CHAPTER 32 #3
“Well…” Dickie drawls, dragging the word out. “We’re waiting.”
The truth presses against my teeth. I want to let it out and finally stop hiding behind the helpless face I’ve learned to wear.
I’m tired of the stagecraft, of constantly measuring my words before I speak.
More importantly, Edmund, Jack, and Dickie have become more than just blood colors I’m forced to share my days with. I care about them. All of them.
I don’t want to lie to them anymore.
But I can’t tell him the truth, either.
So I reach for both.
“I’m sorry for lying, Edmund,” I say. “I didn’t know you back then, and I was embarrassed.”
His frown softens, though he doesn’t speak.
“I used to be good at fencing,” I continue. “But I had a temper, especially when I lost. It got so bad that I flamed out in a quarterfinal. I walked off the piste mid-match and made a whole scene. After that, I was too ashamed to go back, so I quit.”
Jack clears his throat and shoots a look at Edmund, who’s staring at the scar on my chin as if realizing he was right about it being my honor scar. For once, Dickie doesn’t laugh.
I sit there, calm on the surface.
But inside, everything goes numb.
I didn’t lie. Not fully. That first year, I burned too hot, too fast. And I did walk out of that quarterfinal duel.
But what I didn’t mention is that Dad followed me.
And he wasn’t gentle. He didn’t put a hand on my shoulder or soothe me with gentle words.
He shoved the saber back into my hands and said Waldstens don’t quit and that he’d rather raise a loser than a coward.
“You don’t have to win to earn respect, Loredana,” he told me.
“You just have to finish.” Then he added that if I didn’t get back out on the piste, he’d force me to take hoverboard ballet instead.
So I did. And I never regretted it.
Until now.
Jack steps closer, rubbing a hand along the side of his neck. “So, you’re another William Lee, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“I can help,” he says, then lifts a hand as if he doesn’t want to overstep. “If you want.”
I nod and shove down my guilt. “Thank you, Jack.”
Across the room, Dickie fidgets with his bowtie, his usual swagger dimmed. “Sorry, broad,” he says. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.”
“It’s all right, Dickie,” I assure him, but my voice feels distant, as if it’s echoing from another room.
I glance at Edmund. He’s by the gear cabinet, rummaging until he pulls a small box from behind a stack of chest guards. He checks inside, then walks back and presses it into my hand with a smile that makes it painfully clear he’s already forgiven me.
“Don’t quit,” he says. “And don’t be embarrassed. I once bit halfway through another fencer’s finger after he flipped me off.”
I force a small, stinging smile, but I don’t open the box. The weight of it feels wrong in my palm, too generous for something built on a half-truth. For a moment, I wish they’d laughed at me and mocked me until I was driven off in shame. That would’ve been easier than this.
“Thank you, Edmund,” I say quietly, hoping the words are enough to make him turn away.
Instead, he leans in, close enough that I catch the musk of his sweat. “You’re missing an earring.”
My fingers fly to my left ear. He’s right. Normally, I wouldn’t be bothered, but it was one of the teardrop diamonds Vivian gave me for my birthday last year. My mind retraces the day, through every room I entered and every hallway I walked. I’ve been pacing his suite like a ghost for hours.
Edmund checks the time on his Altimor again, then glances at Jack, who’s staring eagerly at a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the shelf as if it’s flirting with him.
“One more?”
Jack blinks, snapping out of his daze. “Yeah. Sure.”
I slip to the edge of the room and watch anxiously as Edmund and Jack walk onto the piste.
They offer each other a clean salute—blade to face, then down—before Edmund switches the saber from his right hand to his left.
They drop into stance, shoulders angled, lead knees bent, and rear heels grounded.
Jack takes a high line, sixth or close to it, his blade tilted above his shoulder.
Edmund lowers his guard and teases an opening down the middle.
He always does this, always invites the first move, turning the aggression to his advantage.
I brace, telling myself I can watch and that the duel will be nothing compared to the blood-drenched dreams of Charles. But at the same time, I can feel Charles’s ghost groaning beneath Edmund’s boots like a fuse waiting to ignite.
Then, just as Jack feints high and Edmund lunges to take the opening, the buzz of my Bond vibrates against my temples. I glance at the caller ID, already expecting Vivian’s name to appear. It’s usually her these days, calling to thank me again for Coquette. Vivian never forgets what you give her.
But it isn’t her.
It’s Hillaire.
She’s the only person in my family who never calls first and avoids conversation as if it prematurely ages her. Which means whatever she has to say can’t wait.