CHAPTER 16 #3
Edmund doesn’t realize my reasons for hating Irene Hussey run deeper than revenge.
He doesn’t know what her family did to mine, how they tried to ruin Dad’s career by killing his bills and dragging his name through the press like a corpse on parade.
Until the day the Bliss Prohibition Act passed, Edmund wouldn’t have been able to pick my family out of a lineup of Pinkies.
If he calls my bluff, it’ll be for one reason and one reason only.
Because liars recognize other liars.
Edmund’s hand closes slowly around his Altimor watch, as if fighting the urge to pitch it across the hovercar. For a long moment, he stares at me in silence, a tendon twitching in his jaw. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat. “Tell me what you want.”
A warm sense of triumph floods me, but I keep it off my face. “No more formalities,” I say, dropping the refined speech right there.
“Fine. Is that it?”
“No. I want personal time—after six on weekdays and after three on weekends. I’m not spending the entire year strapped to your side like a saber.”
“Saber?” Edmund jerks a thumb toward my waist. “You’d be the empty scabbard.”
I narrow my eyes, and he laughs, clearly pleased with himself.
Then he adds, “Fine. But stick to low-citizen zones.”
“Your entourage badge won’t protect me?”
“Not from my kind.”
I nod despite my confusion. It’s hard to imagine anyone, even a high-citizen, crossing blades with a Prew.
Some names are off-limits. Or at least they used to be.
I think about how Irene was cuffed earlier and dragged off like a Heretic.
The Husseys used to be untouchable, too.
Now she’s in custody, a prisoner in full view, and no one tried to stop it.
They stood by and watched, the same way we all do every morning, as students are marched to the guillotine.
“All right, I’ll stick to low-citizen zones,” I say as the hovercar descends and eases to a stop.
A Pinkie circles around and opens the door, letting in a rush of voices that stretch each syllable. I stop, one foot instinctively sliding back. This isn’t where I thought we were going.
The Blue Dormitory towers like a mountain, its upper floors so high they obscure the starlight.
The walls gleam in the darkness, a fusion of striated marble, pale stone, and dark ironwork that weaves like vines.
Light seeps from the arched windows in warm ribbons, too carefully curated to feel inviting.
Like everything at Grandmaster, the Blue Dormitory’s beauty has teeth.
At the curb, Pinkies in rose-colored uniforms rush to welcome the stream of incoming hovercars, guiding each into the underground parking garage.
Blues, returning from the Speakeasy, step out in clicking shoes and flaring coats.
A few are already heading through the dormitory entrance, a grand portico with gold-leafed archways.
Beyond, mirrored elevators wait, their doors yawning open to carry the Blues to their private suites.
Edmund unbuckles his fencing scabbard, drops it on the seat between us, then steps out. “Follow me.”
“It’s after midnight,” I point out.
“Won’t take long.”
I still don’t move. More than I don’t want to enter a Blue’s suite alone at this hour, I don’t want to be seen doing it.
“Give me a good reason to go in there.”
“Privacy,” Edmund says. “Unless you’d prefer an audience for whatever argument you plan to start next.”
“I wasn’t planning to argue. I was planning to sleep. You can pick me up in the morning.”
Edmund leans back into the cabin, close enough that I catch the metallic tang of blood from the scratch on his neck. “Is it physically possible for that mouth of yours to ever say yes?”
“Yes.” I smile pointedly. “Is it physically possible for yours to ever stop firing orders?”
“That would contradict its design.” His gaze drops to my bare, bloodied feet. “My sister left some shoes in my suite you can borrow—unless you’d prefer to walk back to the Green Dormitory like that and risk losing civil credits.”
I set my teeth, irritated that he has a point. While I don’t hate following orders on principle, obeying the Blues feels different, like blowing a kiss to the system I despise. After all the civil credits I’ve lost tonight, I can’t afford to lose any more.
“Fine,” I say.
I scoot out of the hovercar, startled when Edmund’s hand briefly closes around mine and helps me down. As soon as my feet hit the cobblestones, he slips that same hand into his pocket, turns, and heads for the entrance.
“What happened to not touching me because you’re engaged?” I call after him.
