anxious enough to vomit. My hair is wound into a harsh half-up twist that feels more like punishment than style.
The emerald swimsuit my Pinkie picked out plunges too low, revealing too much, and the diamond teardrop earrings Vivian gave me are unwelcome reminders that Irene is now convinced Edmund has at least one mistress.
Vivian still won’t talk to me. Hillaire probably never will again. And tonight, once I’ve said the words I’ve rehearsed a hundred times, Edmund won’t either.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. Only that I have to.
The Pinkie finishes my makeup, then bows and slips out, whistling our national anthem as its footsteps fade into the hallway. I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, lightheaded, as if all the blood in my body is rushing there.
The room feels too large around me, and my reflection appears falsely serene.
My fingers find Dad’s daffodil brooch, pinned to the neckline of my swimsuit cover-up, and I hold it tightly.
Out in the hallway, Charlotte flits by like a ray of sunlight that’s too bright to look at, especially in my panicked state. With each day Jack remains sober, her happiness grows, and in turn, he’s become more personable toward her.
She doesn’t say it outright, but I think somewhere in the quiet, hidden part of her heart, she’s starting to hope. Maybe not for their relationship to return to what it was, but for a chance to build something new.
Charlotte and I drive to the Luminescent Lake around 3:00 p.m. The campus is busy, its aerial lanes crowded with students, hovercars honking as they head toward the beaches, and clubs overflowing with tipsy students decked out in sequins and feathers. Even the Speakeasy has been fully booked since this morning. Exams are a week away, but today, on Founders Day, everyone is focused on celebrating.
The holiday commemorates the raising of the energy shield, the moment the Civilized World was born. Everyone knows the story of how nine men, remembered as the Nine Gentlemen, united from every corner of influence— military, politics, business, and technology—and stood to defend our people when the rest of the world turned against us.
While hostile nations closed in from every side and bombs rained down and cities burned, the Nine Gentlemen labored in secret, pouring all their resources into building the shield. Most believed it was a myth, a hopeless fantasy. But then, one day, as armies advanced from land, air, and sea, the Nine Gentlemen raised it. In broad daylight, the shield climbed into the sky, bright enough to burn off the shadows on the ground.
Two hundred years ago, on May 13th, the Nine Gentlemen cut us off from the rest of the world, and in that same blinding moment, they saved us from it.
Three of them became our first presidents. All of them helped shape our Constitution, laying the bones of a system Dad says was once far more just than it is now. He always reminds me that the Nine Gentlemen weren’t born great. They were ordinary men, handed an extraordinary task. But they rose to meet it. And we remember them for that.
We honor their lineages, too. Most of the Nine Gentlemen’s descendants are high-citizens, from the Reeves to the Husseys. Only a few are low- citizens, born with great names but denied power under high-citizen rule.
Winston Glass is one of them.
And tonight, we’ll celebrate it all—the energy shield and the Nine Gentlemen’s sacrifice—with fireworks, music, and so much light it’ll wash the stars from the sky.
Charlotte drives my hovercar to the Luminescent Lake while I stare out the window, clutching my daffodil brooch as if holding it tightly enough could slow time, keeping the moment when I have to tell Edmund the truth forever out of reach. Jazz from Big Band Beats drifts through the air, and Charlotte hums along sentimentally, as if it’s a song she once danced to with Jack. When she takes a sharp left, cutting down a hill toward the lake, the humming stops. I can feel her glancing at me, at my hands knotted in my lap and the sweat gathering on my upper lip, but she waits until we descend into the lot and park before speaking.
She turns, presses a handkerchief into my palm, and says quietly, “Lore… I know something bad happened. And I know you’re pretending it didn’t because you don’t want to tell me.”
I swallow and dab the handkerchief to my lip, not bothering to look composed. Charlotte knows me, maybe better than my own sisters. There’s no point in lying, and right now, I don’t want to.
So I nod.
“I’m not asking you to tell me.” She ashes her cigarette out the window.
“The only reason I’m saying anything is because you look unhappy. And I want you to know that if you need me, I’m here.”
I know she means it, but I almost wish she didn’t. Because once I tell Edmund, and he turns on me forever, Charlotte and I can’t stay friends unless she’s willing to risk her place in his entourage. And I’d never ask her to.
So I say nothing. Instead, I lean across the seat, lift the cigarette from her fingers, and take a long, clumsy drag. I cough, hand it back, and squeeze her hand in thanks before stepping out into the balmy air.
