CHAPTER 19 #2
Slowly and cautiously, I edge past him. I use my free time to experience the university not as a battleground of threats and surveillance but as a place to enjoy as a normal student.
Together, Charlotte and I find rhythm in the campus’s routine and secrets in its corners, exploring every hotspot like we’re on a scavenger hunt.
We dance through underground clubs, speed along the coast in rented boats under violet skies, and sift through antique boutiques for treasures I usually end up mailing home to Mom and Vivian.
One afternoon, I snap a photo of the Genetic Engineering Facility—a massive brick-and-glass building glowing like a ship about to launch—and send it to Hillaire.
She prints the photo and frames it on her bedroom wall, as if it were art.
As the weather turns colder and the sidewalks pile with leaves, I send her virtual tours of campus, my voice floating over the crunch of my boots.
I try to keep up with Vivian, too. When I call, she mostly wants to talk about Harrison, so it’s easy to keep the spotlight off the information I want to hide.
Yes, Vivian knows about Irene’s attack. With all the media coverage of the Blue arrests, everyone in the Civilized World does.
But she doesn’t know a Copper tried to kill me or that another stole my energy shield.
And she definitely doesn’t know I made a deal with Edmund and joined his entourage.
Maybe Vivian wouldn’t judge me. Maybe she’d even understand. But I can’t tell her or Hillaire. If I do, I’ll have to admit that, yet again, I couldn’t make it on my own.
Most days, I’m either training, in class, or studying. I enjoy some of my classes, especially Political Theory how nothing is left to chance, from eye color to bone density to memory retention. It turns my DNA into a scoreboard, reminding me that some of us were sculpted for greatness, while the rest weren’t.
I won’t sit through a class like that. I won’t be in a room where a professor points to a gene sequence and says, “That’s why Edmund Prew can recite the law code from memory, and you have to study three weeks just to pass your Digital Rights & Cyber Law quiz.”
So I stay in Cloning Theory. I dig in and watch sacks of failed humanity twitch beneath bio-light panels, their organs shutting down one by one.
It’s still better than the alternative.
When Cloning Theory ends—always the last class of the day—I slip out fast, forgetting Professor Hollings’ nasal drone as I clock out of Edmund’s entourage and cruise across campus with Charlotte.
Lately, we’ve spent every evening together, filling the long twilight hours with conversations that carefully steer clear of our secrets, like landmines.
She doesn’t ask about the Blue I killed, and I don’t ask about her fallout with Edmund and Jack.
It’s a silent agreement, and for now, it works.
“Things have been pretty quiet,” I say one night as we cross a parking lot toward my hovercar.
We’ve just finished a climbing lesson at a popular campus gym and have already showered and dressed for a night out.
The evening wind cuts through my damp hair as I slide into the driver’s seat.
“Thought Rosamund would’ve paid us a visit by now. ”
“No. She’ll wait till the Tangerine Tree shitstorm dies down first.” Charlotte pulls off her cloche hat and runs a hand over her head.
With the regrowth cream, her hair is already thickening, faint sprouts pushing through her scalp like new grass.
“Right now, while everything’s fresh, Rosamund won’t touch us.
It was the same when I dated Jack. She waited till I’d settled in with Jack, Edmund, and Dickie enough to let my guard down. Then she went straight for my throat.”
I power on the hovercar and lift out of the parking lot, thinking that adds up.
Edmund has been on high alert since the death duel, watching me like I’m prey limping through a herd, sometimes even texting to check in.
He killed two of his own in a viral video, so everyone’s scared of him right now, but I doubt that includes Rosamund.
Once things settle and Edmund decides I’m safe, he’ll stop watching.
And maybe that’s what she’s waiting for.
Charlotte tugs her cloche hat back into place with a sigh. “Enough about the spider, Lore. If you want my advice, enjoy the time you’ve got without her. Once she shows up, you’re never getting this kind of peace back.”
There’s a shadow of sadness in Charlotte’s eyes as she speaks, as if she’s mourning something stolen from her. I know it wasn’t only Jack. It was a part of her youth, taken and twisted, filled with the kind of pain that seems to have aged her soul more than her body.
“All right,” I say softly. “Do you want to go tap dancing?”
Charlotte brightens. “Sure. A girl I met on the tram yesterday mentioned a good spot.”
The tap dance club is called Jolt & Jive, a low-citizen joint near the Moonshine Mile.
When we step inside, we’re swallowed by a kinetic fever dream of spirited jazz and sweating bodies, with students packed wall-to-wall on the floor.
Tap heels click in staccato bursts, sparking like fire with every beat.
Within moments, three men have already offered to buy Charlotte a drink.
But she dances with me instead. I’m sore from weeks of relentless training, but as soon as my body warms up, I slide back into my old rhythm.
When our feet blister inside our shoes, Charlotte and I rip them off and keep going barefoot.
We sip cheap wine from sticky glasses, spinning into a haze of dizzy laughter.
