CHAPTER 19
The irony of high-citizens having freedom is that most of us don’t know what to do with it.
—EDMUND PREW
The next day feels different, or maybe I’m the one who’s changed. It’s not that I woke up wanting to be friends with Edmund Prew, or that I’ve come around to the Blues and their system of rule. But what happened in the Tangerine Tree has changed things.
Now I owe Edmund. And whether I like it or not, I’m grateful he risked his life to protect me. At first, I was sure the wind blew wherever he walked. I thought all of this was a game to him, a low-stakes show of power in which he paraded me around.
But I realize I was wrong.
So I bite the bullet and start being nice to him.
I show up on time and greet him politely.
I follow a step behind without complaining, even if it means breaking the law and losing civil credits.
I sit through breakfast as Edmund, Jack, and Dickie fill the air with their rough, boyish laughter, ignoring Charlotte and me as if we’re nothing more than two extra slices in the bread basket.
The little things don’t matter anymore, so I let them slide.
At the same time, whenever I see Edmund’s proud, high-held face, I’m constantly reminded of my parents’ warning about the Prews.
I desperately want to ask Dad what he and Mom have against the Prew family, but I know that if I do, I’ll invite questions I can’t afford to answer.
Dad doesn’t know I’m part of Edmund’s entourage or that I spend nearly every waking hour by his side.
And if I can help it, he never will. I’d rather lie by omission than see him disappointed in me.
I dodge Dad’s calls until the end of the week, placating him with detailed text messages about how I’m doing, until he starts leaving voice messages tinged with suspicion that I’m avoiding him.
I know I shouldn’t wait much longer, especially since I want to ask him about Jack’s and Dickie’s blue bands.
So when Dad calls on Saturday night, while I’m taking my daily vitamins in the lavatory of my suite, I finally answer.
He’s home for the weekend. It’s a rare break from the relentless march of politics, a chance to spend time with Mom, Hillaire, and Vivian.
He’s in the library, seated on the tufted leather sofa where he usually enjoys a nightcap.
Mom dozes beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.
Even in sleep, her face is flawlessly made up.
If she woke up now, she could walk straight onto a stage.
Dad sits still with his glass of brandy, careful not to disturb her. His suit is washed to a shine, and his hair is slicked back with pomade, yet none of it hides the weariness in his eyes. The shadows beneath them speak of sleepless nights and the weight of decisions I’ll never fully understand.
“It’s nice to see you, Loredana,” he says. His voice is softer and warmer than usual, but what strikes me most is its calm.
It’s the kind of calm I haven’t heard since I was a child; back when Dad still laughed easily, still hummed under his breath while polishing his saxophone, still stole playful kisses from Mom when he thought my sisters and I weren’t looking; back when the burden of his responsibilities hadn’t dulled the spark in him that now lives only in the old family portraits lining our home’s walls.
Vivian, Hillaire, and I are to blame. As we grew older, edging toward the threshold of becoming Public People, we stole Dad’s calm.
None of us meant to.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” I reply, holding onto the image in front of me like a fragile photograph I don’t want to wrinkle. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, honey, today it is.” Dad flashes a faint smile that speaks for itself.
His intervention at the Bridge Banquet has given him more than a fifteen-minute flirtation with fame.
His polling numbers have risen enough to challenge President Reeve’s, and even the media is reporting on him favorably.
Some are already hinting he might be suited for something beyond a representative’s role.
“This isn’t just about Bliss anymore.” Dad’s eyes drift to the Blood Ring on his thumb, a small but constant reminder of our place. “We’ve got a real chance now to get justice… and maybe even more than that.”
My heart pounds wildly at the thought. He’s talking about rebalancing the scales, lifting ourselves from the floor to the table, where we’ll finally call our own shots. No more breathing secondhand air. No more eating shit and calling it caviar. True sovereignty.
But neither of us says it aloud. It feels like a delicate spell, one that might break or even curse us if we name it too soon.
“What about you?” Dad asks, taking a sip of his brandy. “Are things getting any better at Grandmaster?”
