VIII
EDEN
I pull the brush through my hair with long, deliberate strokes.
I’ve been up since four, completed a whole wash routine and straightened my hair—my mother had my hair straightened so much when I was younger that it’s heat-trained. It’s an advantage, sometimes.
Pulling my silky hair in a ponytail, I slick it all back with a light layer of gel and set it with some hairspray. Though it’s a bit counterintuitive, I pick up a golden ceramic plated curling iron and start adding loose waves to the rest of my hair.
I look past my reflection in the mirror to see Vivienne bustling around the room. She hums softly as she buttons up her blouse, the crisp white fabric fitting her perfectly. My hands slow as I watch her—she’s effortlessly elegant.
Not in the way my mother would like. No, there’s something about her. She’s confident, carefree and doesn’t seem to worry about how people will perceive her, what they’ll think of her .
Image was everything to me growing up. It still is everything. Why else would I spend hours perfecting my hair, ensuring that my makeup is flawless? Vivienne simply runs her hands through her hair a few times and however it falls, that’s the way she wears it. No makeup, just a swipe of lip gloss. She’s paired the chiffon top with a pair of slacks. Then she reaches for her shoes.
Black flats with tiny bows on them.
Flats.
For Mass.
No heels?
For all the gushing she did yesterday about what the other girls might wear, you’d think that she’d put more effort into how she looks. I try to push the thought aside, but I can’t help the judgement I feel. Maybe it’s envy? I could never bring myself to do what Vivienne is doing.
But, I’m Lady Eden Lockhart. I’m certain if I dressed like that to attend Mass my mother would hear about it within the hour. The punishment would be swift—perhaps I’d get cut off and sent away. She’d tell me I wasted the single chance they gave me.
I smooth the hem of my dress. It’s pale blue, with a high neckline and a cinched waist. It falls just on my knees. I’ll be pairing it with a blue diamond cross necklace and a Prada bag the color of the sky at dusk. A pair of Miu Miu heels and a spritz of the custom perfume I bought in France last year will complete the look.
Everything feels perfect for the occasion.
My outfit is modest, but flattering. It’s the kind of outfit that will grab the attention of everyone—especially Silas.
“You look nice,” Vivienne says. “Like a princess. ”
She catches me off guard. I turn to find her slinging her bag over her shoulder—a slouchy handbag made of well-worn leather.
“So do you,” I say, giving her a smile. “We’re allowed to wear slacks to Mass?”
She shrugs, giving me a cheeky grin. “There are no rules against it. Most of the girls just prefer not to for whatever reason.” She walks over to her nightstand, slipping a few golden rings on to her fingers. “I don’t really like skirts that much. Mass is the only time I get to wear trousers so I take every opportunity.” Vivienne is beaming now, doing a small twirl. “I thrifted these.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed, they look like they were made for you.”
“I always get them tailored.” She looks down at her outfit. “They’re still pretty obscure luxury brands. But it’s like a treasure hunt, pretty thrilling.”
I smile, but I can’t imagine myself ever wearing second hand clothes. The only thing passed down in my family are estates, jewelry, and one of a kind luxury bags. I guess that’s what it’s like to be a commoner? You can do whatever you want instead of living in a gilded cage.
Vivienne grabs her phone from the nightstand and starts walking toward the door. “We should head out. Marita’s probably waiting for us.”
I follow her out of the dorm room. My steps are careful and precise—one foot in front of the other, bag draped over my shoulder, just the way my mother would like—as we walk through the hallway. The air is a cornucopia of perfumes.
Other girls are exiting their rooms, but they stop to allow us to pass.
At first, I thought it was Vivienne’s presence. However, on closer examination, their eyes are all on me. Every gaze filled with a look I know too well.
Envy.
That’s the thing about my life. It’s terribly beautiful from the outside looking in. The daughter of a viscount? An outfit that probably costs more than their tuition? Jewelry made from diamonds so rare you can’t mine them anymore?