It’s hot today, the kind of heat that makes every shady tree look like a friend. The beach is crowded with low-citizen students scattered among sun umbrellas and folding chairs stuck lopsided in the sand. A few people splash into the shallows, laughing as they dare each other to go further, but no one wades past their knees.
Out on the water, far from the noise and heat, the high-citizens drift in pearly yachts, their sails rippling in the wind like paper love letters. They sip chilled drinks on polished decks, shaded by striped canopies. The boats are massive, so wide that if I screamed to Charlotte from one end, she probably
wouldn’t hear me from the other.
We walk barefoot across the sand toward a rack of public hoverboats with sun-bleached hulls and cracked white leather seats. We climb into one, but just before we detach it from the mooring, we spot Dickie sputtering toward shore in another hoverboat, sipping moodily from a soda bottle. He’s wearing blinding orange swim trunks that clash with his pale chest, already splotchy and pink from the heat.
We wait as he wobbles up to the dock, squinting against the glare.
“Mr. Langley,” Charlotte calls. “Why are you departing so early?”
Dickie scrambles ashore and lets out a breath of relief as his feet hit the sand, either because he’s finally in the shade or because he hates large bodies
of water. He never learned to swim.
“’Cause I forgot my plane.”
I know he’s talking about the carbon-fiber drone he’s constantly crashing and asking Jack to fix. “Why do you need it?”
“Um, hello? To film the fireworks.” He downs the last of his soda and tosses the bottle into the lake. “Gotta head back to my suite. And I’m gonna take my sweet time doing it, too. The party’s a bust.”
Charlotte and I trade a bewildered glance, then call after Dickie to ask what he means, but he’s already trudging down the shore.
We brush it off and turn back to our hoverboat. As we push off into the lake, the water shimmers beneath us, its bioluminescent glow softened by the daylight but still visible in the gentle ripples. Piranhas dart in quick, predatory splashes of color beneath the surface. Charlotte and I lean over the side of the hoverboat to watch the deadly fish as we weave between the rows of anchored vessels bobbing in the water. Edmund’s yacht sits near the center of the lake, only a stone’s throw from the Sailing Strip, where the Mensur will be fought in two weeks.
We guide the hoverboat upward, rising effortlessly into the air. Edmund’s yacht is three stories tall and even features a private helipad. On the first level, a Pinkie in a striped uniform stabilizes our hoverboat for landing.
I step out, frowning when I notice two other hoverboats docked here.
There should be only one, if it’s just Edmund and Jack. I get a sinking feeling as I realize Rosamund must’ve invited herself to be near Jack. I feel her presence before I see her, like a tremor before an earthquake. The urge to retreat to my suite flares, sudden and visceral, but I force my feet to move as the Pinkie leads us down the deck.
The planks stretch long beneath our feet, still damp from the hot tubs that circle the stern. It takes minutes to reach the far end, and when we finally round the last canopy, Charlotte hunches up like a hissing cat.
Rosamund lounges in a striped dock chair, one long, bronzed leg crossed over the other. Her wavy hair tumbles artfully around her face, and her sheer cover-up hugs her curves like spun sugar. Her monkey perches on her shoulder, clothed in a rhinestone shirt, and she strokes it absentmindedly as she gazes through a pair of gold binoculars, monitoring the action across the water.
A few feet away, Edmund and Jack are shirtless, their swim trunks dark with water as they launch golf balls off the yacht’s edge. Rosamund cheers each time the boys swing, loud and sweet, praising their form and strength.
Across the water, two Blues on a nearby yacht fire balls back as if it’s a sport turned war.
Edmund lines up a shot, pivots his shoulders, and hits the ball with such force that it blurs out of sight. A sharp crack echoes as it shatters a window on the opposing yacht. One of the Blues pops his head up and flips Edmund off. Edmund laughs loudly, pulling his cigar from his mouth in a trail of smoke.
“Your windows surrender almost as fast as you do,” he shouts.
He steps aside to let Jack take the next swing, and that’s when he notices me. A smile lifts his face, bright as the lake’s shine, yet it darkens my heart.
He moves closer, his head lowering as if to kiss my hand, then stops at the sight of something behind me. His body straightens instantly, and he yanks off his sunglasses, the temples snapping shut in his fist.