“With Irene out of the picture, yeah.” I carefully avoid his gaze. Questions about my safety are exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
I text him the photo I snapped of Dickie’s blue band on the Regal Express. “Do you know what this is?”
Dad frowns at the photo, then sits up quickly, making Mom stir against his shoulder. “Where did you—”
“I saw a student wearing it on the train when I first got here.”
Confusion crosses his face. He rubs his mouth, his eyes still fixed on the photo, and stays quiet so long I almost repeat the question. When he finally speaks, his tone is careful, as if he’s handling something sharp.
“Yeah, I know it. It’s called an Aegis. It started showing up around the time I was a student at Grandmaster. The Blues repurpose them from the Blood Rings of dead family members.”
“So, it’s not a high-citizen Blood Ring?”
“Not quite. It’s more of a low-citizen upgrade. It grants extra privileges and even boosts your civil credits. The Blues are cagey about the specifics, but it puts you above us and below them.”
That lines up with what I’ve seen. Jack and Dickie use their Aegises more often than Charlotte charges Gibson cocktails to my student tab. But the blue bands have their limits. There are still places Jack and Dickie can’t access unless Edmund steps in.
“Have you seen many Aegises in politics?”
Dad pauses. “Two. Maybe three.”
My eyes widen. “Three?”
“Yeah. Even that surprised me. Technically, any Blue with a dead relative can make one, but most don’t. They’d rather destroy the ring.”
I don’t need to ask why.
The call ends shortly after, and as I crawl into bed, my thoughts drift to Edmund, wondering why he didn’t destroy the rings.
I watch him closely over the next few days.
The way he moves with Jack and Dickie is like three parts of the same machine, held together by screws only they seem to feel.
Blues are supposed to hate low-citizens, seeing them as trash clogging the gutters, yet here Edmund is, breaking ranks for two of them.
It’s like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
And then there’s Dad, knee-deep in the same contradictions. He despises the Blues and makes no secret of his mistrust, yet he’s friends with President Reeve, one of their own.
Is that what love does? Does it blur the lines of your ideals and soften the edges of your principles, until even the most steadfast people become hypocrites?
I don’t know, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. And it makes me afraid of who I’ll fall for. Afraid of who I’ll love.
By Monday, nearly every student on campus has seen the video of Edmund’s death duel in the Tangerine Tree.
Everywhere I look, the footage is playing on bar and club screens, mirrored across Bond feeds, and whispered about in the first-year Lecture Hall corners.
The image of Edmund, blade pointed at the crowd of Blues, spreads like wildfire.
His mother, the Headmistress of Grandmaster, tries to contain it.
She bans the video from university networks, threatens consequences for anyone caught with a copy, and even enlists the campus Coppers to monitor for public discussion.
Headmistress Prew claims the ban is to protect the victims’ dignity, but I know the real reason.
Blues aren’t supposed to kill other Blues.
Dickie said Edmund paid a heap of money to both victims’ families as restitution.
Even so, the victims’ parents must be tearing Headmistress Prew limb from limb, demanding to know how the hell this happened under her watch.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re trying to have her removed as Headmistress.
That’s why she’s doing everything she can to hide the color of the blood her son spilled.
But it’s too late.
Everywhere we go, the campus reacts like cattle sensing an earthquake.
Low-citizen students scatter, shrinking back against walls and doorframes, rerouting to avoid us.
Conversations halt mid-sentence, and voices drop to whispers whenever we get too close.
Even the Blues, who once stared Edmund down at eye level, now glance a little lower.
With each passing day, I breathe easier.
I think less about my stolen energy shield and the looming threat of my vulnerability.
I stop obsessively refreshing the Copper directory online, searching for Sergeant Croft, and I stop walking past the campus Copper Headquarters, trying new strategies to get the information the officer at the front desk has repeatedly denied me.
“Privacy and security,” he always says. I don’t even bother anymore.
My mistrust of Coppers runs deeper now, but I don’t feel in danger.
For the first time since I arrived at Grandmaster University, I feel safe. It makes me realize something I thought I already knew but never truly understood. I never knew what freedom was until I joined Edmund’s entourage. His shadow stretches over all of us, yet in that shadow, I’m untouchable.
For now.