CHAPTER 23
History is a sacred inheritance, passed down to remind us of the duty we owe to the nation we love so dearly.
—PROFESSOR RUDOLPH YATES,
GRANDMASTER UNIVERSITY FACULTY
Guilt weighs on me like a heavy, damp towel until Friday.
It’s the day before Edmund’s birthday, and Vivian is still ignoring my calls and leaving my texts unanswered.
I feel bad for shutting her down, especially since she was willing to part with one of her Vanguard badges.
To some people, the Hellion is worth at least three times what Coquette is.
Still… I can’t do it.
I can’t give up the dress.
At the first-year Lecture Hall, Charlotte, Jack, Dickie, and I head to Civilized World History on our own.
Walking through the parking lot without Edmund feels strange.
I’m surprised to realize I’m uncomfortable, even a little anxious, the way Charlotte must’ve felt the one time she tried to quit smoking.
According to Dickie, Edmund is missing our first lecture because Irene’s lawyer arranged a visit.
They usually meet twice a month in Edmund’s suite, with Coppers closely supervising their conversations.
Wind tugs at the fur collar of my coat as we climb the steps to the first-year Lecture Hall.
The building looms ahead, its portico cleared of ice and snow.
Students move through the corridors in waves, some lounging by columns and doorways, their laughter echoing off the marble.
Someone calls my name, and a few students toss me practiced, shiny smiles that I return out of habit.
“You’ve almost got as many admirers as I do,” Dickie muses, nudging his Pinkie chaperone to keep up with us.
The robot stumbles forward, arms overloaded with Dickie’s daily excess: a steaming hot chocolate, three snack boxes, and a backpack embroidered with his family crest.
“Perhaps,” I say. “I think I would rather have friends.”
Dickie shrugs. “Too many friends can cost you, broad. If not money, then time.” He rubs his Aegis like it’s a nervous habit or a victory lap. At this point, he lives to show it off. “Even as a man with many admirers, I don’t have many friends. Just Ed and Jack.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You do not consider me your friend?”
Dickie thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because friendship takes trust. And trust takes time, broad. No such thing as instant love.”
His tone is casual, but there’s an honesty to it that makes me pause. He’s not wrong. It took more than a year for Charlotte to become my best friend. True love—true friendship—develops slowly over time, like sediment. And when it breaks, it shatters unevenly, in a jagged, splintered mess.
Charlotte and Jack are proof of that.
They walk a few paces ahead, their shoulders stiff with the awkward civility that settles in after a war.
They’re talking about birthday gifts for Edmund, at least on the surface.
Jack keeps his hands in his pockets, head down, barely looking at Charlotte.
When he does, his glances are quick and involuntary, as if he’s trying to convince himself he’s over her and not quite succeeding.
Charlotte’s hair, thanks to regrowth cream, has grown into a soft pixie cut with curly layers framing her face.
A silk scarf wraps around her head, and pearls drape from her ears and down her neck.
Her lips are painted as brightly as an alarm.
The look is new, bolder and more glamorous, but I’m getting used to it.
Even her new face doesn’t surprise me anymore. The sharp cheekbones, reshaped nose, and eerie symmetry all begin to fade into the version of her I once knew. It’s as if this polished, reconstructed version of her has been the real one all along.
“No. I still have not purchased Mr. Prew a gift,” Charlotte says to Jack, her words carefully formal as they weave through the corridor. “The issue is that I already spent my monthly student allowance from my father.”
Jack glances at her sidelong. “How’d you manage that?”
“Being a woman is expensive. Being a beautiful woman is priceless.” Charlotte twirls a ringlet around her finger. “Might you consider… assisting me?”
“How much?”
“Five.”
“Hundred?”
“Thousand.”
Jack whistles. “Steep ask, darling.”
“Indeed. There are several vital expenses I need to cover. I shall repay you, of course.”
Jack tips down his tortoiseshell sunglasses, peering at her over the top. A beat passes, then he sighs. “All right. Remind me after class.”
“I shall. Thank you, Mr. Carroway.”
Charlotte curtsies gracefully, then slips through the lecture room doors, leaving a faint trail of black orchid perfume.
Seeing Jack and Charlotte treat each other so politely is strange, especially since it’s clear neither is saying what they truly think. Their politeness feels like a thin strip of tape stretched over something broken.
