CHAPTER 5
Civility laws regulating behavior were not made to subjugate, but rather to elevate, for the highest standard can be achieved only at the highest cost.
—VERA FLORES, A GUIDE TO ETIQUETTE
Being a Public Person is like running through a minefield buck-naked in the dark while it’s pissing rain.
Dad’s words echo in my mind as I watch flocks of surveillance drones circle the runway like vultures; their lenses track every movement, scanning for the slightest sign of uncivilized behavior.
The stairway stretches before me, wet with rain, looking less like an exit and more like the threshold to my new life—one where I’ll have to maintain perfect posture and speak formally in public wherever I go until the day I die.
But I trained for this. My body remembers every rule, falling effortlessly into the drills I’ve repeated thousands of times.
I relax my shoulders, lift my chin, and gently lace my fingers in front of me as I begin to descend.
Rain pounds on the umbrella the Pinkie holds above my head, matching the rhythm of my pulse.
I take each step purposefully, keeping my weight balanced and my pace slow, even though the stairs are slick enough to send me tumbling.
I take deep, steady breaths until I reach the bottom, where I curtsy to Harrison, who’s still waiting on the tarmac.
He responds with a bow, his muscular frame braced against the biting wind. Rainwater runs down his caped rainproof overcoat, and his shoulders shudder under the weight of tension he can’t shake. Yet the smile he offers remains broad and polite, tugging at the skin around his eyes.
We both know there’s no room for fear, no matter how much we might feel it. From now on, civility is survival.
“Miss Waldsten, please allow me to escort you to your train carriage,” Harrison says.
“You are most kind, Mr. Somerset.”
I rest my hand on his arm. Behind us, Charlotte descends with careful grace, lifting the hem of her gown off the wet steps. I picture her practicing her posture alone in a hotel room mirror, with no friends or even her dad to advise her, and I can’t help but feel a sting of sadness.
At the bottom of the stairs, she pulls on a pair of suede gloves and asks, “What is your train seat number, Miss Waldsten?”
“17A.”
Charlotte switches on her Bond. “Ah, how fortunate. Seat 17B is still vacant.”
No. It’s a bad idea for her to sit with me, especially after that Copper swiped a copy of my ticket. “Miss Deering, perhaps you should consider sitting—”
“The purchase has already been made.” Her face settles into that familiar, unshakable expression I’ve seen too many times to count. She’s not changing her mind. And if I’m honest, I don’t want her to.
Three Pinkies with umbrellas guide us to a line of idling hoverbuses.
Three are full, but the fourth is half empty, making it a safer choice if there’s trouble.
The doors open to a rush of damp wool, tobacco smoke, and perfume.
We step inside, and as I look around, I’m comforted by the sight of so many Greens.
We shuffle down the aisle to the back of the hoverbus, where I catch a glimpse of the Copper through the panoramic bubble windows.
He’s leaning against the jet’s doorway, helmet off, lighting a cigarette.
Smoke drifts through the foggy air as he talks with the drones still hovering near the steps.
He’s got that easy, flinty-eyed look of a man who enjoys his profession a little too much, or maybe just the power that comes with it.
The drones’ headlights flash before they take off and soar toward Roaring Rails Station. Moments later, the hoverbus jerks forward and follows the same path.
I glance around at the low-citizens filling the seats: a man in a herringbone gray coat tips back his fedora to watch the news on a floating holographic screen; two suntanned women dab lipstick onto their perfectly arched mouths, gossiping about campus nightlife; near the front, a group of Greens compare sabers, their eager voices tumbling over each other as they draw and show off the engravings on their hilts.
So far, no one seems to recognize me, but I recognize one Green.
He sits near the middle of the hoverbus, his elbow resting on the window at an angle that shows off his shiny platinum watch.
He’s big-boned and broad-shouldered, with pomaded hair and a mustache as sharp as his tweed greatcoat.
His complexion has a warm, late-summer hue that brings out the color in his narrow-set eyes.
I’ve seen him once before, when he stopped by our house to pick up Harrison and Vivian for drinks at the Silver Stiletto Lounge.
If push comes to shove, I’ll tell Harrison to ask him for help.
But right now, I need to stay invisible.