His laugh is a dry scrape. “The rule-maker is above the rules.”
He keeps walking, and I cup my bare arms against a sudden gust of wind.
Then I bend back into the hovercar to retrieve my daffodil brooch, which fell onto the floor rug when I fainted.
I hold my breath to avoid inhaling the cologne’s stench again.
Edmund’s gleaming saber lies on the seat like a forbidden fruit I’m not allowed to touch.
Something about the way it sits there, carelessly left yet perfectly positioned, catches in my mind like a thread tugging loose.
The scent.
I remember it now.
Charles Blackwell wore the same cologne the day he tried to kill me.
Edmund’s dormitory suite is a mansion in the sky.
Room after spacious room unspools before me, dripping with luxury.
The marble floors are veined with gold, and the ceilings are adorned with hand-painted frescoes.
Velvet drapes spill from towering windows, framing a campus bathed in moonlight.
The walls shimmer with gilded paper, their colors as vivid as a flock of parrots.
The only thing Edmund’s suite shares with mine is the view, a perfect line of sight to the Guillotine Yard below.
I glance around, taking in the newness of every mosaic medallion and wall sconce. Edmund’s suite must’ve been one of the ones gutted and redone during the Blue Dormitory renovations.
Which explains why we’re staying.
This year, classes at Grandmaster started two weeks later than usual due to the renovations at the Blue Dormitory, and to make up for it, we won’t get a winter break. The gates will stay closed, and every student on campus will be kept from their families for two full semesters.
I wipe a little mud off my bare foot onto the sparkling clean floor as a Pinkie greets us in the grand foyer. The robot offers Edmund a glass of brandy, which he accepts with a dip of his chin. When the Pinkie moves to take his coat, he strides past it, as if he already has a destination in mind.
I follow Edmund through an art gallery of gold-framed paintings and sculptures under glass domes.
Next, a library tiered with carved balconies and draped with rugs so soft you could sleep on them.
Then, a training room paneled in polished wood and equipped with fencing gear.
When we reach the dining room, voices crash into us, revealing an argument in full swing.
One voice cuts through them all.
“Turn on that light, Dickie,” Charlotte snaps. “And I’ll turn off yours.”
Relief settles in briefly before I hear a sharp crack. Edmund’s brandy glass shatters in his grip, amber liquid splashing onto his shirt sleeve. His shoulders tense, and his face hardens with a fury so visceral that it’s clear he didn’t expect Charlotte to be here.
The crunch of broken crystal echoes beneath his patent leather shoes as he quickens his stride through an arched doorway into a private bar, where poker and billiards tables sit unused beneath stained-glass ceiling lamps.
By the bar, Charlotte huddles in a blanket, her legs drawn to her chest. Jack and Dickie flank her, Jack frowning through the upturned visor of his hoverbike helmet, Dickie stroking her shoulder comfortingly.
Charlotte’s face is mostly hidden beneath the blanket, but I see enough to know she’s shaken.
Edmund halts beneath the doorframe. He towers there, glaring, his gaze ricocheting between Jack and Dickie like a blade seeking its mark.
“But, Ed,” Dickie says, stepping away from Charlotte, guilt flashing in his eyes. “We had to help her. She was out cold, and—”
Edmund snaps his fingers. “Dining room.”
Dickie shoots an uneasy glance at Jack, who grabs a bottle of whiskey from the bar. He pops the cork, his expression grim as he follows Edmund out. The instant the door closes, anger erupts in muffled roars. Voices clash and overlap until I can’t tell who’s shouting what.
Still wrapped in the blanket, Charlotte pulls it higher around her head. Her silence is heavy, somehow louder than the fight raging next door. I search for signs of injury as I approach. Nothing. At least, nothing visible. I reach for the light switch to get a better look.
“Don’t.” Her voice wavers, barely a whisper.
I pull back and study her huddled shape. The blanket is wrapped around her tighter than a shoelace knot. “Why not? Char, what the hell happened?”
Charlotte’s throat works as she swallows, and her fingers twist the corner of the blanket. “The shot I chose was spiked,” she rasps. “After the Coppers left, I blacked out. When I woke up, Jack was carrying me out.” She pauses, her words faltering. “Well… most of me.”
