CHAPTER 11
Everyone wants greatness until they realize it requires sacrificing what they love for what they believe in.
—HARRISON SOMERSET
My second day at Grandmaster is an ugly twin of the first. The lectures blur by in an erratic stream of complicated discussions I only half-focus on because I’m too busy watching my back.
I know I can’t keep living like this, day after day, week after week, constantly scanning for the glint of a saber.
I need to find a way to move around campus safely.
But first, I need to figure out what Irene Hussey’s gesture meant: an outstretched hand with five fingers raised.
On the way to my last lecture, I text Dickie, hoping he’ll know.
“It means you need more bodyguards, broad,” he replies.
“I already have six,” I text him. “That’s the max.”
“Then find a way to talk to Irene. Call a truce.”
“You think that’ll work?”
“Can’t say. But unless you wanna be worm food, don’t wait for her to make the first move.”
“Can you ask her if she’s willing to meet?”
A moment passes. Then Dickie replies:
“I guess so… seeing as you’re a fellow Orange and all.”
“I’m a Green.”
“Well, that explains why you need my brains.”
I scoff at the message, even though Dickie has given me a spark of hope.
Dad says the Hussey family is always quick to get blood on their blades, but maybe Irene is more reasonable.
If she agrees to meet, I might be able to defuse the situation.
Or at the very least, buy enough time to get ahead of whatever she’s planning.
It’s nearly 7:00 p.m. when I finally return to my suite. I’m in my salon, halfway through a plate of lobster and rice, when Dad adds me to our family group call. Everyone is on the line except for Mom, who’s giving a statement on Dad’s behalf to The Civilized Voice.
Vivian is at her bedroom vanity, polishing a set of bronze flight badges that once belonged to the Vanguards, the elite pilots who guarded the Civilized World’s energy shield when it still needed protection.
All of the Vanguards are dead now, their legacies reduced to these small, shining reminders. Vivian calls it collecting heroes.
Her hands move methodically, almost like a ritual.
The Pinkies should be handling the polishing, but she insists on doing it herself.
She smiles serenely as she works, her eyes gleaming like warm pools of honey, probably because Harrison told her he’s not breaking off their engagement.
Vivian pulls back from the badges, blows lightly on the polish, then looks up at her phone screen.
“I take back what I said to you yesterday,” she tells Dad. “I shouldn’t have lashed out, and I’m sorry.”
Dad’s smile is faint but genuine. “I appreciate that, Viv. Tensions are high right now. Let’s not make them worse by turning on each other.”
“I know. You’re right.” She says the words without a hint of shame. Vivian never gets embarrassed.
Hillaire, by contrast, clings to her fury more tightly than her ribbed nanosuit clings to her body.
She doesn’t speak as she trains at the shooting range in our compound, her energy-based sniper rifle pulsing with each shot.
The echoing blasts force Dad to raise his voice to be heard over the noise.
“Anything new to report?” he asks me.
I hesitate, thinking it’s better not to mention Irene’s threat. He’s already fighting opponents of the Bliss ban on too many fronts, and adding the Husseys to the mix would only stretch him thinner.
“Nothing new,” I say. “The Pinkies are keeping me safe.”
Dad’s shoulders ease, though the tension never entirely leaves his face. “Good. You should track down the other students whose parents voted to ban Bliss. They’re your best shot at making allies.”
I nod along, pretending to consider his advice, but the truth is, grouping us all together feels like a bad idea. One well-placed strike, and we’d all go down at once.
After the call, I curl up on the sofa and log in to Quill.
My Pinkie hands me my vitamin supplements, and I toss them back while checking the trending topics.
My name has dropped to ninth place, only two spots away from disappearing entirely.
The top trend now belongs to the Jazz & Juleps party, which is still raging on the beach.
As I scroll through the posts, I feel a cold sense of isolation.
Endless photos and videos show students mingling on the sand, their seersucker suits and tank-style bathing suits fading into soft pastels under the string lights.
They’re laughing over cocktails, playing lazy hands of poker, and tap dancing on a parquet floor that the Pinkies set up on the beach.
I open one of the video clips, and right away, the music hits me with a bitter wave of nostalgia.