I turn as the fourth guest emerges from below deck, a golf club slung over her shoulder and five Coppers behind her. She wears a steel blue swimsuit that highlights her sculpted curves, and a wide-brimmed straw hat tilts low over her face, obscuring most of her blunt black bob and casting a shadow over the ankle monitor strapped to her skin.
The metal band glints in the sunlight like a smile meant only for me.
Shit.
A long moment passes before Irene lifts her head and squints at me from
beneath the brim of her hat. She looks… different. No longer the cold, relentless force she was when she nearly killed me in the Speakeasy. Her skin is pale and watery from too much indoor air and too little sunlight. There’s a slight, fluttering twitch in one of her eyes, as if something is trapped inside and trying to get out. Seven months of house arrest have taken their toll. I see it in the way her fingers curl and uncurl around the golf club, as if she’s struggling to remember how to behave around others. She looks like someone who’s been pacing the same room for too long, her thoughts growing steadily louder until she started talking back to them.
A ball whizzes back from the Blues’ deck, sending the Coppers scrambling. It brushes past Irene’s ear so closely it ruffles the edge of her hat, but she doesn’t flinch. She turns to Edmund with a reddened, uneasy stare.
“What is Miss Waldsten doing here?”
“Miss Waldsten was invited,” Edmund says pointedly, as if to remind Irene she wasn’t. The way he looks at her—with a dark, grating gaze—drags me back to the Regal Express, to his savage outburst when he first saw Charlotte. It makes me wonder if his dislike of Irene goes beyond bitterness over an arranged marriage and whether she wronged him in some deeper, more personal way.
Another golf ball shrieks past, and Edmund sidesteps it just in time. The ball crashes into the table beside the dock chairs, sending his brandy glass to the floor. Edmund’s eyes narrow as he surveys the dripping mess, and he grunts. He puts his sunglasses back on and strides down the deck, waving for me to join him.
Irene folds her arms as I follow, irritation and jealousy warring on her face. I feel her stare burning between my shoulder blades all the way down the deck, but I don’t dare look back.
Edmund flicks his cigar into the lake and sits on the edge of one of the hot tubs. His movements are restless, frustration coursing through him as he pulls a linen shirt over his sunscreen-slicked skin. But when I sit beside him, the tension in his body slackens, just as it does when I touch him, when I stand on my tiptoes and press a kiss to his chin, the highest I can reach even with the extra lift.
“I’m sorry,” he says reluctantly. “I didn’t know Miss Hussey was coming.”
“How was she allowed to? I thought she was on house arrest.”
“She is. But my moth—” Edmund’s words cut off as his knuckles graze a
half-healed scratch on his neck. “Headmistress Prew thought it would look bad for a Hussey to spend Founder’s Day locked up.”
I nod slowly. Of course. Irene isn’t just another Blue; she’s a descendant of one of the Nine Gentlemen. Today, appearances matter more than the law.
Suddenly, I regret not turning back when I first saw the extra hoverboats.
Even if all the best hotspots are booked, I’d take a crowded public beach over spending the day with a woman who tried to kill me—and who I’m soon supposed to testify against.
I draw my feet from the bubbling water, ready to stand, when Edmund catches my hand.
“I know it’s a mess,” he says. “But I want you to stay.”
I shouldn’t. I don’t have it in me to spend the afternoon hiding the truth of what I did behind laughter, jokes, and a fresh suntan. Yet I can’t bring myself to leave him either.
Without fully deciding, I slip my foot back into the water and flick a small splash his way. “All right… as long as you didn’t plan on swimming.”
Edmund laughs, relief easing the hard lines of his face. “Speaking of that —” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thin band— “do you know
what this is?”
“A Rippletone, right?”
“Yeah.” He slips the band onto my wrist and tugs it to test the security of the clasp. “Don’t take it off until you’re back ashore.”
“I won’t,” I promise, watching as he pulls out another band and fastens it to his own wrist.
The device looks delicate—a fine gold circle with a small conch-shaped charm—but I wouldn’t want to fall overboard without it. The moment the Rippletone touches the lake’s bioluminescent water, it emits a low-frequency pulse that scrambles the piranhas’ lateral lines. The disruption gives you a minute, maybe two, to climb out before the piranhas regroup. I’ve seen the footage: a ripple, a splash, then hundreds of jeweled bodies scattering like a net ripped open. You’re only safe if you don’t tempt fate by staying in the lake too long.