“Most?” The word burns my throat.
Charlotte hesitates, and her eyes dart to the shadows as if they might offer escape. Then, slowly, she lowers the blanket.
The sight knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
Her hair… It’s gone. It’s been shaved into a jagged, uneven buzz cut that reveals the curve of her skull.
“Go ahead.” Charlotte pulls the blanket back up with shuddering hands. “Say it. I’m hideous.”
“Char, no—”
“You don’t have to lie,” she says flatly. “I might as well not have my head.”
My voice stutters as shock catches up. “But I sent three Pinkies to protect you.”
“Yeah, and Rosamund cut them all to pieces.”
“Rosamund? How do you know it was her?”
Charlotte’s jaw hardens, fingers digging into the blanket. A tear trembles at the corner of her eye, and she brushes it away with a rough swipe. “Because she left a mark.”
Charlotte turns her head to reveal the back of her scalp, where a deep, jagged cut in the shape of an R splits the skin. As I stare at the sharp edges, realizing a saber blade was used, the room seems to warp around me.
I don’t remember kneeling or reaching for Charlotte.
All I know is that I’m holding her now, clutching her so tightly it feels like I’m trying to hold in my guts.
I always thought the worst part of my weapons restriction was that I couldn’t defend myself.
Now I realize what’s truly worse: being powerless to protect the people I love.
“You told Jack, right? Now he knows who—”
“No. The minute he asked me who did it, I knew it was pointless. He only sees what he wants to see.”
I think Charlotte is wrong. I think Jack might see Rosamund differently if he knew. But I don’t press. I search for a solution, anything that could help her. Rosamund must’ve realized how much Charlotte’s hair meant to her, how it was the only part of herself she didn’t pull apart and scrutinize.
I try to keep my voice gentle, but it comes out rough, sharpened by my anger. “I’ve got a hair growth cream in my suite. It’ll take a few weeks, but—”
“Wait,” Charlotte gasps, snatching my hand. The blanket slips from her shoulders as she leans in, examining the dried blood on my knuckles. “Who the hell did this?”
“Irene,” I say. “She tried to kill me, so I joined Edmund’s entourage.”
Charlotte’s slow, blinking reaction is more restrained than I expected. She pulls a cigarette case from her pocket, sniffing as a tear slides down the edge of her nose. The flame trembles as she lights a cigarette with a flick of her thumb. “Guess you were right, then,” she says.
“About what?”
“You said that if we keep running, it’s who we are. Maybe we ran too long.”
My eyes drop to her Blood Ring, and I suddenly realize. “You joined Edmund’s entourage, too?”
“Not yet, but I’m about to.” Charlotte’s fingers brush the cut on her scalp.
“I already tried to keep my pride. Look where it got me.” She pauses, and a bitter laugh sticks in her throat.
“You can’t fight because you’re not allowed, Lore.
I can’t fight because I never learned. If Rosamund challenges me to a death duel, I’ll go down like a damn weed. ”
Charlotte grips my wrist, and the pressure aches with surrender. Still, I know there’s no judgment between us anymore. Neither of us wants this, but wanting has nothing to do with survival.
“Don’t forget what I told you about the spider, Lore,” Charlotte says, her tone turning severe. “We might be safe with Edmund for now, but she’ll find a way in. She always does. Rosamund doesn’t just want to be near Jack and Edmund—she wants to own them.”
“Why?” I ask. “We’re not dating them. All we need is protection.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Charlotte plants her elbows on the bar top and sighs wearily.
“In Rosamund’s head, just standing near them is stepping on her claim.
That woman would cut her own throat if she thought it would make Jack or Edmund look her way.
” Charlotte blows out a stream of smoke, then stares me dead in the eye.
“The minute you joined Edmund’s entourage, you declared war.
So, saber or not, get ready to fucking fight. ”
I nod, feeling a twinge of fear, until a flash of blue catches my eye.
I turn and spot Edmund leaning in the doorway, arms folded, a single loose curl falling across his forehead. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to.
He owes Charlotte, and he knows it.
I study his face, marred by a proud, angry scowl that burns with resentment for both of us.
But I don’t care.
It’s the face of our freedom.