It’s a saxophone-heavy jazz tune that Charlotte and I used to tap dance to at the Midnight Martini club.
During those wild, carefree nights, she laughed more than she talked and moved across the dance floor as if the whole world were still hers to win.
Now I can’t stop comparing that girl to the one with the hollowed-out face and the sad, empty eyes.
After what happened in the blue first-year carriage, it’s clear something terrible went down between Charlotte, Edmund, and Jack.
If she needs space, I’ll give it to her, but if she’s planning to cut me off again, I’d rather know now.
It’ll hurt less to sever the tie early. Living without her over the past two years wasn’t easy, and letting her go again won’t be either.
But torn scabs heal faster than fresh wounds.
I’ve lost her before, and if I have to, I can do it again.
I just don’t want to.
The clock ticks late into the night, and I keep scrolling through the feed, partly out of curiosity and partly because I want to live vicariously through the footage.
Down, down, down I go until a blurry photograph of Edmund and Irene at the Jazz & Juleps party catches my eye.
The couple stands on a winding stretch of beach as fireworks burst overhead.
Irene’s eyes are narrowed in anger, and her hand is pressed against Edmund’s chest. Edmund, a head taller than she is, stares down at her with his hands clasped behind his back.
His chin is raised, his mouth set in a hard, unyielding line, and his eyes burn hotter than when he challenged Charlotte to the shot duel.
Aside from the photo, the post contains only a link.
When I tap the link, I’m directed to a website styled like an old black-and-white newspaper, complete with ink portraits above each post. Across the top, in bold, dramatic lettering, the title reads, TATTLETALE: THE MOST RELIABLE SOURCE FOR GRANDMASTER UNIVERSITY NEWS.
A Pinkie serves me a glass of red Imperial as I scroll through the stories, my curiosity mounting with every sip.
Despite calling itself news, Tattletale reads more like a gossip rag covering university scandals.
One story claims the campus Coppers have requested backup to investigate a potential Heretic network at Grandmaster.
Another says the Blue Representatives are digging into President Reeve’s past, desperate to find dirt to blackmail him into changing his stance on the Bliss Prohibition Act.
Given the nature of the claims, I’m not surprised the publisher stays anonymous—and I’m almost positive it’s a Blue.
A low-citizen could never get away with publishing this.
Scrolling further down, I find the story about Edmund and Irene titled, SNOW ON THE BEACH?
High-citizen society collectively swooned upon first hearing of the romance between golden boy Edmund Prew and the dazzling big-game huntress Irene Hussey: two impossibly glamorous young Blues from families steeped in influence, power, and pedigree.
Why, it seemed as if fate itself had conspired to entwine their hearts.
But oh, how swiftly the shine has dulled.
A mere four months after their engagement was announced, the gilded couple was spotted—brace yourselves—quarreling at none other than the Jazz & Juleps bash.
The cause of the spat remains shrouded in mystery, though my most trusted sources say all is not well behind the couple’s diamond-studded doors.
Some insist Mr. Prew and Miss Hussey harbor a deliciously poisonous disdain for one another, while others claim their romance has always been more tempest than tranquility.
If such rumors prove true, one cannot help but ask: What still binds Mr. Prew and Miss Hussey together?
Love? Pride? Or something infinitely more scandalous?
Rest assured, my dear readers, the Tattler shall not relent until the final veil is drawn back…
and when it is, you shall know every glittering, sordid detail.
I set down my wine glass, with the distinct impression that Tattletale might not be cheap gossip after all. If Edmund and Irene’s relationship truly is circling the drain, it would explain why he didn’t throw me out of the blue first-year carriage to be slaughtered by the Copper.
The thought makes me realize I’ve broken one of Dad’s cardinal rules: Never assume someone’s motives, no matter how straightforward they might seem.
“Your mom and I have been married for twenty years, and I’m still running blind about her motives half the time,” Dad told me.
When the clock strikes midnight, I roll off the sofa and drag myself to bed. My head barely hits the feather pillow before I slip into a shallow, restless sleep, and I dream once again of the attack in the locker room.
This time, Charles kills me.