I turn to Dickie, lowering my voice as we enter the lecture room. “Jack and Charlotte… you are not aware of what happened between them, are you?”
“Nah. I was at the Royce Club with them, but I missed the drama.” Dickie squints and strokes his chin, as if he’s as curious as I am.
“Jack doesn’t talk about their breakup, not even when he’s a whiskey bottle deep.
All I know is that before he and Lady Charlotte walked into the Royce Club, they were wrapped up in each other.
And when they walked out, they weren’t.”
“And Edmund?”
Dickie puffs out his cheeks and sighs. “Same story. As soon as Lady Charlotte’s name comes up, he gets dark-eyed and changes the subject.”
“But they were friends?”
“Friends?” Dickie huffs a laugh. “They were way more than that, broad. They were like stink on a skunk. Ed used to light up whenever Lady Charlotte walked into a room. He’s got three Aegises, you know—well, he had three.
He gave one to his big brother for his entourage.
But if Ed and Lady Charlotte hadn’t fallen out, I think he would’ve given it to her instead. ”
I try to keep my expression neutral, but my thoughts are spiraling. Charlotte tore into Edmund on Harrison’s jet and called all the Blues spiders. The only time she admitted she and Edmund were friends was in the lavatory on the Regal Express, and even then, it was an offhand comment.
I wonder if Charlotte is ashamed.
She told me it was her fault that things went sour between her, Edmund, and Jack. Maybe that’s why she’s rewriting history. If she admits they were truly close, the betrayal becomes uglier, the kind that haunts.
Now, I’m even more curious about what she did. What the hell could’ve happened during a single visit to a private resort that destroyed everything?
“May I ask you something else?” I ask Dickie as we step into an elevator and ride it to the fourth level of the lecture room.
“Depends on what it is,” Dickie says, polishing his Aegis on the embroidered cuff of his suit. “Depends on what it’s gonna cost me.”
“It concerns Mr. Prew’s grandfather. Does he share the opinion that his grandfather abandoned his unit before he was killed?”
Dickie scratches his nose, eyes narrowing. “Now why d’you wanna know that?”
“No particular reason. I only heard the story recently and wondered about Mr. Prew’s opinion on the matter.”
“’Course Ed doesn’t think his grandfather turned tail and ran.” Dickie snorts. “The Hellion was a hero. Only people who wanna trash his legacy say otherwise.”
I nod and drop the subject.
Dickie and I exit the elevator on the fourth level, reserved for Blues and their entourages.
At first, the luxury of the private booths overwhelmed me.
Now, the only thing that surprises me is the Blues themselves.
They’re all irritatingly diligent, even though their paths are already paved in gold.
Their blood color opens doors faster than any degree or qualification, and yet they still seem to care enough to work for it.
I don’t like it. And I’m not even sure why. Maybe because it’s easier to hate Blues if they have no redeeming qualities.
I keep my head down as I follow Jack and Charlotte toward Edmund’s private booth. At the entrance, Charlotte stops abruptly and lets out a half-strangled gasp. I pull up behind her and peer over her shoulder, seeing a Prew leaning against the balcony railing inside.
It’s not Edmund.
Rosamund pretends not to notice us at first. She slips off her T-strap heels, lifts her chin with the poise of a stage swan, and works through a series of pointe and flex exercises with her foot.
Her dark perfumed hair bounces against the curve of her back, and her dress, made of satin-silk so delicate it’s nearly transparent, clings to her figure like sweat.
A small brown monkey scampers along the railing of the private booth, pausing occasionally to take a drag from the cigarette between her fingers.
Rosamund sets her hands on the railing and, as she lowers into a deep plié, her eyes meet Jack’s. Her smile lights up her entire face.
“Good day, Mr. Carroway,” Rosamund says.
“Hey, darling.”
Jack’s lips brush her hand in a practiced motion, like a ritual he’s performed a hundred times.
Dickie follows suit, while Charlotte offers only a brittle smile.
Her eyes dart to me, dark and cautionary, as if reiterating her warning: Enjoy the time you’ve got without the spider.
Once she shows up, you’re never getting this kind of peace back.
“Mr. Carroway,” Rosamund says. “Might you be so kind as to introduce me to Miss Waldsten?”
Jack glances at me for permission. I curl my fingers, bracing for what feels like a trap I can’t yet fully see, then give a quick nod.