CHAPTER 27
I regard trust as one regards an infant—precious to protect, fragile to hold—for it is so difficult to earn and so easily lost.
—SCARLET DU PONT, JAZZ SINGER
I sit in my hovercar, watching snow drift across the windshield like pale winter petals, whispering softly against the glass.
The world outside is serene and still. Inside, all I hear is the uneven draw of my breath and the whir of the hovercar’s power core.
I’m still replaying Edmund’s and my conversation in the parking lot, where for once there wasn’t a white-knuckled tug-of-war or a barbed insult buried in his words.
He spoke to me the way he speaks to Jack and Dickie, like a friend.
Now I feel as torn as Edmund always looks. We’re not the same. We never will be. There are lines I can’t cross for him, and lines he’ll never cross for me. So what am I doing? Why do I care?
I drop my forehead against the control stick and squeeze my eyes shut. Meltwater drips from my hair onto my dress, already soaked by the snow, stained with dirt, torn by the high-citizens.
Dad warned me never to trust Blues, especially the Prews. But Dad never met Edmund. Only Charlotte did. Only she called him a friend, which means only she really knows.
The hovercar door opens, letting in a gust of cold air. Charlotte leans in, her mouth half-open as if about to speak, then her lips close. Her eyes sweep over me, taking in the torn dress, the grime, my damp hair, and my head still pressed against the control stick.
“Lore?” she says softly, reaching toward me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Can I trust Edmund, Char? Or am I making a mistake?”
Charlotte flicks her cigarette butt into the snow and sighs. Then she climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door. The silence between us stretches like a shadow creeping across the dashboard.
Finally, she says, “Yeah. You can trust him. But…” She turns toward me, and the pain in her eyes deepens with memory.
“Don’t betray him, Lore. When he’s your friend, it’s good.
Better than good. But when he’s not…” She trails off, her gaze wandering to the windshield.
“It’s hell. He doesn’t know how to forgive. ”
I nod slowly, staring at the muddy tear in the hem of my dress, and say nothing.
Because I believe her.
Charlotte and I spend the rest of the day together, starting with ice skating at the indoor rink on campus, then dinner at a fancy fish restaurant with rooftop seating.
It’s one of the most exclusive low-citizen spots, where they verify that your civil credit score is at least four hundred before letting you in.
A glass dome seals the dining area, and through it we watch the campus lights wink dreamily through the fog as snow drifts around us.
In the evening, we hole up at our favorite tap dance club, Jolt & Jive.
Usually, it’s packed from wall to wall, the kind of place where you can disappear into a sweaty crowd under neon strobe lights.
But today, even the dance floor is empty.
Only a few students linger in the booths, their eyes lit by their Bonds as they stream live footage from Edmund’s and Rosamund’s party.
Charlotte and I keep our eyes off the feeds, but we can’t avoid the gossip.
Someone says Edmund made a grand entrance: Jack on a horse, charging through the snow, with Edmund skimming behind on a snowboard, the two of them tied together with a rope.
I’m no longer disappointed about missing out. Even if Edmund had changed his mind—if, at the very last second, he’d invited me—he still wouldn’t have gotten me through the door. His mother locked the guest list the moment it swelled past four thousand names.
So Charlotte and I make our own night.
We head to our usual booth, about to place an order, when a Pinkie walks over with two bottles of red wine.
“Compliments of a gentleman for Miss Waldsten,” it says.
“Gentleman?” Charlotte arches an eyebrow at me, amused. “Which one?”
“The gentleman requested to remain anonymous,” the Pinkie replies, then discreetly slips a note into my hand.
I unfold the note under the edge of the table, already suspecting who it’s from:
If you want a third bottle, I’ll bring it myself.
I smile and tuck the note into my pocket, out of Charlotte’s sight.
She pops the cork on one of the bottles with a snort. “Kinda defeats the purpose of sending wine if you don’t say who it’s from.”
I nod, pretending to agree as she pours the wine.
Somewhere between the second and third glasses, we leave the booth for the dance floor.
The band plays a jazz tune from the Shield War era, a lively rhythm full of fast runs.
We tap out the beat, laughing as we stumble through the steps, our shoes squealing across the floor.
Halfway through the song, two students ask us to dance.
Charlotte and I exchange a tipsy glance, then laugh and slide our hands into theirs.
My partner is a slender Purple with a face that could sell beauty cream, but as we tap across the floor, my thoughts keep straying to Edmund. I wonder if he’s dancing, too.
Charlotte and I dance until our hair sticks to our foreheads, our calves ache, and the only thing left to do is collapse back into our booth, breathless and spent, our laughter echoing off the empty walls.
Around midnight, we stumble back to my hovercar. I power it on with a swipe of my Blood Ring, and my Bond’s AI assistant chimes in: Blood alcohol content exceeds safe manual threshold. Switching to autonomous mode.
I giggle loudly. I’m not drunk, but I’ve reached that tipsy feeling where everything looks slightly tilted, and I catch myself staring too long at the condensation on the window or the pattern of lights along the dashboard, and it all feels important.
The dormitories should be quiet by now, especially on a Saturday night. Most students are still out, jammed shoulder to shoulder at Edmund’s party or at whichever club is hottest this week.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the Green Dormitory is a blaze of commotion.
As Charlotte and I arrive, blinding lights sweep across the building in jagged yellow streaks.
Large, armored vehicles block the entrance, some parked on the curbs, doors flung open, radios still barking.
Giant figures move through the chaos, their ribbed black-and-gold suits inlaid with brass, and their fierce, full-face helmets mirror-dark.
Serrated blades run down the spines of their high-polish boots, built for scaling walls, combat holds, and, when necessary, drawing blood.
The figures move in a tide of black. Some secure the entryways while others scale the walls on hoverboards. A team patrols the roof, weapons ready, their backs to the helicopter that roars overhead, its spotlight sweeping the courtyard in blinding arcs.
I immediately realize these officers aren’t Coppers.
They’re Brasscoats, the secret police formed to hunt Heretics.
Someone is getting arrested tonight.