CHAPTER 17
When I first met Edmund Prew, I felt as if our fates were meant to be intertwined. The feeling was so overwhelming, so undeniable, that I knew then he wasn’t a stranger.
—IRENE HUSSEY
Over the next few days, I limit the time I spend alone, knowing what awaits me in the silence: Irene’s voice in my ear, the cold edge of her threat as she tried to blackmail me into becoming her rat.
The violent recoil of her bullet as it ricocheted off the energy shield.
The sprint down the corridor and the scramble into the ceiling shaft, with the deathstalkers inches behind.
Worst of all, the student hanging from a noose over the Diamond floor, his lifeless form swinging as the Blues jeered below.
So I avoid my suite.
I stay out late until my body is so worn down that I crash the instant the door closes behind me.
Out here, in the public eye, there’s no room for tears, breakdowns, or nightmares.
Instead, I exist in the quiet space between, as if the world has exhaled, and I’m left drifting in the breath it left behind.
I’m quiet when I give my statement to the Coppers.
I’m quiet when I walk Mom and Dad through the attack over a video call.
I’m quiet when I sit through my lectures, working hard to expel the violent memories, locking them out with the thought that should’ve been my last before I thought I’d die.
The only hours I find reprieve are during gymnastics training, too exhausted by new floor routines to consider anything beyond exercise.
Or when I lock myself in my suite, with the curtains drawn, and practice with my dull fencing stick.
No one would understand how I feel, even if I tried to explain it.
No one except Hillaire.
I understand her now in ways I never did before. She’s stood here too, on the line between living and dying.
Three years ago, Vivian and I convinced Hillaire to take a boat out on the river with us during a storm.
The river is always choppy, but it’s even wilder in a storm, with foam-tipped water rushing down from the mountains past Waldsten Mansion.
Hillaire didn’t want to go with us; she hates risk.
Every decision must be carefully planned, and every activity scheduled and logged in her daily routine.
But Vivian and I begged, laughed, and teased until she finally gave in.
The river was brutal, its cold, angry waves rocking our boat as if in warning.
Currents twisted beneath like unseen hands trying to snatch us.
We hadn’t been out five minutes when a wave struck our boat broadside, flipping the hull.
Vivian and I surfaced, coughing and shivering, clawing our way to the dock. But Hillaire… she was nowhere.
We screamed her name as we searched, our voices swallowed by the storm. Terrified, we called our Pinkies, then Dad and Mom, then the Coppers. They organized a search party. Vivian and I stayed rooted at the dock, shivering and sick with guilt. We thought we’d killed our sister.
An hour later, the Coppers found her. She was a mile downstream, not far from our tree fort in the forest, trudging along the shoreline.
Her body was caked in mud, her clothes torn, and her face stiff with shock, as if she’d seen something horrifying beneath the water.
Hillaire was cradling her arm, which was wrapped in a bloody tourniquet made from a scrap of her pants.
Her hand was gone.
Only a jagged, bloodied stump remained.
To this day, we still don’t know how she lost it. She never told us what happened, even when Vivian and I begged her to explain. Her behavior didn’t change, at least on the surface. She was the same Hillaire in almost every way.
Except for one.
She never took a risk again.
THE DAY DEMOCRACY STOOD STILL
By the Tattler, Tattletale
Grandmaster University, October 1st
Some call the assassination attempt on our great and glorious President Theodore Reeve a “Blue conspiracy.” Others prefer the dramatic flair of “a foiled coup.” But let us not mince words.
The fateful night of September 27th was far more than political treachery.
It was THE DAY DEMOCRACY STOOD STILL. A day when twenty-eight high-citizens, paragons of privilege and propriety, chose betrayal over duty, aiming to remake the law in their image and for their own gain. Shocking, is it not?
Yesterday, fresh from his discharge at Pembroke Hospital, President Reeve returned to the Golden Gate Manor to a thunderous show of support.
The silence among his peers, once deafening, has given way to a chorus of contrition.
The high-citizens who stood idle are now rallying around President Reeve, granting him the mandate to deliver justice.
Twenty-six Blues are under house arrest, awaiting trial for crimes that defy comprehension.
