CHAPTER 39
Truth must breathe. Force it into the airless coffin of secrecy, and it will die, strangled inside you, only to return as a ghost that haunts eternally.
—THE TATTLER, TATTLETALE
I wake the next morning to a delivery of daffodils.
They spill from a crystal vase like sunlight slanting sideways in shades of white, yellow, and orange.
My Pinkie says the flowers were left outside my suite without a note, but I don’t need one to know William Lee sent them.
He probably asked Harrison what my favorite flowers are and told his Pinkie to handle the rest.
Still, curiosity gets the better of me, so I check the security footage outside my door.
It shows no Pinkie, but William himself, trailing behind Vincent.
Both brothers are wrapped in white bandages, their bodies flecked with dark welts and stitched-up cuts.
Vincent holds the vase in both hands, walking carefully, while William follows a step behind, fussing at him not to spill the water.
Vincent sets the vase in front of the door and adjusts it first to the right, then to the left.
William walks off, waving for him to follow, but Vincent lingers, his eyes still on the daffodils. With a focused squint, he crouches again and shifts the vase to a new angle, his fingers moving with care.
I glance at the daffodils, now on the side table in my salon. They should feel like a gift, but I can’t enjoy them. The flowers only remind me of last night, and I don’t want to be reminded.
I don’t regret helping William. It’s what I saw that’s lodged in my mind like a stray piece of shrapnel.
The images hit in waves as the day drags on.
I see the Coppers slam William’s head into the frame of a chair as I ride in Edmund’s hovercar to the first-year Lecture Hall.
I see the sergeant’s fist crack across Vincent’s face as the five of us sit through classes.
I see the brothers screaming, arms reaching for each other, as we eat lunch in the dining hall.
I can’t eat. Students bustle around our table, caught in their routines as if it’s just another day.
For them, it is. The campus hasn’t changed.
It still looks, smells, and sounds the same.
The marble floors still shine, and the sun-umbrellas still flutter on cafe patios, while drones sweep overhead, displaying class schedules right on cue.
Yet, I see the campus differently now. A tiny crack has appeared in the illusion, and through it, I see the campus the way I did when I first arrived, before I learned to listen for the applause instead of the screams that followed.
A hand gently brushes mine under the table, then closes around my fingertips.
I stir from my daze and glance up to see Edmund watching me.
He offers an encouraging smile, though it fades before it touches his eyes.
Where I expected relief in his expression—that Vincent, William, and I avoided disaster—I find worry instead, as if the disaster is still on its way.
I hold on to him, comforted by the steady warmth of his hand, even as I realize something is wrong.
But I don’t understand what until my last class of the day.
I’m walking into Political Theory & Governance, reading over an assignment I’m due to turn in, when an alert sounds from my Bond.
4:43 P.M.: FAILURE TO USE FORMAL LANGUAGE IN A REQUIRED AREA. MINUS ONE CIVIL CREDIT.
I frown, thinking there must be a mistake. But when I see the official badge of the Office of Civility stamped next to the message, my breath cuts off.
What? I didn’t misspeak once today.
I tap the notification, and the alert expands into a block of text that pulses red at the header.
CIVIC NOTICE: CREDIT LIABILITY ALERT
Origin ID: Office of Civility
Recipient: Miss Loredana Waldsten
You are receiving this notice because you voluntarily issued a personal civil credit transfer to Mr. William Lee (ID# 9983-456-A) while his score was below the arrest threshold, thereby constituting a formal endorsement of virtuous character under Article 14.7 of the Civil Trust Act.
As a result, you are now liable for all future civil credit deductions incurred by the endorsed party. Any deductions applied to Mr. Lee’s record will be automatically applied to your own. This liability is not reciprocal. You will not receive credit for his restorations.
This endorsement remains in effect until formally revoked through a petition to the Office of Civility, subject to review.
Maintain vigilance. May you always be virtuous.
What the fuck? I reread the notice, certain I’m misunderstanding it. How can I lose civil credits every time William screws up, but gain nothing when he does something right?
Then I remember the terms of service, the ones I skipped over, focused only on getting the civil credits to him fast enough.
