Chapter 21
It’s raining when Trinity returns to our dorm room later that afternoon.
Despite the regularity of the storms, it doesn’t rain often in New Manhattan—something due to the air pressure and currents I don’t really understand.
Thankfully, Lacey and Winter have already left for the memorial, so Trinity has a bit more time before she’s forced to confront an audience.
She still wears a bandage across her collarbone, and I help her into her high-necked jacket to cover it up. Once she’s in her dress uniform, she steps back to assess her reflection.
“You look great,” I assure her, and she shakes her head.
“I’m such an embarrassment.”
“Don’t say that,” I counter sharply. “Is it really such a bad thing that you didn’t take someone’s life?”
“Poet.” She whips around to face me, her eyes wide like I’ve suggested something disgusting.
“What’s gotten into you lately? Stop saying things like that—you’ll be in even more trouble than you already are.
And stop acting like you aren’t in as much shit as I am.
You tested for House Aria. You’re a traitor as far as everyone in Fiama is concerned. ”
“Everyone?” I ask as her accusation slices deep.
“That’s . . . No . . . Poet . . .” She trails off and rubs her face with her hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t think you’re a traitor. What I think is we’ve both fucked up in the most spectacular but different ways, and we both have targets on our backs.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m heading to the memorial. Are you coming, or are you planning to hide forever? Not sure you want to be seen with a traitor.”
It’s a low blow, but I’m not feeling very charitable after her hurtful words.
“Don’t be like that,” Trinity says. “I’m sorry. You know that’s not how I meant it.”
I exhale a long breath. “We’re both on edge,” I answer, but it feels rather noncommittal.
I’m not ready to forgive her yet.
“I’ll come,” Trinity says, though I can sense her wariness. “I guess I’d better get this over with. Edward is waiting for me.”
At least she has Edward. Sometimes I wonder, if it came down to the two of us, who she would pick.
Boyfriends will come and go, but friends are forever, right?
Except they’re madly in love and will probably get married, and I really don’t know what it will be like to settle into our lives and attend Society parties, all while knowing she loves her husband, and I’m stuck with Knox.
How long will I be able to pretend before my own unhappiness comes between us?
“Then we should go,” I answer, crossing the room and digging through my closet. I throw on my coat and button it up before we head into the hall and down to the courtyard teeming with people.
Edward finds us immediately. He takes Trinity’s hand and gives her a firm look. He’s with her, too, and she collapses against him as they hug. His gaze meets mine, and he nods quickly in thanks for taking care of her.
No one has noticed us, and by silent agreement, we hang at the back of the crowd to ensure it stays that way. I spot Knox with his friends and duck behind Edward. I’ve been avoiding Knox as much as possible, while he blows up my phone with demands to see him that I ignore.
In the center of the square stands a raised platform with a podium and a microphone, both covered by a tent. A light drizzle falls from the sky as the clouds begin to take on an emerald hue.
Several teachers mill about the front under a canopy protecting them from the weather.
A moment later, a door opens in the side of the building, and two figures emerge.
Dean Withers and . . . and General Sol.
A soft murmur ripples through the crowd as she walks out surrounded by six members of her Circle Guard, the people trained at an elite level as her personal shield and who travel with her everywhere.
They wear sleek white uniforms made of some kind of shiny material that protects against assaults and carry stunners powered by Spark that can be set to incapacitate or kill.
The two women trot up the steps as the general’s Guard spreads out around the stage.
The dean and the general are a study in contrasts.
Dean Withers is delicate and small—almost like a bird—with her auburn hair and a fluttery white dress under a swingy white wool coat.
General Sol towers a good foot taller, dressed head to toe in black leather that molds to a body that has clearly seen countless hours of training.
As her keen gaze slips over the crowd, I get the sense she’s aware of every single person in the plaza and knows exactly who we all are.
Dean Withers approaches the microphone as a light drizzle coats everyone without the luxury of a tent.
“Welcome,” she says. “I’m sorry we find ourselves together under such . . . tragic circumstances. The loss of a student is one I always take personally, and to lose three so suddenly, so violently, is a knife straight through my heart.”
To illustrate her point, she flattens a hand to her chest and closes her eyes as she inhales a breath so shuddering, it rattles through the speakers.
I can’t help but think the entire thing is a performance.
After all, people have died from their initiations in this very building, and no one seemed to bat an eye.
She continues speaking for a few more minutes, sharing some nice details about each student who’s gone. Given they were all third-years, I didn’t know much about them.