Edmund pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and turns to me, his eyes tracing my face with an open affection that makes it clear he doesn’t care if Irene is nearby.
“You look beautiful,” he says. “… even when you’re sad.”
I smile faintly, not bothering to hide it. Over the past week, Edmund has
slowly begun to sense the change in me, the same way Charlotte has. But he doesn’t understand why. I’ve condemned him to witness a vast, nameless grief he’s meant to decipher on his own. And he tries, always with a gentleness that makes it easy to forget I’ve seen those same hands stained with blood.
“Are you worried about your dad?” he asks. “About him running for Governor?”
“Yes,” I reply. Even if Dad’s upcoming campaign isn’t the reason for my sadness now, it isn’t a lie either. Edmund knows how much Dad means to me, that I could survive almost any failure as long as he never stopped being proud of me.
“Don’t be. He’ll do fine. Especially if Reeve endorses him.”
I know Edmund is right. If Reeve endorses Dad, he might even get a few Blue votes. Still, the answer surprises me. I realize I’ve never asked Edmund about Dad’s politics before, whether he agrees with his views or not.
When I do ask, my legs drifting in the warm, bubbling water, he looks at me with surprise, as if it were obvious.
“Yeah, I agree with him. Especially on the Bliss ban because—” Edmund pauses, his eyes tightening at the corners. “My sister… well, she wasn’t always like this. Before she started using, she was different. Pretty sweet, actually. And, ironically, happier.”
I can’t picture Rosamund as sweet. It seems impossible that she was ever anything other than what she is now. But I don’t say that. There’s too much sincerity in his voice to undermine it.
“It’s not just her, though,” he goes on. “I had a friend who got addicted.
Even lost a cousin to an overdose.”
Cousin? My fists clench against my thighs because I know who he means.
But Charles didn’t die of an overdose.
I hunch slightly, my chest roiling as I realize it’s time. I can already feel the horrible, ruinous truth rising fast, and I have to say it.
“Edmund, there’s… there’s something I have to tell you.”
He turns and frowns as his eyes catch mine. “Sure, but are you okay?”
“Y-Yes.” I can almost feel how pale I’ve gone. “It’s—I should’ve told you weeks ago, but I—” My voice breaks off in a heavy rush of air.
Edmund’s frown deepens, and he leans in, his hand at my waist. “What’s
wrong?”
“Everything. I—”
The panic slams into me like a tire-screeching crash. My lungs seize, heat clawing through my chest until I’m choking on it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t pull in a full breath. Edmund sees what’s happening, just like in his hovercar at the Speakeasy. Only this time, he doesn’t offer me his watch.
Waves ripple across the hot tub as he slides in, facing me, his hands closing carefully around my arms. “Loredana,” he says, his tone steady, as if trying to ground me. “Loredana, look at me.”
The sound of it draws me out, spoken softly but striking violently all the
same.
“Don’t say that. Please.”
“Say what?”
“My name.”
Edmund draws back, confusion shadowing his face. “But… I meant it.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Why? Why does he have to make it harder? For months, I’ve hoped for this moment, to finally hear him say my name, but now that he has, all I can think about is how much I don’t deserve it. I lower my head, fighting back tears. His hand touches my chin, trying to lift it, but I resist, keeping it down.
“Loredana… look at me.”
I finally do. And it’s a mistake.
Because that look, gentle as the faintest wind, is the final blow that breaks my heart. I drop my head again, wiping away tears, when footsteps echo across the deck. I jolt back from Edmund, trying to put space between us, but it’s too late. Irene is already there, flanked by two Coppers, and she’s seen his hands on my arms. They all have.
Irene stops dead, her fist curling until the edge of her engagement ring digs into her skin. Her eyes sweep over us—me, Edmund, the closeness of our bodies—and she flinches, as if struck by something sharp.
Edmund doesn’t recoil the way I did. He steps out of the hot tub, water dripping from his shirt across the deck, and meets Irene’s gaze head-on. The air between them seems to ripple, like heat rising off asphalt.
At last, she exhales slowly. “Is this how you plan to conduct yourself, Mr.
Prew? Publicly?”
Edmund tilts his head. “If my conduct offends you, Miss Hussey, might I
offer a suggestion?”
“And what is that?”
“Look away.”
Irene’s throat tightens as she swallows. She folds her arms stiffly behind her back. “A word, Mr. Prew. In private.”