Dad warned me that some civil credit transfers come with risks.
He warned me to be careful about who I tie myself to.
I must’ve agreed to this without even realizing it.
The penalty was there, buried in the fine print I never bothered to read.
Now, unless I file a petition with the Office of Civility and ask them to revoke the transfer, I’m bound to William forever, until one of us dies.
Every violation of his will affect me, dragging me down and stripping me of every civil credit I have.
I clench my trembling hand in my pocket, petrified by the thought. But if I take the civil credits back, William will be arrested and sent to the Pearl Penitentiary, where the mind torture is so brutal that inmates’ memories must be wiped so they can function normally after release.
I pull up the alert again. William lost the civil credit over a formal language mistake. It’s something I often do myself, not out of defiance but out of exhaustion. Absolute adherence to the rules feels impossible some days. I know that. I live it. So how can I blame him for slipping?
The truth is, it isn’t William’s fault at all.
It’s the fault of our system, this gleaming, brutal machine built to crush people like us.
Laws like this aren’t accidents. They’re designed to punish compassion and discourage low-citizens from helping one another.
Who in their right mind would risk so much to be kind?
I sink into the seat beside Edmund and Jack, barely noticing when Professor Fleming strides into the lecture room and starts the class.
No matter how hard I’ve tried to forget, I remember what danger looks like for the average low-citizen.
I remember what survival costs. I remember crawling through the ceiling shafts of the Speakeasy with bloodied hands and feet, every breath a plea to stay alive.
Back then, death was everywhere. The Copper on the Regal Express wanted me dead.
Irene Hussey and her friends wanted me dead. So did thousands of other students.
That’s what low-citizens face every day. That’s what their lives are shaped around. The only difference is that they don’t have a bailout like I do. They don’t have Edmund.
Professor Fleming meets my gaze from his floating platform, as if he’s about to call on me. But when he notices the twisted knot of tension in my face, he chooses another student instead. I nod at him, grateful.
I don’t want to take Dad’s call on Saturday anymore. I don’t know how to face him. I promised Hillaire I’d convince him not to run for Governor of the Rainbow District, but after this, after everything, how can I?
Asking Dad to step down would mean endorsing the very system I oppose: the unjust executions and arrests, letting someone like William rot in a filthy prison cell for months of torture over a few hot-tempered mistakes.
If I tell Dad not to run, I’m telling him not to fight. Not to try. And the worst part—the part that guts me—is knowing why he’s waited so long to tell me.
It’s not my permission he wants. It’s my belief, like the soldier who stands tall when his enemies tell him to quit, but breaks when someone he loves says the same.
If I say no, Dad will walk away. If he does, nothing will change or get better.
And that will be on me.
After Political Theory & Governance, we head to Edmund’s suite to study for exams. I’m not in the right mindset to study, let alone finish a single thought, but I go because there’s comfort in being near Edmund, in standing in the gentle side of his shadow.
In the foyer, Edmund asks if we can talk in private. Charlotte, Jack, and Dickie exchange stiff glances as they file into the salon, making it clear that they think Edmund is angry at me for giving William the civil credits while I was under the arrest threshold.
And suddenly, I wonder if they’re right.
The Pinkies close the foyer doors, sealing us alone inside. Edmund takes off his suit jacket and lays it on a coat tree before turning to me. A few strands of hair have come loose from his pomaded style and fallen over his forehead, highlighting the worry lines on his face.
“I’m sorry, Edmund,” I say, “for not asking you first. But there wasn’t time.”
He drops a hand to his side. Between his clenched fingers, his Blood Ring glitters, the source of all the sickness in our world, yet the one thing that can cure it, too.
“I care about you,” Edmund says, “and I want to keep you safe. But I’m not going to use that as an excuse to stop you from doing what’s right.”
I straighten, caught off guard. “You think it was right?”
He nods, though there’s conflict in his face, as if some part of him would rather challenge William to a death duel and rid me of the problem altogether.
“Jack says William’s got a short fuse, always quick to blow.
People like that can drag you under fast, and now you’re tied to him for life. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”
“I have to be.”