Chapter 22
Within minutes, I find myself alone in the courtyard with an increasingly heavy drizzle of rain matting my hair. Once the general made her wishes clear, everyone quickly had somewhere else to be. I can’t even be mad that Trinity and Edward ditched me immediately.
Even the dean left me on my own, and isn’t that some kind of breach of student-school protocol?
General Sol hops down from the stage, oblivious to the rain, while her Circle Guard waits a few paces back. She’s even more intimidating up close. She has several inches on me, and I have to stare up to meet her gaze. In her early sixties, she has fine lines hugging her eyes and mouth.
I don’t think she means to, but the way she assesses me makes me feel like a bug.
“I hear there was some trouble with your first initiation test,” she says.
“Yes, General Sol,” I say.
“I’ve known your father a long time, and I’ve heard a lot about you. What happened?”
“Things . . .” I’m not sure how to explain it.
Why is it so hard to tell her that I couldn’t kill a human being for no reason?
“I had a momentary lapse of judgment,” I finally say.
She considers my answer, her gaze searching my face.
“I hope I don’t have to tell you how important your position in House Fiama is,” she says.
“You won’t be at Amery long, and The Shield is expecting support from you and Knox.
New Manhattan cannot maintain peace without cooperation from the Houses. ”
I nod. Of course, I know. It sometimes feels like it’s the only thing I know.
“The grip on our safety is tenuous,” she continues, and I blink in surprise. “The Solitudes are growing bolder, more vicious. They’re infiltrating the city almost nightly.” When she senses my confusion, she tips her head. “The news is kept quiet. We don’t need anyone to panic.”
“I see?” I say, wishing I sounded more confident.
I don’t understand why she’s telling me all this.
“But the threats within our borders are just as worrisome, if not more so. Your father does an admirable job of keeping them in check, but tensions in the city are escalating, as we saw from last week’s incident. A shift in Fiama’s leadership wouldn’t benefit any of us.”
She pauses, letting those words sink in as I gauge her meaning.
If I don’t marry Knox, then it might threaten my father’s position.
If he’s ousted as scion, it might lead to the same turmoil we faced in the past. The Shield might rule us, but they have limited control over who the Houses choose as their scions.
“But a House is also responsible for all its pledged members,” she continues. “Society must act with the dignity of the position they’ve been afforded, not brawl in the tunnels and lead people to question the tenets that keep our world stable.”
I nod slowly.
“I’m telling you all this because Knox Arden is young and has a lot of growing to do.
I believe he will make a great leader someday, but he’ll need .
. . corralling. Someone with a cooler head and level thinking to help guide him.
I know from speaking with your father that you are smart and dependable. You are the anchor Knox needs.”
Her words settle around me like an iron straitjacket. Not only am I being forced into this marriage, but I’m also now responsible for Knox’s behavior. None of it surprises me, but that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to swallow.
“Is that everything?” I ask, realizing it comes out more impertinent than I’d like. I brace for backlash, but the general’s lip curls up in a half smile.
“You have spirit. You’ll do just fine, Poet Graves. I’m counting on you.”
Then she steps back and assesses me up and down.
“There is one other thing,” she adds. “It has nothing to do with all this, but increasing numbers of the infected are being reported to the Extinguishers. They’ve been gathering them up before they can do any harm, but the numbers are unprecedented.
The most shocking thing is just how quickly they’re becoming mentally unstable.
Most show up already violent and difficult to control, and the rest aren’t far behind. ”
She pauses and stares at me, and the back of my head flames with heat and nerves.
“Please pass along the message to your classmates, so they can immediately report any signs of the infected in their midst.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.
“And remind anyone that if they’re caught hiding either their own ability or someone else’s, their punishments will be . . . unpleasant.”
I can barely breathe around the balloon swelling in my chest. Somehow, I manage an affirmative response that appears to satisfy her well enough.
“Until we meet again, Poet Graves,” she says with a bow before spinning on her heel and walking away.
A shiver races down my spine at her words.
I’ve always lived in fear, wondering when and if my secret will be discovered.
Why does that moment suddenly feel so much more inevitable?