CHAPTER 2
We must always strive to show gratitude for our blessings.
We earn little, yet we receive much from our great and glorious Civilized World.
In acknowledgment of these gifts, we must dedicate ourselves to lives of civility and obedience, for it is through virtue alone that we become worthy of paradise.
—CONSTANCE FONTENAY, THE VIRTUOUS CITIZEN
Death leaves a bitter aftertaste.
I walk down the corridor toward the waiting elevator, my legs growing weaker with each step, and sink onto a cushioned chaise inside.
The mirrored walls, made of tiny silver tiles, reflect my image in fragments.
A strange face stares back at me, warped and distorted by the angles of the glass.
The features are all wrong. My eyes are too large and off-center, my lips are twisted as if broken, and my blonde hair is too pale against an ashen, unfamiliar skin tone.
Only the scar on my chin remains unchanged, a thin, white line still sharp from the fencing saber that left it.
There’s a carafe of cool mint water on the trolley, and as I pour myself a glass, my hands tremor, spilling water onto my dinner gown.
They never shook like this while holding a fencing saber, not during duels with more skilled opponents or even when I killed the Blue.
With the nanobot hilt pulsing in my grip, I felt grounded, anchored in purpose.
But now, without my saber, I feel adrift in a vast, endless sea, with only a distant light from Grandmaster University to guide me.
So, that’s where I have to swim.
“Which floor, Miss Waldsten?” an automated voice asks from the control panel.
“First,” I reply, checking my wristwatch.
It’s almost time for family dinner, my last one at home.
Dad’s private jet is already fueled and waiting in a hangar at the airport.
As soon as dessert ends, I’ll head to Roaring Rails Station, one of only two terminals servicing trains to Grandmaster University.
The elevator doors begin to close when a large hand slips through the narrowing gap.
The doors shudder and reopen, revealing a tall robot dressed in a pink wool suit, its blond hair combed into a sculpted wave and its square face set in a polite expression.
The robot moves with fluid, eerily humanlike motions, which is why all robots are required to distinguish themselves from humans by wearing pink.
The rule earned them the nickname “Pinkies.”
“Good day, Miss Waldsten.” The Pinkie bows in greeting. “Pardon my intrusion, but I wished to inform you that I have mailed most of your belongings to Grandmaster University.”
“Not all?”
“All but one.” The robot pulls a broken digital picture frame from its breast pocket. “I discovered this photograph beneath your bed while packing your room.”
The Pinkie offers me the shattered photo, but I don’t take it.
A familiar pain tightens in my chest as I examine the two smiling faces, barely visible through the cracked screen.
Charlotte’s dark-skinned arm is draped over my shoulder, and mine is wrapped around her waist. A jeweled comb glitters in her silky black hair, mirroring the sparkle of my diamond-and-feather headband.
The digital caption dates the photo to two years ago, on tap dance night at the Midnight Martini Club.
The last time I saw her.
“Given the damage, I thought it appropriate to set the photograph aside,” the Pinkie continues. “However, if you wish, I can repair—”
“It’s damaged because I damaged it,” I say.
“So, you do not wish to have it repaired?”
“No. You can throw it out.”
The Pinkie bows. “As you wish, Miss Waldsten. Good evening.”
The elevator doors close. As the car descends, I’m struck by a bitterness that hits me like a rush of cold air. It’s an old feeling, but today it feels as fresh as a torn scab. I steel myself against it rather than let it drag me down, like I used to.
I thought I’d moved past Charlotte’s betrayal. I didn’t bat an eyelash when I learned she’d been accepted to Grandmaster University. But now I realize her long, serrated knife is still lodged in my back. I’ve just gotten used to the pain.
When the elevator stops on the first floor, I walk directly to the dining hall.
The path leads through a foyer decorated with portraits and a conservatory filled with jasmine and freshly watered plants.
I pass a smoky billiards room and a library with a spiral staircase, where two voices echo from the open door. My parents.
Mom paces the library, her stilettos clicking like spilled marbles, while Dad explains that I’m still determined to become a Public Person and attend Grandmaster University.
Mom’s face falls as she listens. Her legs buckle slightly, and she braces herself against a bookshelf with a startled gasp.
Like Dad, I know she thought watching Bloody Sunday would change my mind.
Dad moves in and catches her, cupping the back of her head as she melts into his chest, sobbing.
