CHAPTER 26
It’s more dangerous for a high-citizen and a low-citizen to fall in love with their differences than to believe no differences exist at all.
—CRISPIN ROTH, GENETIC ENGINEER
By the time Charlotte and I reach the Tangerine Tree, the parking lot is gridlocked.
Luxury hovercars with custom finishes in glossy chrome, midnight lacquer, and soft pearl are packed together, and valets rush to park them in neat rows.
Even the private docking bays are full. I’ve never seen so much traffic here.
Word must’ve gotten out. Today, everyone wants to be where Edmund and Rosamund are.
Charlotte and I trudge across the icy lot toward the entrance, carrying our gifts. Mine: the Hellion’s badge. Hers: my gold-plated pocket watch chain. While the chain isn’t worth much, it’s all I have, besides a half-eaten chocolate bar left in the backseat by Dickie.
At the door, a Pinkie checks our entourage badges, then waves us in. The cafe is a burst of electric blue marble, with geometrically ridged pillars and gold-potted tangerine trees between the tables. But beneath the aroma of espresso and orange zest, the air reeks of impatience.
A long line winds through the cafe, starting at Edmund’s private booth and spilling into the snow.
Unlike at the Blue Dormitory, this isn’t a queue of Pinkies.
These are high-citizens draped in winter coats of cashmere and silver fox fur, their shoes polished to a mirror shine, their arms cradling gifts wrapped in indigo and silver.
The high-citizens’ eyes track Charlotte and me as we pass, their glares biting into us like teeth.
Two low-citizens cutting the line, walking straight to Edmund’s private booth.
They look at us like dogs going to sit at our master’s feet.
But I let their stares roll off me. They’re not better than me.
If anything, since the Tangerine Tree duel, Edmund has been their master, too.
At the private booth, the doors are closed.
A Pinkie steps forward and announces that Edmund is taking a brief pause from receiving visitors to eat and that no one is to wait on his account.
“Mr. Prew requests that all guests join him for breakfast instead,” the robot says.
“He has arranged for the meal to be complimentary. He will greet each of you personally once he is finished.”
The tension in the line eases at once. Conversations resume. Coats are unbuttoned. The high-citizens, unaccustomed to waiting for anything, move toward the cafe’s tables, smiles breaking across their faces as they sit and eat.
Charlotte and I enter Edmund’s private booth, and as the cafe’s noise fades, I realize we’re the last to arrive.
The boys are already sprawled on a cerulean velvet couch, dressed to the nines.
Their bow ties are anchored by gold stick pins, and their suits, though distinct, harmonize in richness.
Dickie’s is burnt orange and custom-woven; Jack’s is a forest green three-piece with a velvet lapel; Edmund’s is a midnight blue tailcoat, dark as water under moonlight.
Their pocket squares, each a shade lighter than their ties, tuck neatly into place.
Black onyx cufflinks glint at Edmund’s wrists, while Jack’s oxblood shoes show just enough wear to suggest regular use.
Beneath Dickie’s cuff, a vintage watch gleams, its polished face like a constellation under glass.
Even Jack’s hair, for once, is slicked obediently into place.
They’re like a portrait that shouldn’t exist, colors that shouldn’t mix, yet somehow, impossibly, they do.
When Edmund notices us, he throws down his napkin, rises quickly from the couch, and bows.
“Happy birthday,” I say. “Snow on your birthday’s meant to be a lucky sign, you know.”
He glances out a nearby window toward the hovercar-filled lot. “It’s not snowing.”
“It will.”
“The weather report says it won’t.”
“They’ve been wrong before.”
Edmund tilts his head, intrigued. “All right, Miss Waldsten. If it snows, I owe you a drink. If it doesn’t, you owe me two.”
I smile. “Fine by me.”
He gestures for Charlotte and me to sit.
As we move toward the table, his eyes flick over my hair, almost too quickly to notice.
My Pinkie styled it up today in a sleek rolled tuck.
The way Edmund looks at my bare neck makes me self-conscious, and a warm flush spreads to my cheeks.
I don’t usually wear my hair this way. Maybe that’s why he’s staring.
When Charlotte and I settle onto the couch, Jack glances up from his breakfast and gives us a quick once-over.
His distant, hazy eyes linger on Charlotte a little longer than on me before drifting away.
In that moment, I feel the sharp edge of the pain I’ve seen on his face so often. And finally, I understand it.
Dickie tips an imaginary hat in greeting, then resumes his conversation with Edmund, his hands gesturing wildly as he recounts the Ranger spur Edmund missed due to his meeting with Irene.