Let us outline the specifics. Two Blues are charged with the brazen attempt on President Reeve’s life.
Six face allegations of murdering two low-citizen representatives who supported the Bliss Prohibition Act.
Eight more are accused of snuffing out the promising lives of three Grandmaster University students, and ten stand accused of attempting to do the same to three other students. Grim math, indeed.
The Civilized World watches now with bated breath, for if convicted, these high-citizens will face the ultimate sentence: public execution.
The guillotine, long reserved for the lowest among us, is poised to claim its first high-citizen heads.
History waits. Justice looms. And you can trust the Tattler to keep you informed every step of the way.
I close the Tattletale article, my eyes dry from staring too long. The words don’t feel real. They read like a cruel joke, as if the page will dissolve into mocking laughter and be replaced by a giant middle finger.
I move to the window of my suite and crack it open enough to let the birdsong drift in from the gardens below.
The melody flutters, light and carefree, as if in ridicule of the crushing weight that hangs over the campus.
Outside, the morning sun burns sharply; its rays cut clean through the cloudless sky, so bright they bleach the Guillotine Yard and reduce it to a hazy blur.
For the first time, the guillotine doesn’t feel like a threat.
At least, not to me.
Justice. The word feels like a stranger in my mind.
It’s something low-citizens like me aren’t supposed to rely on, let alone believe in.
All my life, the rules were fixed: Blues stood high, the rest of us low.
And that was that. No exceptions or possibilities of change, just thirsty, wilting dreams.
But now, everything seems different. Loyalties have shifted. Power has changed hands. Goals that once seemed unshakable have crumbled in days. The entire political landscape has been turned on its head, and every step feels precarious, teetering between victory and defeat.
And yet, for the first time, I feel a flicker of hope. I can’t help but reach for it, clinging to the thought that maybe the days ahead could bring something new. Something good.
“Miss Waldsten. Mr. Prew’s vehicle has arrived to collect you.”
I glance up to see a Pinkie standing in the doorway. It’s designed to resemble a young man, with slicked-back dark hair and a pencil mustache. Going from six Pinkies to only one feels like a steep drop, but as long as I remain in Edmund’s entourage, it’s enough.
I grab my bag and head down to the lobby of the Green Dormitory.
The butterfly doors glide open, revealing a campus bustling with the usual morning rush before class.
Holographic jazz bands blast brassy tunes from the street corners, while drones drift merrily overhead, displaying class schedules and the fastest routes to the Lecture Halls.
Yet the liveliness clashes with the students’ unsettled mood.
They huddle in groups as I walk past, their whispers cycling through the same shocking list: the Speakeasy murders, the assassination attempt on President Reeve, the fallout, and the high-citizen arrests.
Like me, nobody can quite grasp it. But beneath the disbelief, a current runs through all of us, a terrifying yet hopeful possibility that the Blues might soon learn what it means to bleed.
Edmund’s hovercar idles at the curb. It’s larger and flashier than the one I rode in at the Speakeasy, luxurious from the ornamental grille to taillights. No doubt he has a private garage tucked away somewhere on campus, filled with vehicles like this, each customized to suit a particular whim.
As I approach, Jack’s and Charlotte’s muffled voices seep through the hovercar’s tinted windows. Their fiery tones cut through the jazz music from across the street. I hesitate, hand hovering over the door handle. Edmund doesn’t tolerate lateness, but stepping into the middle of this feels wrong.
“I was never the one for you, darling,” Jack says, his voice eerily matter-of-fact. “I see that now.”
“Don’t do that, Jack,” Charlotte snaps. “Don’t cheapen what we had. Yes, I screwed up. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Yes, it does,” he interrupts. “Because you can’t ruin something that’s meant for you.”
The tension between them is suffocating even from outside the hovercar. But I can’t wait any longer. Forcing a smile, I climb inside and greet them as if I hadn’t heard a thing.
They both nod quickly, then retreat into their corners of silence. Jack sits stiffly, his legs planted like a braced bull, and lets out an irritated sigh. He pulls out a cigarette case, shakes it, and frowns when he realizes it’s empty.