She avoids my gaze, but the two Coppers behind her don’t. One, a heavyset Green with a jagged honor scar under his eye, lets his lip curl as if he’s caught the stench of something foul. He sizes me up, deciding whether what he saw was what it looked like, whether I’d actually stoop that low.
Everyone knows Blues don’t fall for low-citizens. They buy us. And there’s only one kind of currency we have to offer.
I draw a ragged breath, murmur something polite, and make my exit with as much dignity as I can muster. I walk quickly, hoping for a respite, maybe even a merciful bolt of lightning to strike me down and spare me what’s coming. I didn’t get the chance to tell Edmund, and the next time I do, no one will be there to interrupt.
When I reach the others, Jack and Rosamund are gathered near the driving range at the far end of the deck, taking turns launching golf balls toward the neighboring yacht. Rosamund has shed her cover-up, revealing a swimsuit built for more than just resisting water. She leans over her club with exaggerated confidence: legs apart, hip tilted, shoulders angled to showcase her chest. The club dangles from her fingers as if she’s never held one before.
“Jack,” she says sweetly, “show me how to hold it. I think I’m doing it wrong.”
Jack approaches with the caution of someone trying to avoid a land mine.
He adjusts Rosamund’s grip quickly, his eyes darting anywhere but her breasts.
In a way, I feel sorry for him. Rosamund isn’t subtle, and Edmund, being her twin, puts Jack in a bind. He can block her, but he can’t humiliate her without risking damage to his most valuable friendship. He has to tread carefully. Charlotte, on the other hand, had no such luxury. She wanted Jack to tell Rosamund to screw off, to draw a firm line, but he never could.
Charlotte stands a few feet away, her eyes hidden by sunglasses, her mouth set in a grim line. Her swing is pure power, less about aim and more about release. Ball after ball screams past the neighboring yacht, so quickly that one of the Coppers whistles.
I’ve only ever seen fragments of what it must have been like when Charlotte and Jack were together: the quiet sabotage, the cruel patience of someone like Rosamund, who could turn any kindness into ammunition.
Charlotte was walking a tightrope, unable to say what everyone else could
see. I understand why she snapped. Why, eventually, she struck a match and burned it all down. Because no matter how much you love someone, circumstances mean everything.
Rosamund trails Jack as he walks back to his golf club. She pulls off his tortoiseshell sunglasses and slips them onto her own face, whispering something that draws a half-laugh from him. When he reaches to take the sunglasses back, she presses her cheek against his hand and smiles at him.
It’s a radiant smile, almost sweet, yet beneath it, there’s a hunger to use her mouth for a lot more.
Charlotte turns away, clutching her club and swinging again. Her back is to me, her expression hidden, but through the slow, sinking slump of her shoulders, I see her hope fade, once and for all, until it dies.
The day slips by like a tense, silent game of dodgeball. Charlotte avoids Jack and Rosamund, and I do the same with Edmund and Irene. After the way Irene caught Edmund and me together, I’m not eager to test her patience.
She’s already on edge after being locked up for so long, and it feels like one wrong word could push her over.
Luckily, there’s no real need for us to talk. The Coppers made it clear that, as a primary witness in the attempted murder case against Irene, any direct contact between us must be officially monitored. It’s not strictly illegal for us to communicate, but if we do, the conversation must be recorded and reviewed, with a Copper present to ensure the language remains admissible in court. So we keep our distance.
Shortly before sunset, when the bioluminescent lake begins to shimmer like spilled stars, everyone heads below deck. The fireworks show will start soon, but there’s still time to eat first.
While the Pinkies prepare the table, Edmund, Jack, Irene, and Rosamund start a game of poker. Across the room, the Coppers turn on a wall-mounted television and tune into the Blue trial. The jury is still out, but Benjamin Bogart says the verdict is expected within the hour. He adds, almost reverently, that it’s fitting the judgment should come today, on the anniversary of the Civilized World’s founding.
Charlotte and I sit apart from the others at a small table tucked in the
corner. She loosens a cigarette from her case, holds it, then pushes it back as if deciding it won’t make her feel better. I lean in to talk to her until I notice the faint blue glow of her Bond behind her sunglasses. She’s texting.
So I watch the poker game for a while. Edmund sits as far from Irene as the table allows. He doesn’t look at her, and when they interact, his tone seems harsher than it needs to be. I can’t help but wonder why. The truth is, without context, he kind of looks like a jerk.