I step into the corner, wedging myself between Harrison’s shoulder and the wall, then check my Bond.
There’s still no word from my family. Mom and my sisters are probably still asleep, unaware of the Bliss ban, but Dad should’ve called by now.
He knows I wasn’t trained for this. He knows I’m an easy target without a saber. Why isn’t he calling?
The hoverbus glides across the airstrip, passing parked jets and Coppers tugging the leads of police dogs.
The rain-washed windows distort their stoic, watchful faces as we veer onto a cobbled drive leading to the train station.
Harrison leans toward me, his voice low but clear.
“Miss Waldsten, before we exit, there is a final piece of information you should be aware of.” He pauses, and the strain around his mouth tells me this hellish morning is about to get worse. “Actually, it is best if I show you.”
“If you show us,” Charlotte interjects.
“Yes, of course, Miss Deering.”
Harrison sends us a link to a website with a feather-pen logo.
I recognize the website as Quill, the official social media platform for Grandmaster students.
In the trending topics section, I click the top hashtag and find it filled with posts about me, each featuring the same image: my slack-jawed face, taken straight from the family portrait Benjamin Bogart broadcast to the whole nation.
“Has anyone managed to acquire #MissBliss’s class schedule?” one comment asks.
“No. Only her dormitory suite number,” someone replies.
“It might be helpful if we also obtain a list of #MissBliss’s extracurricular activities,” another person adds.
MISS BLISS.
The name is everywhere, attached to my picture as students scrutinize every detail of my life.
One post says I love tap dancing, while another reveals I used to fence competitively.
Shit. I want to curse out loud, but I follow the formal public rules and keep my mouth shut.
A chill unfurls in my stomach and slowly spreads.
“How have they acquired this information?” I ask Harrison.
“From the Grandmaster newspaper. Every year, they publish detailed profiles of all the incoming students.”
“Miss Waldsten, look at this,” Charlotte says, forwarding me a screenshot of a comment posted on Quill two minutes ago.
“#MissBliss’s location is still unknown. So far, we have only verified the other six.”
The other six? I scroll through the post’s replies, my hands trembling as I recognize more students’ names and faces. A few are first-years like me, whose parents voted to ban Bliss, but only one face is familiar.
Her picture, taken at the Roaring Rails Station forty-five minutes ago, shows her sipping mimosas in a breakfast cafe with a group of friends. With her blonde kiss curls, shell-pink lips, and bold style, she looks just as I remember.
I ran into her on the courthouse steps shortly before her father, Judge Bradford, sentenced me to a weapons restriction.
We exchanged only a few words, but I could tell she thought I was beneath her—an uncivilized criminal who deserved to lose everything for daring to stand up to a Blue.
Now, thanks to her Green Representative mother’s vote to ban Bliss, she’s fallen just as far.
I exit Quill and work to calm my nerves as the hoverbus pulls up outside the train station. The heavy, arched doors open into a grand atrium of pale marble, black onyx, and frosted glass.
I walk between Charlotte and Harrison as we enter the station.
At the security checkpoint, Pinkies scan our bodies and carry-on items before we head into a departure hall filled with low-citizens.
They move like schools of colorful fish, their laughter rising with the smooth jazz of street musicians—holographic performers whose translucent forms shift from silver to gold.
Enormous, stacked glass chandeliers hang from the ceilings like ice formations, sparkling over the tops of the pink magnolia trees planted throughout the station.
Despite the cheerful atmosphere, anxiety lurks beneath the students’ smiles, like rot under the shiny red skin of an apple.
I realize I’m not the only one terrified of screwing up.
As we approach the escalators, I start mapping the exits as my defense instructor taught me.
The five main ones are too obvious to risk.
The side exits near the ticketing concourse are better, but still uncomfortably crowded.
My best bet is the maintenance access points, where Pinkies drift in from storage halls and loading docks. Less traffic. Fewer security cameras.
Next, I shrink my profile. I raise my fur collar and keep my head down, staying close to the walls and away from the ceiling lights.
Break line of sight first, then move fast, my defense instructor told me.
But even with every lesson drilled into my head, attempting to remain unseen feels pointless.
There are too many people, too many eyes scanning for a girl who matches my description: five-foot-nine, athletic build, long blonde hair, and a chin scar.