The lights blur. The hours vanish. And for the first time in years, it feels like the old days: Charlotte and me together again, a little older and a little more bruised, but happy.
At least, we pretend to be.
Two weeks later, on a chilly Sunday morning, a package arrives at my suite. I’m stretched out on a window seat in my salon, watching the news on my Bond, when my Pinkie enters and sets the box on the cushion beside me.
“Miss Waldsten, you have a delivery.”
“Please leave it here,” I murmur, still focused on my Bond, where the first high-citizen trial is streaming live.
The screen is split. On one side, it shows courtroom footage of the two Blues charged with capital treason for attempting to assassinate President Reeve.
On the other side, Benjamin Bogart’s hands dance gracefully as he reports the latest updates from the steps of the Hourglass Courthouse in Charleston City.
There’s a noticeable dip in his energy today. The usual sparkle in his handsome violet eyes is dulled, and his posture droops, as if he spent the whole night knocking back whiskey. It makes me wonder whether the tabloid rumors that Scarlet Du Pont dumped him are true.
Still, Bogart maintains his composure as he explains that the trial is in the evidentiary phase. He focuses primarily on the defense, describing in painstaking detail how they’re countering the prosecution’s case with “utmost tact and class.”
“The surveillance footage places two assailants at the scene,” Bogart says.
“However, only one assailant is clearly identifiable. Without a definitive identification of the second suspect, the evidence falls short of the burden of proof for a conclusive ruling. For now, the court considers it circumstantial.”
I grumble and press a pillow from the window seat behind my head.
I thought this case would be cut-and-dry, but over the past few days it’s been deflating like a balloon left in the sun.
A key witness, initially confident in her testimony, has now changed her story, probably because a Blue cornered her in a dark alley, shoved a gun to her head, and handed her a new script.
There are also allegations that the video has been tampered with.
“Deepfake manipulation,” the defense is calling it.
They’re also claiming the charges are political, accusing Reeve of targeting high-citizens who’ve criticized his administration.
If the two accused Blues were picked as scapegoats, this would be the clearest example yet of the law being twisted for political gain.
“Under the law,” Bogart continues, “no capital sentence may proceed without incontrovertible evidence. And we must not forget… this is not a trial of Heretics or low-citizens. Both of the accused are high, and that distinction carries immense weight.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter, swiping out of the livestream.
Heat rushes to my face as I sit up on the window seat.
There’s an anxious knot in my stomach that’s tightened with each day spent waiting for the verdict.
But as strung out as I am, I know it’s worse for Dad.
For low-citizen politicians like him, this trial is a reckoning.
A test to see whether justice truly means what it’s supposed to or whether it bows to blue blood.
If the prosecution prevails, the victory will signal a real change. But if the defense prevails and these two Blues walk free because of a legal loophole, it’ll confirm what we already know.
The law serves the lawmakers. Everyone else just survives it.
As I stand from the window seat, my eyes fall on the package still lying on the cushions.
Why is it unmarked? I pick it up, amused by the old-fashioned clasp, which looks like it was made to outlast fire.
Carefully, I unlatch the clasp, and something metallic glimmers beneath the wrapping. My shield.
I tear through the rest of the padding, fingers flying until they brush the edge of a note. It’s from Sergeant Croft, and his handwriting is stiff and angular, as if he wrestled each word onto the page.
Miss Waldsten,
Apologies for holding onto your shield so long.
I’ll admit I thought about keeping it—even selling it once or twice—but in the end, that old Copper oath to serve and protect won out.
If you ever need help, I’ve included my Bond number.
It’s my personal line, so if I don’t answer right away, I’m likely on duty or chasing someone who should know better.
Thank you again for what you did in the Speakeasy.
Lucky you’re so strong. And lucky I’ve been hitting the gym.
Stay virtuous,
Sgt. A. Croft
I place the note back in the box, warmth rising beneath my shock.
I hadn’t expected this. Then again, I hadn’t expected Sergeant Croft to keep the shield for so long.
I used to think I was good at reading people, but I’m starting to realize how flawed my first impressions can be. With Croft, I’m glad I got it wrong.
“Miss Waldsten,” my Pinkie calls from the doorway of my salon. “Mr. Prew has arrived to collect you.”
I turn to the window and glance out. On the street below, Edmund leans against his parked hovercar, one wingtip shoe planted on the curb.
Dickie and Jack flank him, their shoulders angled inward, the three of them huddled in conversation.
Two low-citizens spot the boys from half a block away and veer sharply, cutting across traffic, as if proximity to Edmund alone could tank their civil credits.
From the opposite direction, a group of high-citizens rounds the corner mid-laugh, then falls silent when they see Edmund.
They exchange uncertain glances until Edmund catches sight of them, lifts a hand in greeting, and waves the high-citizens over.
The hesitation dissolves as Edmund smiles, shakes their hands, and folds them into the conversation.
My fingers linger on the energy shield for a moment. Then I put it back in the box, close the lid, and walk out without it.