When I ask Charlotte about it, she deactivates her Bond and scoots her chair closer to mine. “Edmund and Irene used to be friends, you know.”
“No. I didn’t. How do you?”
She lowers her sunglasses and arches an eyebrow at me, giving me a look that has a name: Dickie.
“The Coppers could replace the entire emergency alert system with that boy’s mouth and a megaphone, and he’d still get the news out faster,”
Charlotte mutters.
A Pinkie passes, and she goes quiet until it’s out of range. Then she leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“According to Big Mouth, Edmund and Irene used to be close. Not childhood friends close, but enough that Edmund liked her, and Irene… well, Big Mouth says it was always more than that for her. They first met a few years back at some party—his cousin’s birthday, I think.”
“Was this before Irene got engaged to the other Blue?” I ask.
Charlotte chews a pickled onion from her Gibson. “Nope. Apparently, Irene was promised to that guy since forever—some arrangement cooked up by her parents before she could spell her own name. But then the fiancé died.
Big Mouth didn’t give details. Just said some people think he offed himself to get out of marrying Irene.” Charlotte sips her cocktail as if toasting the dead
man’s escape.
I frown. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah. And that’s when the circus rolled into town. The second Irene’s fiancé was out of the picture, she and her parents quietly cut a deal with Phillipa to replace him with Edmund.”
Charlotte pauses, running a finger along the rim of her glass, her face suddenly weary. “It all went down right after Jack and I broke up, so I missed the worst of it. But Big Mouth says Edmund was pissed—refused the deal outright. That’s when Irene really started cooking with gas. She’d already promised to sell Edmund his grandfather’s flight jacket, but once she needed
leverage, she tore off the price tag. She told him he could only have it if he married her instead.”
I glance toward the poker table, at the two of them sitting there, and the whole scene tilts. What I thought I saw… isn’t what I’m seeing now.
Charlotte leans back, her smile cutting sideways. “I forget sometimes how screwed Blues have it. Even if Edmund and Irene were actually in love, that wouldn’t be why they’d get married. It’s all family mergers. Empire math shit.”
I know what she means. Irene might like Edmund, but the real reason her parents pushed for the marriage is that they’re counting on her to carry their name up the ladder. That’s why, even now—when Edmund clearly hates her —Irene is still holding on, maybe hoping that, with time, he’ll come to feel the same about her.
“Anyway.” Charlotte tosses back the rest of her Gibson. “That’s why Edmund looks at her like something he can’t scrape off his boot. After she blackmailed him for the flight jacket, that’s what she became.”
It’s what I’ll become, too, once I tell Edmund the truth about Charles.
I glance back at the table and see him watching me, his expression concerned, as if he’s wondering whether I’m okay. I force the most convincing smile I can and hold it until he turns his focus to the Blue trial.
Then I press my fingers to one of my teardrop earrings, gripping the edges until they bite into my skin. Suddenly, the room feels unbearably hot.
“I’m gonna get some air,” I say.
Charlotte gestures toward the television, barely visible behind the Coppers hunched around it. “Don’t you want to stay for the verdict? Bogart says it’s
dropping any minute now.”
“I’ll watch on my Bond.”
“Suit yourself.” Charlotte flags down a Pinkie and orders another Gibson.
“Text me when Dickie gets here. He just messaged. Says he’s on his way.”
“What took him so long?”
“Claims he lost track of time. Playing some video game.”
I nod, already knowing it was Highball. “I’ll let you know when he’s
here.”
Then I slip out, heading for the deck.
Night has fallen, but the area is far from dark. The Luminescent Lake emits an eerie phosphorescent glow across the moored yachts and the students gathered along the shoreline. Champagne corks pop, chairs unfold
with a snap, and laughter drifts over the water as everyone prepares for the fireworks.
I move to the railing and grip it, the ache in my chest deepening. Dad always says there’s no use banging your head against the wall over things you can’t change, but this time, I can’t help it. I’d give anything to take back that final blow. When I struck Charles with my saber, I didn’t realize I was striking Edmund, too.
I lean over the railing and press my head into my hands. My fingers work to knead the tension from my temples, but it doesn’t ease. Everything Charlotte said echoes, reshaping the night. I exhale slowly, trying to force the images away, when I hear a sharp, muffled sound out of place amid the laughter.
