CHAPTER 35 #2
The next time Charlotte and I go to Jolt Edmund always meets mine directly, as if he’s afraid of missing something.
Each time I catch myself making these comparisons, I realize with growing certainty that this plan is having the opposite effect of what I intended.
Across the room, Charlotte catches my eye and gives me an exaggerated wink, teasing but plainly relieved that I’m finally stepping outside Edmund’s entourage.
I wish it were that simple.
I decide I won’t lead Andrés on. At the next break in our conversation, I thank him for the drink and tell him I need to leave.
When he asks for my Bond number, I refuse as gently as I can.
Then I leave Jolt they’re both off in Artificial Intelligence & Civil Order, probably drafting contingency plans for what to do if the AI decides it no longer wants to shine our shoes.
“Thought I was late,” Jack murmurs, dropping into the seat beside me. “Pity.”
“You are,” Edmund says. “But Fleming always shows up late on the days he plans to surprise us with a quiz.”
I never noticed this pattern. “You sound confident,” I tell Edmund.
“I am.”
“Confident enough to bet on it?”
He smiles, as if recalling the first time we made a bet and how it led us here. “Depends on the stakes.”
“If there is no quiz, you have to take Miss Deering and me to the Lotus Lounge tonight.”
“No chance, darling,” Jack cuts in. “They’re still sore at us.”
“More than sore,” Edmund says. “We’re banned for the rest of the year.”
I’m hardly surprised. They’re already banned from the Speakeasy and, according to Dickie, half the clubs on the Moonshine Mile. “How did that happen?”
Jack and Edmund trade a glance, half sheepish, half on the edge of laughter.
“Wouldn’t be gentlemanly to tell you that,” Edmund says. “You’ll have to pick someplace else.”
“All right, then. Let’s do something outside instead. Horse-riding.”
I suggest it mainly because it reminds me of home, of days spent riding with Mom and Vivian.
“Deal,” Edmund says. “But if there’s a quiz, you’re agreeing to a fencing spar with me.”
The enthusiasm in his expression crushes mine entirely. I want to say yes. More than anything, I wish I could lose myself in the rhythm of a fast, pulse-pounding duel with him.
“Perhaps in a few weeks,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
Edmund nods—a slow, measured dip of his chin—and for a moment, I wonder if he can see how much it hurts me to refuse.
“I can be patient when I have to,” he says.
The lecture room dims as Professor Fleming sweeps in, shedding his coat as if it offends him and tossing it to a waiting Pinkie.
He’s a broad, gritty Green with steely eyes that look like they’ve seen the inside of someone else and didn’t flinch.
His suits are always pressed to a blade’s edge, and he shaves so closely it’s a miracle he still has skin on his chin.
Fleming steps onto his floating lecture platform and guides it to the center of the room, towering over us with his arms crossed. He waits until the students fall silent before hurling the words pop quiz at us like a live grenade.
Edmund’s mouth curves into a self-satisfied smile.
“You win, then,” I murmur. “What do you want?”
His eyes drift to my mouth again, but this time it’s clear he’s not thinking about what he wants it to say. “I’ll tell you soon enough.”
I draw in a breath and turn to the quiz, my hand seizing up as I reach for the stylus.
When my fingers finally close around it, I force myself into the questions, working fast to steady the wild beat in my chest. As I write, I can almost feel Dad beside me, like he used to be on those late nights at home, curled up with me on the couch, talking politics as if I were old enough to understand the complexities of our world, while the news droned quietly in the background.
When I finish, I realize I’m one of the first. Jack, sitting to my left, chuckles to himself as he types. On my right, Edmund’s brow is furrowed, his fingers tapping the keypad of his tablet in sharp, clipped bursts, as if he’s racing a clock he resents.
It strikes me how differently the same quiz affects us. For me, it’s a doorway that keeps widening, each answer revealing more of the path ahead, and I want to follow it. For Edmund, it’s another wall closing in, another corner he’s being forced into.
The quiz eats up the entire period. When the bell rings and students begin shuffling toward the exit doors, Professor Fleming waves me over.
“Miss Waldsten,” he says, offering a cheery smile he reserves strictly for students who score well. “I wish to inform you that you are currently ranked third among the Greens in my class.”
“Truly, Professor?”
“Yes. You are not far behind the top two. Should you perform well on the final exam, you will be within reach of the academic award.”
I don’t know what to say. I knew I liked this class and that I was doing well, but not this well.
“I suppose it is to be expected, given who your father is.” Fleming rubs his jutting chin. “Have you considered a major in political theory?”
“Honestly, I have not decided on a major yet.”
He nods, as if he understands. “Between you and me, it is a decision worth taking one’s time to make.”
I smile, murmur my thanks, and excuse myself.
I leave in a daze, my bag dangling loosely from my wrist as I walk outside the lecture room and down the corridor, buzzing with students heading to their next classes.
I can’t stop wondering whether I’m doing this well because I want Dad to be proud, or because fencing is gone and I need something to fill the void. Or is it more than that?
Maybe I like it. Maybe I’m good at it.
I never gave myself the space to find out before. Fencing always came first.
The problem is, I’m not sure I have the instinct for leadership that Dad does.
I don’t walk into a room and command it with a glance or the tone of my voice.
I don’t have the stomach to smile through difficult decisions, and sometimes I wonder if I’m brave enough to stand in front of a thousand shouting people, all expressing their opinions, some even making threats, and still hold my ground.
The truth is… I don’t know.
On the way to my next class, my Bond buzzes with a message from Edmund. I stop outside the lecture room to read it, and when I see the link to the dress code for the stables on the Moonshine Mile, a smile breaks across my face.
“If I can’t get a spar, I’ll settle for a race. I’ll pick you up at seven.”