“The spur was brutal,” Dickie declares, snapping his fingers at a Pinkie and ordering chocolate crepes. “Not as advanced as our tech, of course, but still a real weapon of war.”
Edmund sets his forearms on the table, his face lit with curiosity. “Wycliffe said there’s still blood on the rowel.”
“Yep. Red blood.” Dickie grins. “As a thoughtful man, I snapped a picture for you.” He activates his Bond, flips through the camera roll, then freezes. His eyes bug out. “What the devil? It’s spoiled.”
“Yeah, because photographing the spur isn’t allowed,” Jack says.
He picks up a whiskey bottle, adds a splash to his coffee, then, as if deciding he doesn’t want to get drunk on Edmund’s birthday, pushes the cup away.
“The display box has an onboard AI. It detects cameras and triggers a distortion field.”
Dickie’s head snaps toward Jack. “No photos? Why the devil not?”
“Because if images of the spur are online, people will stop lining up to see it.”
Edmund spears a poached pear with his fork, his eyebrows slanting downward as he leans back against the couch.
He loosens his bow tie with his thumb, disappointment flashing across his face before he smooths it away.
The depth of his feeling surprises me. I never thought of him as someone who cared about the Rangers.
A buzz vibrates in my ears. I check the name blinking on my Bond screen, and my heart skips a beat. Vivian. After ignoring me for days, there’s only one reason she’d be calling now. Coquette must’ve arrived.
I’m eager to see her reaction, but I know that if I answer now, she could catch a glimpse of Edmund in my feed. Instead, I text, “Can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back.”
Charlotte and I both order small meals, so we can eat fast and get out before Edmund resumes accepting visitors. Halfway through the meal, Dickie hauls a bulky package onto the table and slides it toward Edmund.
“Stop feasting your belly and feast your eyes.”
Edmund sets his knife and fork parallel at five o’clock on his plate, a cue for a Pinkie to clear it. As a robot whisks it away, Dickie inches closer to the package, vibrating with excitement, like he might rip the paper open himself if Edmund doesn’t move fast enough.
When Edmund finally does, I see why. The gift is a custom riding outfit, straight from Lemon’s workshop: leather breeches, a tailored vest, a riding hat, a crop, and boots. Dickie’s parents must be loaded.
“I used the measurements Lemon’s got on file. Should fit like a glove,” Dickie says.
Edmund smirks as he runs his thumb along the saddle stitching. “Hopefully not everywhere.”
Dickie huffs a laugh. “Don’t worry. Asked for a glove fit up top and a mercy fit below.” He leans back, arms hooked behind his head, and throws us a wink, as if daring us to top him.
Charlotte slides her gift across the table like a pool cue shot, her eyes fixed on the floor. She looks like she wants the moment over before it’s even begun.
Edmund seems to feel the same. He unwraps the gift without ceremony, gives the gold pocket watch chain a brief glance, then offers Charlotte a curt nod before handing it to a waiting Pinkie.
Jack is the only one who really notices. His eyes follow the chain, then cut sideways to Charlotte, as if he knows exactly how much it cost and wonders what the hell happened to the rest of the money he lent her.
“Happy birthday, Ed,” Jack says, tossing him a small velvet pouch.
Edmund catches the pouch and upends it over the table. Out falls a battered, dull tin spoon, bent slightly at the neck.
For a moment, he stares at the spoon, blinking slowly. Then recognition sparks, and he bursts into a loud, deep-chested laugh that knocks off the walls. The sound pulls Jack and Dickie into it until all three are doubled over, heads thrown back, shoulders clutched, red-faced and breathless.
I glance at Charlotte, silently asking what the spoon means. She arches an eyebrow, shrugs, and lights a cigarette.
I pull my gift from my purse, neatly wrapped in black-and-gold paper. I wait until the boys stop choking on their laughter and settle back into themselves before I place the small box in front of Edmund.
He looks down, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. When he notices the gift, my pulse slows. Anticipation builds like water rising behind a door. I want the badge to mean as much to him as Coquette meant to me.
Edmund dips his chin politely, but just as he reaches to open the gift, the door slams open with a bang so loud that Charlotte jumps in her seat.
“What the fu—”
Charlotte cuts off as Rosamund sweeps in, her monkey perched on her shoulder and a mountain of parcels balanced on her hip. Her perfume rolls in first, heavy with peony, and her lynx fur coat trails so far behind her that two Pinkies have to carry the hem.