CHAPTER 38
There’s only one way to forgive. And when it’s done right, forgiveness is mercy, looking down on misery.
—brUCE WALDSTEN
Dad has called a few times, though he always carefully skirts the edges of his plans, never breaking the news that he’s planning to run for Governor of the Rainbow District.
It makes me wonder if he’s holding off for a reason, if he’s worried about how I’ll take it, and if he thinks I can’t handle another shovel of shit after everything this year has already thrown at me.
So I let Dad stall. I wait until he’s ready. When he finally tells me about his plans, I’ll have something to tell him, too: that I’m part of Edmund Prew’s entourage, and that I’m happy here.
At last, nearly a month after Hillaire broke the news, Dad is ready to tell me himself. I’m in my suite, rushing to change for my Fraternity meeting, halfway into my uniform, when the text pings across my Bond screen:
“Need to talk to you about something important, honey. Can we have a call? Saturday, maybe?”
Saturday? It’s only Monday. For a moment, I’m tempted to ask why not sooner, especially with Hillaire checking in every few days and her messages steadily growing more impatient, but I stop myself.
Dad isn’t going to take the news about Edmund well.
The more time I have before dropping that bomb, the better.
“Saturday works,” I text back.
I tug on my flat-top cap and head out with Jack and Charlotte into the velvet dusk.
The air is almost too warm for the hour as our hovercar powers down in the parking lot.
Ahead, the Green Fraternity glows against the deepening sky, its windows spilling golden rectangles onto the stone path.
We slip out of the hovercar and join the tide of students already gathered outside.
Everyone is talking about the Mensur. It’s the only topic of Fraternity night now, looming just weeks away and set to unfold right before the academic year closes.
Jack, Charlotte, and I linger on the front step, with Jack and Charlotte passing a cigarette between them. Then, from the balustrade above, a brassy trumpet rings out, halting all conversation. We fall into rows, boots striking crisply on the stone, and march inside.
A boot knocks the back of my heel as I walk.
I glance back and see William Lee behind me.
I quicken my step, but he knocks me again.
And again. The third time, I stop, ready to glare at him, but the look dies on my face when I see him clearly.
His skin, usually bronzed from polo on the beach, is ghostly pale, with dark hollows under his eyes.
His uniform hangs loosely, as if he’s shrunk inside it, and a handkerchief is crumpled in his fist.
“I apologize, Miss Waldsten,” William rasps, dabbing sweat from his brow.
I study him a moment longer, wondering if it’s the Mensur—if he’s bitter that Jack was chosen as our challenger instead of him—but the timing doesn’t track. That decision was made months ago.
“No harm, Mr. Lee,” I murmur, and fall back into line.
In the drinking hall, the piste has been replaced with rows of upholstered chairs.
Harrison stands in the far corner by the podium, his red hair tumbling against his neck like flames.
At first glance, he appears confident, every inch the Grandmaster.
But I know him too well. I see the twitch in his eye, the rapid tap of his fingers against the brass cap of his scabbard.
This is his first Mensur as our Grandmaster.
How he handles the duel will be stamped into his record, remembered by every Green student, and replayed in whispers long after the sabers are sheathed.
I wave to Harrison as I take my seat beside Jack and Charlotte, hoping to catch his eye and offer a supportive smile, but he doesn’t notice me. Instead, he turns and walks toward Vincent Lee, who’s already broken into the beer and has nearly drained his first glass.
When Harrison reaches Vincent’s side, he removes his cap and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, still keyed up as he speaks.
Vincent leans in and responds, then grins—a flash of white beneath his dark mustache—and offers Harrison the rest of the beer.
Vincent bumps Harrison’s shoulder as he does, easy and familiar, like he’s reminding him of how they used to drag each other home drunk from the riverbanks.
Harrison tips his head forward with a laugh, eyes crinkling, and the tension in his body loosens.
What the fuck?
The breath inside me shrinks to a thread. I shift in my seat, chest roiling as I choke on the sight. After everything Vincent did, after he was ready to challenge Harrison to a death duel, how can Harrison even look at him?
The two men keep talking, heads bent close, until the horn sounds overhead, signaling the start of the Fraternity meeting.
Only then do they part. Vincent bows, and Harrison claps him on the back in return, adding a touch of ceremony to the gesture.