Despite what it’s like to actually live it, I will keep up the facade—I don’t have a choice. And even if I explained, what would they say? They’d call me ungrateful, say that I don’t appreciate what I have. So I lift my head a little higher, my glossed lips in a small half-smile. At the entrance of the dormitory, there’s a girl standing off to the side, alone.
Her whole face lights up when she sees us.
“Rita!” Vivienne calls out, her voice warm. The girl waves, her smile growing impossibly bigger.
Vivienne’s best friend is beautiful, but in the opposite way Vivienne is. She’s short, with rosy cheeks and skin so pale it makes me wonder if she’s ever been on vacation. Marita wears a corset pink dress, shimmering stockings the colour of her skin, and heels. Her makeup is done to perfection. Blonde waves fall around her face, highlighting her captivating grey eyes.
I can tell her ensemble is expensive—I’m certain I saw that dress on a mannequin in a boutique in Paris—but her beauty stands out in a way that makes me feel like she’d look just as gorgeous in a potato sack.
“Finally,” Marita says, grinning as she steps toward us. Her accent is soft, lilting and very similar to mine. A sign of good breeding, my mother would say. “I’ve been waiting for a while.”
I’ve never seen Vivienne smile this wide. “This is Lady Eden Lockhart, my roommate. Her father’s a Viscount. She took longer than I thought to get ready.”
Marita curtseys and I give Vivienne a sharp look.
“That’s fine, Marita. And please, call me Eden.”
Her smile softens. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Eden. Viv’s told me about you.”
I smile back. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
Marita’s gaze flickers back to Vivienne almost immediately. Her eyes linger just for a moment too long. Vivienne’s smile widens, softening in a way I haven’t seen before.
It’s subtle, barely noticeable—but I notice.
I used to look at a girl that way too, years ago.
I glance at my shoes, adjusting the ankle strap of one of my heels to distract myself. I know better than to linger on thoughts like that. I’ve fought them before and won. Attraction like that is a sin—it’s a test I refuse to fail when I stand before the Lord.
Vivienne’s laugh pulls me from my thoughts.
The two of them have leaned closer, giggling to each other in hushed tones. I can’t make out what they’re saying. My smile tightens a bit, but I keep my thoughts to myself.
“Shall we?” Vivienne asks, turning back to me.
I nod, and the three of us start down the path.
The path to the Grand Cathedral winds past the Boys’ Dormitory, an imposing building made of dark stone with ivy creeping along the facade. There’s something unwelcoming about the building. It’s quiet now, as most of the boys are already on their way to Mass. My eyes flicker to the windows and the benches, searching.
Where is he?
Anticipation tingles in my fingertips. Just the memory of his touch sends goosebumps up my arms. I can almost hear his voice, low and smooth, murmuring my name against my skin.
A tall figure exits the dormitory. My heart skips a beat. But it’s not Silas who emerges from the shadows of the porch. It’s the guy from last night. He slinks from the building, his movements slow and unhurried. My stomach twists.
In the light of day, he looks different—leaner, taller, more austere. His hair is jet black and longer than I thought, almost touching his shoulders. The morning sun catches the sharp lines of his jaw, illuminating his tan, his eyes sparkling like peridot. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and black slacks. Nothing special.
So why can’t I stop staring?
“Lucian!” Vivienne exclaims, her face lighting up.
She knows him?
To my horror, Marita grins and the two of them walk up to greet him. I hang back, my steps faltering as I watch them exchange greetings.
Please don’t introduce me.
Please don’t introduce me.
Please don’t introduce me.
“Lucian, this is Lady Eden Lockhart,” Vivienne says, beckoning me over with a smile on her face. “She’s my roommate.”
His gaze shifts to me, and for a moment, I feel pinned under the weight of it. I can’t tell if he’s amused or bored—and just like last night, it makes me uncomfortable. Is he going to tell them we’ve already met under dubious circumstances?
“Eden,” he says. It’s not as raspy as last night. “It’s a pleasure.”
I offer a tight-lipped smile, holding the strap of my bag tightly. “Likewise.”