I stand still until I hear the sound again, echoing from near the hot tubs. I step away from the railing and walk across the deck, the soles of my sandals whispering against the planks. When I round the corner, I spot Rosamund, half-shadowed behind the gauze curtain of a cabana. I didn’t even see her come up.
Her monkey perches on the rim of one of the hot tubs, tail twitching as it urinates lazily into the water. “Hurry up, Cary,” Rosamund whispers, her stiletto tapping a frantic rhythm. “Jack is waiting for me, and he—”
She stops, though not like she meant to. More like the words turned foreign the second they hit the air, and she’s only just realized how absurd they sound.
Rosamund drags a hand through her hair, her throat bobbing, and drops her chin into her palm. For a long moment, she sits still, frowning at nothing.
Then the frown begins to fade, softening until it collapses inward. She stands and turns away from the tub, brushing aside the curtain as she makes her way to the bar. One hand moves over the counter, while the other grips the edge, as if holding herself upright.
Then, silently, her shoulders start to tremble. The first sobs are quiet, nearly inaudible, but soon they intensify, tearing out of her in harsh, jagged waves, as if something long-held has finally broken loose.
The sight hits me harder than I want to admit, even though I hate her. I don’t care that Jack doesn’t love her or that she’s making a fool of herself over a low-citizen who clearly wants nothing to do with her. Still, watching her fall apart makes one thing suddenly, painfully clear.
We’re all lying about something.
Rosamund straightens slowly and draws in a breath as if it hurts. Then she reaches into the pocket of her cover-up and pulls out a small black pill. Bliss.
With a soft sniff, she slips the drug into her mouth and rubs her face with both hands, scrubbing the tears clean as if they were never there.
When her monkey finishes urinating, Rosamund crooks a finger, and it scrambles onto her shoulder with a noisy chitter. I step back, slipping into the shadows between a pair of dock chairs cloaked in darkness.
But then… Oh, shit.
By the time I remember Blues have night vision, it’s already too late.
Rosamund spots me before rounding the corner and recoils, her shoulders dropping so abruptly that her monkey shrieks and jumps onto the railing. For a moment, she stares at me, a bolt of pale, wide-eyed panic flashing across her face. Then she lunges, fast and low, a guttural sound rising in her throat.
The Bliss is already taking effect, softening her features even as fury contorts them. A half-smile tugs at her mouth while her eyes burn, as if her voice and expression are at war.
“You spying little rat.” Rosamund slams me back against the wall, her sharp fingernails biting through my swimsuit cover-up. “You think you’re clever, hiding in the dark like that? What did you hear? What exactly did you see?”
Her voice drips venom, but her cheeks are flushed and her pupils blown wide. The drug floods her bloodstream with false euphoria even as she seethes with rage, creating a monstrous contradiction, like watching someone scream through a smile.
“You think I can’t kill you?” she spits. “You think just because my brother’s protecting you, I won’t shove a saber through your gut? I can. And I—”
Rosamund cuts off, still staring at me, but a shock-like ripple spreads across her face. Her head shakes slightly, as if she’s trying to clear it. Then her lip curls, twisting with rage and disgust, even as a fractured, high-pitched giggle slips through her teeth. She slaps a hand over her mouth, trying to push the sound back in, but it escapes through her fingers in a spray of saliva.
“On second thought…” Rosamund activates her Bond as if making a call.
“Why put in the effort when fortune has such capable hands?”
I try to use the lull to slip free, but she slams me back, pinning me harder the more I struggle. Fury floods in with the adrenaline. I still don’t know
what Rosamund thinks she saw, but if it’s a fight she wants, fine. I might be banned from weapons, but I still have fists. And I’ve waited long enough to rip that smug smile off her face and shove it down her throat.
I angle back, ready to headbutt her, when footsteps slam across the deck.
Light flares from the corner as Irene rounds it with five Coppers behind her.
The men look sour, as if yanked from the verdict mid-sentence. Irene moves quickly, eyes narrowed as she strides down the planks and takes in the scene’s scent.
“What is it, Miss Prew?” she says. “What was so urgent it couldn’t wait for the judge to finish?”
Rosamund releases me, her eyes bright as a wound before the blood wells up. She wipes the saliva from her mouth with a slow drag of her thumb, then points a long, clawed finger directly at me.
“I found her, Irene.” Rosamund’s voice is low but shuddering with triumph. “The whore who’s been screwing your fiancé.”
