The day a high-citizen is publicly executed signals one of two truths: either justice has finally awakened, blade in hand, or the Blues are biding their time, gathering force for a reckoning that will scorch all the light from the world. —FREDERICK GLASS, CO-FOUNDER OF THE HERETICS
CHAPTER 45
When night falls, I don’t let myself sleep for a single careless minute. I toss in my sheets, sweat soaking my pillow as I keep refreshing The Civilized Voice’s homepage. I expect news of a strike, some bloody retribution from the Blues, aimed at all of us but mostly at those responsible: President Reeve, Dad, and the countless others standing behind them.
But as the hours pass, thick with a silence that makes the hospital feel empty, no news arrives. The sky lightens, and the sun rises in a burst of radiant gold, as if the world itself shines brighter with two fewer Blue shadows.
When Charlotte picks me up and drives me to the first-year Lecture Hall, I stare out the hovercar window at the double-headed eagle flags fluttering on the buildings. They hang as they always do, proud and unwavering, but for once, the low-citizens beneath them don’t cower. Today, they walk tall, heads lifted, as if watching the execution brought us all to the same collective realization: Blues may stand above us, but above us all is the blade. And Blues bleed just as easily.
I swallow hard, still staring at the flags, when Charlotte’s voice rises
above the drone of the hovercar.
“How are you feeling, Lore?”
“I’m all right.” I drop a hand to my leg brace, which stretches from thigh to ankle beneath my dress. No matter how advanced the brace is, it still feels tight where I need flexibility and loose where I need control, like a quiet
negotiation with each step. “Just hoping I don’t trip.”
Charlotte lowers her sunglasses. “I’d never let you.”
I smile at her in thanks, then glance out the window again, trying to calm my nerves enough to concentrate on my exams. We take them all today, one after another, but even after we finish, the academic year isn’t over. We still have the Mensur, a series of celebratory events, and the academic award ceremony. The year doesn’t officially end for another nine days, on May 31st.
I have until then to tell Edmund the truth about Charles.
Charlotte only texted Edmund this morning to say I was awake and coming to take the exams. I asked her to wait, partly so he could focus on studying, but mainly because of the execution. It was Edmund’s kind on that platform, his people being judged. And I know, from bitter experience, that watching your own fall is never easy.
At the first-year Lecture Hall, the boys are already waiting, posted on the portico steps across from the lot. Jack leans against the railing, a cigarette burning between his fingers, while Dickie dive-bombs the crowd with his airplane, which emits a series of taunting beeps. Edmund stands higher on the stairs, tall and motionless, watching our hovercar descend into the lot.
I step out of the vehicle, and when he sees me, his chest lifts sharply, as if drawing in a painful breath. Then he starts down the steps, crossing the street with a forceful stride that makes oncoming hovercars jolt to a stop. He looks like that horse again, only now it’s broken free of the pen, racing headlong into open pasture, too far gone to look back.
Our gazes never part. Not when Jack pulls me into a hug, or when Dickie presses a damp kiss to my hand. Their voices blur in the distance as I watch Edmund move across the lot, sidestepping students until he reaches me. Jack and Dickie pull away as his arms close around my waist, open and unashamed, in full view of everyone.
Charlotte, Jack, and Dickie trade tense glances before stepping in front of us, trying to shield us from view. But heads are already turning: Greens glare, Oranges gape, Purples go still with that tight-eyed silence that says everything without a word. And the Blues—some of them our classmates— clench their jaws, eyes clouding with venom, as if we’ve defiled something sacred.
“Edmund,” I whisper, my heart pounding. “People are watching.”
“Let them.” He pulls me closer. “And let it be a warning.”
He holds me firmly, his hand cupping the back of my head, his chest rising and falling against mine, until the bell rings, signaling fifteen minutes until our first exam. Only then does he let go and offer me his arm. But I don’t take it. I won’t fall, not here and now, when Edmund is already drowning in scrutiny. The hug alone is enough to fuel the rumors and the Tattletale headlines about the reason for his broken engagement with Irene.
Though I’m proud of Edmund for breaking free, I’m afraid, too, because I know what kind of force his mother will unleash to bring him back.
“Thank you, Mr. Prew,” I say. “However, my leg brace ensures I can walk on my own.”