“She won’t survive it, Bruce. She’s not even allowed to defend herself.”
Dad pulls her closer, a muscle tightening in his cheek, yet he stays silent.
I turn away, conflicted. This isn’t what I want.
I don’t want to hurt my family or make them worry.
I just want to get my life back on track.
It’s all I’ve worked for over the past year.
Now that I finally have the chance, I can’t let it slip away, even though attending Grandmaster comes with risks.
If I wait until I’m twenty-one to become a Public Person, the same danger will still be there.
There’s no avoiding it, only delaying it.
Fighting a surge of guilt, I hurry past the library to the dining hall.
The Pinkies have already lit a fire, and the air smells of burning beechwood.
A black marble clock ticks on the overhanging carved mantle, where one of my fencing trophies is displayed, a daily reminder of what I’ve lost. A Pinkie in a drop-waist dress arranges the table: five place settings with gilded plates, long-stemmed wine glasses, bone-colored linen napkins, and silver cutlery that gleams in the light of the crystal chandelier.
The dining chairs are empty, but outside on the terrace, a faint shadow moves slowly and purposefully across the flagstones.
“Loredana,” Hillaire calls.
I don’t respond. Instead, I grab an open bottle of red wine from a sideboard and drink to wash away the bile in my throat.
After drying my mouth with a napkin, I head onto the terrace with the bottle tucked under my arm, even though I know I should take it easy.
I’ve only been drinking for two months, since I turned eighteen and officially became an adult.
Any age younger than that, and you might as well be a child: no drinking, smoking, voting, driving, not even dating.
Outside, Hillaire stands at the terrace railing, her face turned toward the dimly lit topiary gardens lining the drive. It’s too dark to see much beyond the glowing lampposts, yet she seems focused on something near the tennis court.
“I waved at you from the tree,” she says, turning at the sound of my approach.
Though short, with a childlike frame, she still appears older than fourteen.
Tonight, she looks especially thin beneath the relaxed fit of her green pantsuit.
The strands of her white-blonde bob are frozen around her face, as if she used an entire can of hairspray.
“I saw,” I reply.
“But you didn’t wave back.”
“I was too busy trying not to puke.”
Hillaire’s eyebrow arches high. “So you’re admitting you lost your grip?”
“No. I watched every beheading.”
“How many?”
I sip from the wine bottle grimly. “Forty-nine.”
She tilts her head, impressed. “Good to know you’re still capable of seeing things through.”
Her jab is well-aimed as usual. I’m not sure why she’s trying to provoke me, but I resist taking the bait.
I never told my sisters I killed a Blue or that I have a weapons restriction. Instead, I told them I quit fencing after losing in the semifinals of the Junior Fencing World Championship. Ever since, Hillaire has called me a quitter.
But it’s better than the alternative.
Her loyalty to the Civilized World has become her whole personality. If she ever finds out I killed a Blue, it could ruin our relationship. As for Vivian, her lips are looser than a plastic bag. She can’t keep a secret to save her life.
“Where’s Viv?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Gone.” Hillaire tugs at her trouser leg, revealing an ash-stained burn hole in the silk. “She threw her cigarette at me.”
“Why?”
“Because I told her that smoking makes her stink worse than an armpit.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean to burn you, but you know how sensitive Viv can be.” I set the wine bottle on the railing, trying to balance it on the narrow strip of wrought iron. “You should ease up on her. If you guys can’t get along, who are you going to hang out with when I’m gone?”
Hillaire bites her lower lip, betraying a flicker of anxiety. “I’ll be alone, not lonely.”
“But Viv will be.”
“She should be alone. It’s what she deserves.”
The wine bottle slips from the railing, and I catch it with a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hillaire’s mouth curls bitterly. “Vivian’s barely spoken to me since she got engaged to Harrison. She hasn’t gone to the tree fort with me once. If she’s lonely while you and Harrison are at Grandmaster, it’s what she deserves.”
I nod, even though I know this isn’t about the tree fort. It’s about Hillaire’s fear of losing Vivian once she and Harrison get married next summer.
“Are you mad at me, too, Hilly?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow on me. “No. Why would I be?”
“Well… I’m leaving you, too.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you didn’t choose an outsider over family. And because, in a few years, I’ll be at Grandmaster with you.”