CHAPTER 48
I know it’s over. I accept it. The time is coming, soon, when I’ll let you go.
I’ll move on, maybe even try to love someone new, but through it all, the faint mark of your teeth on my finger will stay.
Reminding me of you. Of us. And of how, if things had been different, I’d have ridden on the back of your hoverbike all the way to the end.
—CHARLOTTE DEERING, JOURNAL ENTRY
Subject: Cloning Theory Exam
Dear Miss Waldsten,
I am writing to sincerely apologize for the incident that occurred in my lecture room before the Cloning Theory exam.
It was deeply regrettable, and I accept full responsibility for allowing the situation to escalate.
While I realize that removing you from the exam was unfair, I believe—given the volatility of the moment—it was the most appropriate course of action.
Please rest assured that there is no formal investigation by the Coppers into the contents of the video presented. You are not under scrutiny, nor should you be concerned.
However, I must inform you, with regret, that your failure to take the exam has resulted in an incomplete mark for the course.
As a result, your only option is to request private instruction from one of the second-year Cloning Theory professors when you return to Grandmaster University after summer break.
If the professor determines that you are adequately prepared, you will be allowed to take the first-year exam and, if successful, earn the corresponding academic credit.
Please be advised that these arrangements must be officially initiated and confirmed before the end of the academic year, May 31st.
Once again, I sincerely apologize for the disruption and its effects. I wish you a peaceful summer. May you always be virtuous.
Yours sincerely,
Professor Ron Hollings
Cloning Theory Faculty
Rage burns in my gut as I read the email. All that studying, all the stress and brain bleeds from trying to make sense of that quack science, have been flushed down the drain.
But my anger isn’t for Hollings. It’s for Rosamund.
I already knew she hated me for being a member of Edmund’s entourage.
I know she hates me even more now that she knows we were together.
But I think there’s another reason, too.
I think it’s because I saw her alone on the deck of the yacht, whispering to her monkey as she cried over Jack.
Me. Someone she despises, catching her vulnerable and exposed, down on her knees in the dark.
Now she wants to break me for it. She wants to grind me down until my will cracks, and I finally stop getting back up.
No matter how many therapists Phillipa throws at her, nothing will split her focus.
I slump back against the pillows, wincing at how stiff my leg is. I wish I could walk, even to the window. But I’m marooned in this bed, seething in silence while the world keeps moving without me.
Charlotte still hasn’t returned from her meeting with Jack.
It’s been hours, but I know she wouldn’t stall without a reason.
So, for now, I do the only thing I can. I hunker down and fire off ten identical emails, one to each of the second-year Cloning Theory professors listed in the university registry.
I tell them the truth: that I need help, that I’m willing to do the work, meet whenever they’re available, and take the first-year exam once they think I’m ready.
Time drips by. I eat lunch without tasting it, then ask the Pinkies to help me into the lavatory for a shower.
When I finally get back in bed, wrapped in fresh sheets, I check my Bond to find ten replies, all nearly the same.
Every professor says their classes are already full, over-enrolled with first-years looking to get ahead.
All except one.
Subject: Optional
Waldsten—
Cloning Theory’s full. But I’ve got one spot left in Genetic Engineering, and if you want it, it’s yours. I’ll tutor you in Cloning Theory on the side. No paperwork, no fuss.
You didn’t take GenEng this year, so you’ll be behind. Don’t worry, I’m a generous man. I’ll help you catch up.
If you’re in, reply before tomorrow. I don’t chase.
Jerome
Cloning Theory where the gap between us—heart, mind, and body—will be mapped out in detail on brightly colored graphs, exactly as it was meant to be.
Jerome’s reply arrives in my inbox a minute later:
Top. Be at my office on Friday morning—anytime from nine to eleven. No smoking, or Henry will kick you out. There’s usually a line. Be ready to wait. Or to chase.
My frown deepens as the muscles around my eyes clench tighter. Who the hell is this man? I’m about to pull up the faculty registry to investigate when the door of my hospital room swings open and Charlotte appears.
The worry etched on her face makes me forget Professor Jerome entirely.
“Edmund wants to meet you,” she says quietly. “On Thursday morning. Alone.”
Waiting for Thursday feels like dying in slow motion.
Every hour pulls at my heart, dragging the end closer but never close enough to finish it.
Patience has never been my strong suit. “You’d rush a sunrise if you could,” Hillaire once snapped at me.
But waiting for this meeting isn’t about patience.
It’s a test of every shred of sanity I have left.
Outside my window, the campus fizzes like an uncorked bottle of champagne.
Now that classes are over, the streets vibrate with music, fireworks, and the laughter of students too drunk to worry about tomorrow.
Among everyone, the first-years seem most dedicated to the revelry, burning through what’s left of the year before the Mensur on Saturday.
I tell Charlotte she should go out, too. “Dance with a stranger. Let yourself forget for a few hours.” But she shrugs and insists she’d rather be here, waiting with me.
So we stay curled up together on my bed, the blankets pulled up to our chins. We talk all night and into the next day, mostly about Jack. The whole time, I keep turning the Florence Engine over in my pocket, letting its weight ground me. I no longer need the device, but wanting it is another story.
Charlotte’s voice quavers as she picks at the corner of the quilt.
“I know it’s over with Jack. I do. And most days, I’ve made my peace with it, but…
I think I need one last push. Then the rope snaps.
Then I drift off clean. I’ll throw myself back into track, my classes, my future—whatever the hell that’s gonna be now. ”
She gives me a faint, crooked smile, and in her eyes, I see she means it. She’s not entirely free yet, but she’s on her way. She keeps talking, and I listen, but between the words there’s a space she doesn’t try to fill. Because inside it, she knows what I’m waiting for.
Thursday.
And she knows exactly how much it’s going to hurt.
Thursday morning breaks with an orange sunrise that feels like an omen. Whether the omen is good or bad, I can’t tell. But it’s too bright, too easy on the eyes, and too pleased with itself for showing up. It spills through my window, reckless and entitled, warming everything insistently.
The Pinkies strap a support device onto my leg before discharging me from the Belvoir Infirmary.
It’s much lighter than the brace, wrapped securely around my thigh and calf to keep everything aligned while the last bits of bone and tissue heal.
Three more weeks, the robots say, and then I’ll be normal again. Whatever normal means now.
Charlotte drives me back to the Green Dormitory.
We follow two Pinkies who carry my boxes and unpack my life piece by piece, putting everything back where it belongs.
Considering how much Charlotte and I talked these past few days, the silence between us now feels strange, almost uncomfortable.
But I want the quiet more than the comfort.
At the door, she pulls me into her arms, her chin tucked over my shoulder, as if bracing herself too. “Good luck, Lore. I’ll be here when it’s done.”
“Thank you, Char.” I squeeze her again, long enough to feel her heartbeat, then pull away before I lose my nerve.
Jack said the meeting point is the tram stop by the Blue Dormitory. I don’t understand why. It’s crowded and exposed, nothing like the private corner I’d hoped for. But maybe that’s why Edmund chose it. We met on a train, and now, at the bitter end of everything, we’ll end things on one, too.
When I reach the platform, Edmund is already there, waiting with his hands locked behind his back.
The sight of him, standing among low-citizens, makes him seem impossibly tall, impossibly out of my reach.
Maybe I aimed too high, tried to grab the branches when I should’ve been satisfied with the roots.
Now, when he lets me go, the fall will be as hard as it is long.
I hope I won’t break.