Edmund nods, though he remains close. I glance at Charlotte and smile to show her I’ll be fine. She returns the smile faintly, still looking confused by the hug, then vanishes into the crowd with Jack and Dickie.
Edmund slows to match my pace, but even then, it’s hard to walk the way I used to. Each step lands a beat too late. I can feel him watching, his body angled toward mine, eyes fixed on every move, hands always ready in case I stumble.
When we reach the door to the Civilized World History lecture room, I pause and power off my Bond. The only device allowed during our exam is our digital tablet. Anything else, and it’s an automatic failing mark.
“Thank you, Mr. Prew,” I say, trying not to sound out of breath. “You have escorted me far enough. I can manage from here.”
Edmund tilts his head, as if he can hear the worry in my voice. But he doesn’t leave. He stays by my side and walks with me into the lecture room as anxious, murmuring students drift past in waves.
“After exams,” he says quietly, “can I take you somewhere? There’s something I want to ask you. Alone.”
I hesitate when I recall the Pinkie surgeon’s orders. After my exams, I’m supposed to return to Belvoir Infirmary for three more days. Still, I’d be willing to sneak away for a few hours to see Edmund. I already know what he wants to ask me: to stay in his entourage, permanently.
“Where do you want to take me?”
He lifts his chin and smiles proudly. “Flying.”
I smile back, though it’s not the same as his; mine feels like a cut, painfully splitting open. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, him asking me to fly with him and watching the world together from the view he loves most. But before the sky, before he shows me who he is, I have to show
him who I am.
We reach the elevators and step inside. A few students start forward, ready to join us, until Edmund plants himself in front of the doors, feet set apart to block the entrance. The students pause, then step back to wait for the next one.
When the doors seal shut, I turn toward the wall and avoid Edmund’s gaze. As much as I hope he won’t touch me, I’m already imagining his hands sliding up my waist, his breath warming my mouth between each kiss. My teeth clench, and my body tightens as I force myself to stare straight ahead, even as his fingers brush softly against mine.
“I meant to return this tonight,” he says. “But I think you’ve missed it long enough.”
He guides me toward him with one hand while the other slips into his suit jacket pocket. I stagger sideways on my brace, not daring to hope, until I see a flash of emeralds between his fingers. The daffodil brooch appears, as real as the agony I felt when I lost it, and he gently places it in my palm.
“Edmund, you—” My voice breaks on a tremor. “You really went back in there?”
He nods, his smile widening. “Jack helped. We used a submersible scanner to map the lakebed and isolate the signal. Then I went in with a reinforced suit.”
I stare at him, speechless, wide-eyed, and trembling in shock. Somehow, impossibly, the brooch remains intact, as if it never touched the water or sank to the bottom of the lake. I curl my fingers around it, its shape too perfect and precious to be real. My other hand fumbles for the wall, searching for support as my body begins to shake so violently that my brace wobbles beneath me.
Edmund reaches out to steady me, but I’m already reaching for him. I throw my arms around him with everything I have, all at once. He presses a button on the panel behind me, and the elevator stops, suspended in stillness between floors. Then he wraps his arms around me, lifting me until the only thing I can feel is the brace tugging downward, the last tether holding me to
the ground.
“My brace,” I whisper. “It weighs—”
“You aren’t heavy, Loredana,” Edmund says, brushing my cheek with his thumb. “You’re the only thing that’s not.”
Guilt floods through me, but I don’t pull back. Instead, I lean in closer, pressing my face into his neck as I give in to him. I want this, too. Selfishly.
One more moment, one last time. Because after tonight, it’s over.
He’ll never say my name again.
A bell rings, signaling that our Civilized World History exam begins in five minutes, but the sound feels distant, swallowed by the space around us.
Neither of us lets go. Edmund shifts me against the elevator wall, his hold gentle. I try to match his restraint, but my mind feels like it’s fracturing, breaking apart over how little time we have left. I clutch him as if he were my own heart, as if my guts will spill out if I let go. My fingers drag up his back, threading into his hair, and I pull him closer, my lips moving against his in a rush I can’t contain. The kiss breaks, then returns, wilder and fevered, as if I can steal a lifetime in one final moment. Again and again, I press into him, all my need and sorrow collapsing into the desperate, crushing rhythm of my mouth against his.