There’s a tense silence. Marita and Vivienne seem to miss it, but I feel it resting on my shoulders. Lucian’s lips curve into a faint smirk, as though he’s amused by my discomfort. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze never leaving mine.
“How are you liking Augustine so far?”
“It’s fine.” I hope I’m smiling, but I’m not sure what my face is doing.
Vivienne and Marita’s attention have shifted back to each other, leaving me at Lucian’s mercy. And there’s something about that that has the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge. Why won’t he stop looking at me?
I wish Silas was here.
It would be rude of me to be disrespectful to him as a woman, despite my station. But he and Silas are equals before the Lord. He could defend me without sinning. Lucian leans slightly closer, hunching a bit since he’s so tall.
His voice drops so low that only I can hear him. “You don’t like me, do you?”
I straighten, looking off into the distance. “I don’t know you.”
“But we’re keeping each other’s secrets.”
I shoot him a sharp glance. How dare he bring that up? His smirk widens, and suddenly I feel stupid—like I’ve fallen for his trap. He knew exactly how to get a rise out of me, and now he’s revelling in it .
Lucian chuckles softly, a warm sound, but it grates against my nerves.
He turns to Vivienne and Marita. “Let’s get going then, shall we?”
Hatred is a sin.
But disliking someone? There’s no doctrine about that, and I strongly dislike Lucian. He’s the antithesis of everything I believe in, and for that I can never forgive him.
Vivienne, Lucian and Marita are engaged in light conversation as we walk to Mass. The cathedral looms ahead, its grand stone facade bathed in the morning sunlight. The stained glass windows gleam like jewels, casting colorful specks of light on the cobblestones.
And there, standing by the entrance, is Silas.
He’s dressed the way I expect, the way I am. There isn’t a hair out of place, no creases in his shirt, no scuffs on his shoes. His white dress shirt is crisp, his navy blue slacks outlining his toned, athletic legs. A blush heats my cheeks as I remember him pressed against me and how amazing it felt.
There’s a tinge of guilt that I’m thinking such sinful things before Mass. It’s forgotten when his eyes meet mine. My heart skips a beat, and for a moment the rest of the world fades. He’s waiting for me.
I walk a bit faster, getting to the cathedral steps before everyone else. I look up at him, grinning. Silas steps forward. His lips curve into a small, knowing smile. He holds out his hand. I take it without hesitation, his grip warm and firm as he helps me up the steps, like a gentleman should .
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs in my ear.
That compliment made all my hours of preparation worth it. A smile spreads across my face. “Thank you.”
Vivienne, Marita and Lucian linger behind us. Silas leads me inside. Being separated from them feels like relief. A part of me wants to tell him about Lucian. The thought dissipates the moment the cool air of the cathedral washes over me.
I don’t need to be vengeful.
I let myself sink into the warmth of Silas’ presence. The world feels smaller now, simpler. The thoughts leave my head, and little else matters—it’s just the Lord, Silas and I. It’s a foreign feeling to be attending Mass with someone whose company I actually enjoy, but I like it very much. To think that yesterday, I never wanted to see him again.
Always trust the Lord .
We take seats near the front.
Silas settles beside me. It feels natural. I can picture us doing this every Sunday back at our local church. My mother would love it, too. We’d be the talk of the town, and she’d be proud to show me off, to know that I’m betrothed to someone so important.
I’m sat between Silas and Alistair.
He introduces them to me—Cedric, Alistiar and Maximillian. I act like I don’t know them. I recognize Marita’s features on Maximillian’s face. Their resemblance is obvious in the shape of their face, the color of their hair—even their smiles. I don’t know how I missed that in my social media research.
I greet his friends modestly, wearing a gracious smile. In the corner of my eye, I notice Silas’ approval—and it thrills me. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch sight of Vivienne and Marita as they take their seats further back. Lucian is still with them, leaning against the edge of the pew. His expression has shifted into something darker, and he meets my eyes with thinly veiled indifference.
I turn away quickly.
Silas leans in, taking my palm in his.