That Hollow was so young, and I wonder who he was taken from. Is there anyone to mourn him now? Does he get a nice ceremony with a member of The Shield in attendance? What about the other people who died on the tracks? I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
When the dean is finished, the rain is falling harder, pelting us softly while she remains dry under the tent alongside the general. I shiver as a cool breeze seeps through my jacket. Dean Withers gestures to General Sol, who stands with her hands clasped behind her back, her posture straight.
Her long hair tosses in the breeze, but only just enough to make her look impressive but not disheveled. She approaches the microphone, and that renews everyone’s interest. As she clears her throat and begins to speak, I sense how everyone leans forward ever so slightly.
She’s a magnet, and we’re helpless to resist her pull.
“Thank you for taking the time to come out this morning. Dean Withers invited me here to speak with you on behalf of The Shield. Chancellors Marks and Orsen send their sincerest regrets that they couldn’t be in attendance as well,” she says.
Her voice is strong. Confident. Nothing wavers in her tone.
“I know you’re hurting deeply after this tragedy.
I, too, feel this loss personally. I know you all, even if you don’t think I do.
I know your parents, and I consider each of you one of my own. ”
I notice many people sharing looks. Unlike Dean Withers, General Sol’s words feel genuine. Real. Like they were taken from the heart.
“It is and has always been The Shield’s duty to protect the citizens of New Manhattan from every threat, whether from the outside or inside.
” She pauses dramatically, and her meaning is clear.
We were all children when the worst of the riots were happening before my father took over as scion, but we remember some of the details well enough.
This incident is a reminder never to forget what could happen again.
“Thanks to our four Houses, we keep order in our world,” she continues. “House Fiama, House Aria, House Asale, and House Tera are the pillars on which our safety rests. Without their vigilant efforts, we would be no better than animals, scrounging for food and fighting over scraps.”
Several nods go around the plaza.
“It’s more important than ever to uphold the values of Society set forth by the original members of The Shield all those years ago.
Many of you will go on from Amery to become the very same leaders who will aid us in this charge.
The very same people will sit atop these towers and ensure our small nation’s ongoing success. ”
She raises her arms to encompass our surroundings and the city stretching in every direction. “You are New Manhattan’s future, and I need each one of you to stay safe. To remember where you come from and that no matter which House you represent, in the end, we are all family.”
General Sol smiles at a few quiet grumbles, likely reading everyone’s reaction to that.
“As you make your way in the world, you’ll understand that while your House is important, the greater good is equally so.
When you graduate, no matter your path, you will work for the betterment of New Manhattan as a whole.
I look forward to getting to know many of you over the next few years.
Please stay safe. Stay careful. And most of all, never forget that inside the city, you are free from the maladies that plagued the old world.
You have food. You have clothing and shelter, and most of all, you have The Shield to protect you. ”
She presses a hand to her chest and utters, “Protect. Preserve. Prosper.”
Everyone repeats her words before a chorus of applause turns into a few cheers and shouts.
The dean returns to the mic and says a few more words as I stare about the courtyard.
Rook is leaning against a pillar on the far end, his hands stuffed in his front pockets and one ankle crossed over the other.
I haven’t seen him since he rescued me from the train that night.
I still owe him a thank-you, but it seems like he’s forgotten about the incident. And me.
It’s then that I notice how many people are peering over their shoulders, casting surreptitious glances around the plaza.
For once, they aren’t directed at Rook, but rather at me, Trinity, and Edward.
It seems we’ve finally been noticed. Trinity realizes it, too, because her brow furrows with concern, and she takes a step back.
“We should go,” Edward says, taking Trinity’s hand.
The dean is still speaking as he tugs Trinity away, but Dean Withers waves and calls to the back of the crowd, stilling them both.
“Excuse me,” she says, tapping the mic. “You haven’t been dismissed.”
That’s when every pair of eyes in the courtyard turns to find us. Dean Withers holds a hand over her brow to see more clearly, and it takes only a moment before a soft “ah” can be heard through the microphone.
At the general’s quizzical look, the dean covers the mic and leans to whisper something in her ear. The two women confer for several seconds before the general returns her focus to the crowd, her gaze sliding over everyone before it finds me.
Then she speaks into the microphone again.
“Poet Graves,” she says as my cheeks heat and my stomach flips, every eye in the courtyard homing in on me. “I’d like to speak with you in private.”