He lifts me higher, yielding enough to keep me close, but when the sobs break free, and my fists twist his shirt so tightly that a button snaps off, he softens. His arms ease their hold, cradling rather than gripping, and he lays his palm against my chest so gently it feels like he’s trying to steady my heart. The tenderness of it makes my hands fall away, barely moving as he leans in and continues kissing me. Each kiss is softer than the last, the trail so light that my entire body prickles and shivers. I let my head rest against the wall, eyes closing as a calming warmth washes over me. The elevator is so quiet, the peace so complete, that I can only hear his breath brushing my skin, the soft press of his lips on my face, my neck, my shoulder. Every kiss slows, gentler still, yet each one carries the unbearable, all-consuming weight of what I feel for him.
Edmund’s hand drifts to my leg, and when his fingers reach the brace beneath my dress, he stills. The kisses stop. He lowers into a crouch, lifts the hem of my dress carefully, and studies the brace more closely. I see the anger at Irene settle into his face, fast and feral as a snarl in the dark, then guilt follows immediately behind. He shifts, clears his throat, and looks up at me.
“I shouldn’t have left you alone on the yacht.”
“Edmund.” I brush my hand through his hair. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it was. When I told you to trust me to take care of you, I meant it.
And I won’t let it happen again. I’ll stay with you today. Tomorrow. Every day, if you’ll have me.”
I blink, my body lagging behind the moment. “Edmund… what are you saying?”
He rises and takes my face in his hands. “What I’m saying, Loredana, is that I didn’t tell you how I felt that day we went riding without understanding what it would become. From the first time I kissed you, I meant to keep you.
And every day since, I’ve only grown more certain.”
He tips my chin up toward him, and I see there’s nothing left guarded in his expression. It’s stripped bare, offering itself without defense. “Ever since I met you,” he says, “I’ve wanted to be better. Not just decent—but strong enough to be gentle. And that’s not something I was ever taught.”
I close my hand over his, my grip tighter than I intend. Happiness courses through me, a flash flood of emotion that overwhelms my whole body. Yet beneath it, something distant begins to stir, like a sound carried from far away. I try to hold on to Edmund, to the warmth of his hands and the sincerity in his eyes, but the image keeps advancing, growing clearer and clearer until it finally hits.
Charles fills my mind, his face contorted with rage, his mouth open in a silent cry, my blood streaking across his skin. I try to force the image away, but it only enlarges, crowding everything else out until Edmund’s face blurs, eclipsed by Charles’s, red and raging and impossibly alive again. My eyes burn. I gasp, my breath stuttering as I look down, anywhere but at Edmund.
He catches my face before I can turn away. “Even if I’m Blue and you’re Green, it doesn’t matter,” he says. “It never did. I chose you then because I couldn’t resist you, but it’s more than that now. I’m choosing you because I love you.”
The words seem to hit me in slow motion, like a crash I saw from miles away but couldn’t stop. Worse still is the way Edmund watches me, waiting, as if every part of him is bound to my reply.
I open my mouth, desperate to say it back and meet him where I want to be, but my voice locks in my throat, trapping the words alongside the truth about Charles. Touching Edmund was wrong enough. Kissing him was worse.
But this… I can’t tell him I love him while knowing I killed his family.
“Edmund,” I say at last, and for the first time since I learned Charles was his cousin, I look him directly in the eye. “I… I can’t say that to you.”
He stills.
For a moment, the hurt is painfully visible, as if I’ve pulled him into a blade held in my own hand. Beneath it, confusion quickly takes hold, flickering like a sparking wire across his face as he tries to understand what
any of this means if I don’t love him.
Then pride surges in and burns it all away.
His hands fall from my face, and he steps back, his expression folding in on itself like a door drawn shut too fast.
I hear myself begin to speak, apologies tumbling out in a chaotic rush. I hear the button click and feel the elevator lurch upward, but I see nothing through the black spots blurring my vision. The crushing weight of what Edmund has told me—of how I responded—pins me to the wall, blind until the ding sounds. The doors slide open, and Edmund is gone, raking a hand through his hair as he disappears onto the Blue level. He doesn’t look back.
I’m left with the fading scent of him, the ghost of his touch burning on my skin, and the unbearable sensation of a bloodied saber in my hand, the same one that killed Charles and the same one I’ve now driven straight through Edmund, too.
I make it to the Civilized World History exam, but even though I know every answer, I drift through the questions in a gray haze, pain eating holes in my concentration. The same fog follows me through the next two exams, one of which is gymnastics. Due to my injuries, I’m excused from the physical performance portion and allowed to take only the written test, just enough to pass.
