CHAPTER 30
The repentant soul bears a thirst that, if denied the waters of forgiveness, will instead drink poison.
—VINCENT LEE
When Harrison stops at the base of the staircase, the only sound in the drinking hall is the faint rattling of his scabbard against his hip.
Everyone is slack-jawed. Some fight back scowls, while others stiffen with envy.
To my right, students drop their heads as their expectations collapse.
To my left, a few grumble as they cough up money for their lost bets.
Behind me, a couple of them offer tight, forced smiles, as if second-guessing their earlier dismissals of Harrison and wishing they’d been kinder, so they’d have an in with him now.
I know we’re all thinking the same thing.
Harrison is only a third-year. A jump in rank like this shouldn’t be possible, even if he’s a skilled fencer and a top-scoring student.
The Grandmaster title demands years of experience and, more importantly, support from the majority of other Grandmasters.
I can’t help but wonder if Harrison’s Blue played a role.
She’s the first-year Grandmaster of the Blue Fraternity, with fingers in every pie.
If she wanted Harrison in this position, she could’ve easily persuaded the other Grandmasters to vote for him, no question.
And yet, he doesn’t carry the smug air of a backdoor hire. His posture is confident, his shoulders squared, his chin raised proudly. He absorbs the resentful whispers like a cool drag from a hot cigar.
The formalities proceed. A Pinkie steps in to oversee Harrison’s swearing-in, the recitation of our motto, and the toast to his good health. Applause fills the drinking hall after each part, but throughout it all, Harrison looks at me only once.
When our eyes meet, he shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the other. A flush rises in his neck, and his eyes dim with shame. He looks away.
I’m grateful when Charlotte squeezes my hand from behind.
She knows Harrison was forced to cut me off and that his Blue, Lily, forbade him from speaking to me.
But none of that prepares me for the weight of what I suddenly miss: slow mornings with Harrison and Vivian in the sunroom at Waldsten Mansion, our breakfasts stretching long past hot coffee and fresh croissants; afternoons riding through the forest, with the smell of dandelions in the air; starry nights in the garden, the three of us cramming onto the tree swing, laughing even as the ropes threatened to snap.
The memories pull me under so deeply that the meeting passes in fragments.
I drift back only when Harrison announces a duel between the two top-ranked first-year fencers, Jack Carroway and William Lee.
The winner, he tells them, will claim more than bragging rights; they’ll claim the honor of representing us in the Mensur, the formal duel between Fraternities. This year, we’re facing the Blues.
Charlotte and I join the students in forming a circle around the piste. As Jack and William draw their sabers and shift into en garde, Charlotte grips my wrist so tightly I’m sure the indentation of her fingers will still be there when I’m buried.
William fights well enough, but his swings are tainted by the same crippling anger I struggled with as a new fencer.
He’s smug when he’s ahead, but as soon as Jack gains the upper hand, he starts to unravel.
William’s feints grow sloppy, and his parries reckless, with frustration radiating off him like heat from a dying fire.
He snarls through his teeth, pushing harder and striking more wildly.
Throughout it all, Vincent watches from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyebrows angled down in disappointment.
Jack, meanwhile, moves with the same explosive speed of a perfect flèche.
His footwork is razor-sharp, his advance and retreat flawlessly measured, and his point control so precise that the blade feels like an extension of his will.
A long moment passes before I realize what’s different about him, why he looks like someone else entirely.
He’s sober.
For the first time, I see what Jack Carroway could be if he weren’t always as drunk as a fly in a moonshine still.
And it’s astonishing. Every parry-riposte and lightning-fast lunge speaks to a natural talent most fencers spend their lives chasing.
Watching him is like catching a glimpse of the man hidden behind the whiskey bottle.
Charlotte told me Jack drank when they were together, though never this heavily, and that the alcohol has dulled his personality so much she sometimes doesn’t recognize him.
It makes me wonder when he started drinking and what wound was deep enough to make him want to drown himself in whiskey every day since.
Charlotte watches closely as Jack drives William to the edge of the piste, exploiting every inch that William surrenders to his emotion.
Even from the side, I can see her eyes glistening, as if it’s taking everything in her not to cry.