Then he strides to the front and begins outlining the rules of this year’s Mensur.
But I don’t hear a word. The moment replays louder than his voice: the laugh and the shoulder bump, with forgiveness passed as if it cost nothing at all.
I shift again in my seat, eyes darting between Harrison and Vincent. Neither looks at me, but I can’t shake the feeling that they do. When my back is turned, I wonder if they trade glances, deciding I’m no longer the one who was wronged, just the one who refuses to let go.
I chew the inside of my cheek, bitterness crawling up my throat the way it always does when I see Vincent.
I know I’m still holding on, nursing the memory like it’s a fresh wound, while keeping it alive by ripping the scab open so I can feel justified in staying angry.
I blink stiffly and look down. My hands are knotted too tightly in my lap, the bones of my knuckles protruding beneath my skin.
What am I doing?
I used to believe people could change. I used to want them to.
So why is Harrison’s forgiveness so hard to watch?
I don’t know the answer, only that something ugly is stirring inside me, a fear that my anger is more about pride than principle, and that I’m confusing justice with a refusal to let go.
The thought sits in my head like something left to rot, spreading its mold through the rest of me. I stay still, even as Harrison’s voice carries on in the background.
Because suddenly I don’t feel righteous.
I feel small.
“—begin with a traditional coin flip to determine the presiding Grandmaster,” Harrison’s voice cuts through at last, catching my ears mid-sentence. “Depending on the outcome, either Miss Lily Burton of the first-year Blue Fraternity or I shall serve as referee for the Mensur.”
Several students nod, their backs stiffening under Harrison’s gaze. In the front row, a few boys lean toward each other, whispering bets. One of them winks and jerks his head toward the Green Fraternity crest hanging on the wall, as if to say the outcome is already decided. We’ll win. We have to.
“It is not only the conduct of the duelists that will be judged,” Harrison goes on, “but that of the witnesses as well. The reputation of our Fraternity is not borne by blades alone. It is carried in your composure and your restraint. Let your presence be worthy of your color.”
He squares his shoulders. “Now then. Who among you can remind us of the conduct expected of witnesses?”
A sturdy boy in the second row rises from his seat. “We, the witnesses, must keep our sabers sheathed from the moment we arrive at the Sailing Strip until we return to the Green Fraternity House,” he replies.
“Correct.” Harrison dips his chin. “And?”
He gestures to a short-haired girl in the third row.
“No disruptions are permitted during the duel, sir,” she says. “That includes clapping, cheering, or any audible display of support.”
“Indeed. But that is only half of it.”
Harrison scans the rows, then nods at Jack, who hands his cigarette to Charlotte and stands with sober confidence.
“No insults, sir. And not only the obvious ones.”
“Exactly,” Harrison says, beginning to pace, his boots striking the floor with a steady cadence.
“What Mr. Carroway refers to is subtlety. The sort of comment that is harmless, even traditional, among your own Fraternity, but becomes offensive when directed toward an opponent. Language, tone, even a glance—these things matter.”
He turns and points toward the fourth row. “Mr. Lee. Can you provide us with an example?”
William doesn’t rise. His hands stay fixed on his knees, fingers trembling against the fabric of his trousers.
He looks worse than he did on the way in, drawn and pale, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air.
A faint tremor runs through his shoulders, as if Harrison’s voice alone could break him in two.
“I do not know, sir,” William rasps.
Murmurs ripple around the edges of the room. Vincent turns in his seat, concern crossing his face as he studies his brother.
Harrison frowns, as if weighing whether William’s state stems from ignorance or something else, then turns and gestures toward the opposite row.
“Miss Deering.”
Charlotte tugs the hem of her trousers free from under Jack’s boot before rising.
“An example, sir, might be the phrase ‘Good health.’ Among fellow Fraternity members, it is a gesture of goodwill. However, when addressed to an opponent, it becomes an insult, implying that they require luck—or worse, that they will not last long.”
“Precisely.” Harrison lifts a finger. “Context, delivery, intent. In the Mensur, everything is measured. Nothing is accidental.”
He pauses and frowns at William again. The boy’s breathing has turned shallow, his knees knocking together in a dance of dread. He looks halfway gone already, as if his body is still here but his mind has fled, trying to outrun the blow.