“Nervous?”
“No,” I lie.
I’ve lost track of the amount of lies I’ve told—and I’m in church. My prayer will be long tonight. Silas rubs soothing circles into my palm with his fingers. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing with a single, undeniable truth— my plan is working.
The incense curls in the air above us, twisting in ghostly ribbons towards the high, vaulted ceiling. The scent is rich, earthly, ancient, Holy and fills every corner of the cathedral. The smell is so familiar that I’m transported back to church with my parents.
Sitting in the pew beside my brothers, with Eleanor and her family on the other side. I was always on the fringes whenever my family sat together in church. But this, it feels different. Like I’m actually part of something.
“Thank you for inviting me to sit beside you,” I whisper to Silas, my mouth moving before my brain can catch up. The thought of being wanted is something I don’t feel often. His eyes flick to mine, and they’re warm like the sea at sunrise.
Silas leans down, his lips brushing against my ear as he speaks. “It’s a standing invitation, my love. I always want you beside me.”
The words shoot straight to my core, creating a slick heat there before ricocheting into my brain. He wants me. I try to keep myself calm, to hide the fact that he’s scratched an itch in my soul that’s been annoying me for years.
I’m relieved when the Archbishop begins the opening prayers. His voice is calm, melodic—but I can’t hear him over the pounding of my heart. I keep my eyes forward.
The Archbishop is younger than I expect, maybe in his mid fifties. His chasuble is dark and embroidered with the school’s crest, a stark contrast to the rest of his garments. It matches his hair, though. I try to focus on him.
But with Silas’ hand on mine, each breath he takes is so distracting. The air between us may as well have been charged with static electricity.
You’re calm, Eden.
You’re calm, Eden.
But my chest feels tight, my thoughts race. I hate that everything about this feels right, that it feels like exactly where I should be. Silas should be a means to an end. One of the plays in the grand scheme of my life. But now, I’m not so certain.
It’s clear Vivienne was lying.
He’s perfect.
I could love him if I needed to.
Again I find the idea of actually making this work floating into my thoughts. Of not disappearing after we’ve announced our engagement to my parents. Of actually living a life with him, as his wife, eventually becoming Eden, Duchess of Surrey.
Maybe it could work.
The Archbishop transitions into the reading, his voice resonating through the massive cathedral. I force myself to focus on him. The light from the stained-glass windows spills across us in fragmented rainbows.
“Enjoying the sermon?” Silas voice filters into my consciousness again.
I blink repeatedly. Now my mouth is moving too slow. Forcing a smile, I try to act natural. Calm, cool and composed as I should be.
“Of course.”
He smirks, lips curling just enough to show a sliver of sharp canines.
“I am too. You make great company.” Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
Silas’ eyes are locked with mine for what feels like an eternity. The thought of his lips on mine flashes through my mind. Oh God, I’m thinking about making out with him in church. I quickly look away, pretending to focus on the Archbishop’s words.
The Mass progresses.
The rituals and prayers are familiar and rhythmic—I know them like the back of my hand. I’ve been Catholic all my life, attending church since I was in my mother’s belly. But this is the first time where I feel so…removed from it all. Like I’m floating outside my body, watching myself, watching Silas, watching everything unfold.
It’s a strange feeling.
And I’ve only ever felt it a handful of times before.
Who knew happiness could cause depersonalization.
When the Archbishop blesses the bread and wine, Silas’ grip on me tightens. I’ve taken communion before, of course, but somehow, it feels different. I’m about to get up, but Silas’ yanks my arm so hard I’m flung backwards into the pew.
Pain slices through my arm and I look at him with wide eyes.
His face is indifferent, his eyes emotionless. “We’ll go together.”
I nod. The congregation begins to move, filing toward the altar in slow, orderly lines. Inwardly, I chastise myself for forgetting protocol. How could I have made a mistake like that? My mother never stands before my father to take communion.
Further to that, Silas outranks me.
I can hear my mother’s voice in my head.
Stupid child. You can’t help but ruin everything, can you?