The way she looks at Jack is like seeing a ghost, a shadow of someone she thought had been lost to her.
And the sight of it breaks my heart… for both of them.
Charlotte’s grip on my hand tightens as Jack executes a flawless feint, smooth disengage, and a thrust that slips straight through William’s guard.
Then she lets go, and blood rushes back into my wrist in sharp, needling bursts.
The room erupts in cheers and applause, but now that I know what Jack is capable of, the moment feels more tragic than anything else.
William stumbles back, his saber trembling in his grip, his face mottled with exertion and fury.
He turns, fueled by a surge of hot, aimless anger, and slams the saber against one of the marble columns, the blade gouging a jagged notch in the stone.
Vincent winces as if his brother had struck him.
A few people shake their heads; others mutter their disappointment under their breath.
William grits his teeth and drags a hand across his forehead, smearing sweat into an even uglier shine.
Beside him, Jack lowers his weapon slowly, almost warily, as if his own arm were a stranger when sober. Still, he manages a smile, his eyes bright and clear as he waits for the official call.
“Victory to Mr. Carroway,” Harrison announces, nodding at William to leave the piste.
William obeys, his fists clenched and his shoulders drawn tight. As he brushes past Vincent, his shame hangs between them like a body left to rot.
Harrison turns to Jack, places a firm hand on his shoulder, and makes it official. “Mr. Carroway will duel in the Mensur.”
The Greens roar with applause. Fists pound tables, and voices burst into the old drinking songs from our Fraternity’s beer-stained songbook.
Someone slams a glass down in time with the beat.
We step together and drape our arms over each other’s shoulders as we belt out the words, half-drunk on the moment even before the real drinking begins.
The meeting concludes with our Fraternity’s anthem. Harrison delivers the formal dismissal, and the students file out in a slow, satisfied exodus. I fall into line, hoping to slip away unnoticed, but Harrison stops me at the door.
“Miss Waldsten, a word.”
I glance over my shoulder, the question written on my face. I thought we weren’t supposed to talk. Lily made it clear that Harrison was to cut all ties. If he wants to stay in her entourage, I can’t be part of his life at Grandmaster.
“Miss Waldsten, please,” he says again.
A few heads turn, curiosity glinting in the eyes of the last stragglers. No one is asked to stay unless they’re about to be reprimanded. And Harrison and I aren’t supposed to acknowledge each other at all.
Still, I double back.
Harrison stands tall, his hands neatly clasped at the small of his back.
The brim of his cap casts a shadow over his face, making him look stern.
But up close, the illusion falls apart. He’s thinner, with cheekbones that are too sharp and hollows that seem deeper than I remember.
A slight twitch distorts his left eye, and his skin, once sun-warmed, now appears drained to a sallow pallor, as if he hasn’t eaten properly in weeks.
What disturbs me most is the bruise on his wrist, the distinct imprint of four fingers pressed into the skin.
“Harry, are you okay?” I ask softly.
He clears his throat and pulls his sleeve down to cover the bruise. “I’m the one who should be asking you that.”
“Yes, I’m fine. But you don’t look—”
“I’m sorry for leaving you,” Harrison cuts in, his voice heavy. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just want you to know I hate myself for it.”
Had he said those words a few months ago, I’m sure my heart would’ve been harder.
Back then, I felt abandoned. But after everything—the low civil credit scares, the repeated narrow escapes from death, the ugly face of our world showing itself again and again—my anger has faded.
I look at Harrison now and realize we don’t need words.
It’s in his eyes and probably in mine, too. A single glance reveals the scars.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Harry,” I say quietly. “I get it now.”
“Then why don’t you look afraid?”
“I still am sometimes, but… well, Edmund’s good to me.” My eyes drop to Harrison’s bruised wrist, still hidden beneath his sleeve. “How does Lily treat you?”
Harrison’s fingers tighten behind his back. His posture is so stiff it looks like he’s balancing a knife between his shoulder blades, terrified of letting it fall.
“As well as I can expect from a Blue,” he replies at last, unfastening his scabbard. The saber clinks against the bartop as he lays it down, the gesture slow, as if he’s setting aside something far heavier than graphene.