By the time lunch break arrives, I feel too hollowed out to eat. I head to the lavatory, lock myself in a stall, and lean against the wall, one hand clutching my chest as I try to quiet the screams of agony tearing through my heart.
I never should’ve let things go this far. I should’ve told Edmund about Charles sooner. Now, when I do tell him, he won’t only have to carry the truth of what I’ve done, but also the fact that he told me he loved me while I was hiding the fact that I killed his cousin. I drop my head into my hands, so numb I can’t tell where my body ends and the lavatory wall begins.
I need to talk to Edmund. Today. As soon as I finish my final exam, I’ll tell him everything. But right now, I have to pull myself together. These exams determine my future, my only chance to rise to where I want to be. If I fail here, I fail everywhere.
When the bell rings, I gather myself and head to Political Theory & Governance. I’m still shaking as I take my seat in the lecture room, but as soon as the test begins, the knot in my chest dislodges. Then, gradually, it starts to loosen, like a fist unclenching by slow degrees. The noise in my mind subsides, piece by piece, and in its place, I find clarity. I dive into the questions as if returning to a language I forgot I could speak. My fingers move faster than my thoughts, and by the fourth question, I forget Charles for a fleeting moment.
Fencing might be my strength in motion, but politics is my strength in thought. The exam doesn’t feel like work. It feels like purpose. Right there, in the middle of the final question, I make a quiet deal with myself: if I win, if I somehow manage to take the top award in this course for the Greens, then that’s it. Political theory will be my major.
I finish early. When I glance up, I catch Professor Fleming watching me from his desk. He raises an eyebrow, the question clear on his face. I give him a small, discreet thumbs-up.
He smiles, soft yet proud, a smile that feels like a welcome.
After Political Theory & Governance, I take two more exams. Both are harder to focus on, with questions I don’t know the answers to, but I think I’ll pass. That makes six of seven exams finished, with only one left: Cloning Theory.
Charlotte and Jack, who are also in the class, are already waiting on the Blue level when I arrive at the lecture room. Rosamund is perched on the table between them, her legs swinging in a slow, taunting rhythm. She leans in close to Jack, her hair spilling forward as she whispers into his ear.
“No thanks, darling,” he says. “I’m off that stuff.”
Rosamund grunts, her face falling, but as soon as she sees me, her mouth snaps back into a smile that’s too broad and too bright. My eyes drop to the table, where her finger slowly circles across my tablet’s surface, and a sinking feeling stirs in my gut, even though I can’t explain why.
Charlotte waves when she sees me. “Miss Waldsten,” she says. “Do you still have the schematic for human replication sequencing? I wish to confirm the notes on neural retention rates before we begin.”
“Yes, of course.” I drop my bag and slide onto the couch beside her. My Bond is fully powered down rather than merely deactivated, so it takes longer than usual to boot up.
Behind us, Rosamund giggles at something Jack says. Charlotte doesn’t react. Her face remains still and unreadable, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
Rosamund laughs again, then cuts off. “Hey, Duke,” she calls.
I stiffen, my heart hammering as I turn. Edmund strides from the elevators, his gaze locked on Rosamund so firmly that I know it’s mostly to avoid mine. Why is he here? He should be at his Intro to Genetic Engineering exam.
“What’s the emergency?” he asks as he reaches her side.
“It’s on its way.” Rosamund pats the couch. “Now, sit.”
Edmund frowns, disbelief sharpening his face. “My final starts in fifteen minutes.”
“And mine starts in five.” Rosamund’s smile remains wide, yet her tone has teeth. “Sit, Duke. You’ll understand soon enough.”
There’s something off in the false ease of her voice and the way her eyes never leave mine. My fingers tap against my thigh, urging my Bond to boot up faster. The neural link activates with a flash of light across my vision. I open the alert panel, and my chest seizes when I see forty-seven missed calls from Dad and twenty-two unread texts.
I open the first text. Then the second. By the third, my lungs stop working.
“A Blue pulled the file on Charles,” Dad writes. “But there’s no fucking name attached. What the hell’s going on, Loredana? Have you had any bad run-ins with Blues lately? Who would have a reason to do this?”
I lift my eyes.
And across from me, Rosamund is still smiling.
