CHAPTER 42
Now and forever, although they are dead,
We remember the nine great gentlemen who bled,
Who stood against evil—unyielding, undone—
Who challenged the darkness, who fought it—and won.
—EXCERPT FROM THE NATIONAL ANTHEM
OF THE CIVILIZED WORLD
CHAPTER 42
The fireworks outside my suite, trailing across the sky like pale jellyfish, aren’t part of tonight’s official display. These are set off by students, whistling past with an uneven crackle, leaving streaks of smoke that curl and fade through the open windows.
It’s May 13th. Founder’s Day. The two-hundredth anniversary of the Civilized World. And the day I’m going to tell Edmund the truth about Charles.
I’m in my bedroom, seated at the vanity while my Pinkie fusses over my face.
I’m sweating from head to toe, anxious enough to vomit.
My hair is wound into a harsh half-up twist that feels more like punishment than style.
The emerald swimsuit my Pinkie picked out plunges too low, revealing too much, and the diamond teardrop earrings Vivian gave me are unwelcome reminders that Irene is now convinced Edmund has at least one mistress.
Vivian still won’t talk to me. Hillaire probably never will again.
And tonight, once I’ve said the words I’ve rehearsed a hundred times, Edmund won’t either.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. Only that I have to.
The Pinkie finishes my makeup, then bows and slips out, whistling our national anthem as its footsteps fade into the hallway.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, lightheaded, as if all the blood in my body is rushing there.
The room feels too large around me, and my reflection appears falsely serene.
My fingers find Dad’s daffodil brooch, pinned to the neckline of my swimsuit cover-up, and I hold it tightly.
Out in the hallway, Charlotte flits by like a ray of sunlight that’s too bright to look at, especially in my panicked state.
With each day Jack remains sober, her happiness grows, and in turn, he’s become more personable toward her.
She doesn’t say it outright, but I think somewhere in the quiet, hidden part of her heart, she’s starting to hope.
Maybe not for their relationship to return to what it was, but for a chance to build something new.
Charlotte and I drive to the Luminescent Lake around 3:00 p.m. The campus is busy, its aerial lanes crowded with students, hovercars honking as they head toward the beaches, and clubs overflowing with tipsy students decked out in sequins and feathers.
Even the Speakeasy has been fully booked since this morning.
Exams are a week away, but today, on Founders Day, everyone is focused on celebrating.
The holiday commemorates the raising of the energy shield, the moment the Civilized World was born.
Everyone knows the story of how nine men, remembered as the Nine Gentlemen, united from every corner of influence—military, politics, business, and technology—and stood to defend our people when the rest of the world turned against us.
While hostile nations closed in from every side and bombs rained down and cities burned, the Nine Gentlemen labored in secret, pouring all their resources into building the shield.
Most believed it was a myth, a hopeless fantasy.
But then, one day, as armies advanced from land, air, and sea, the Nine Gentlemen raised it.
In broad daylight, the shield climbed into the sky, bright enough to burn off the shadows on the ground.
Two hundred years ago, on May 13th, the Nine Gentlemen cut us off from the rest of the world, and in that same blinding moment, they saved us from it.
Three of them became our first presidents.
All of them helped shape our Constitution, laying the bones of a system Dad says was once far more just than it is now.
He always reminds me that the Nine Gentlemen weren’t born great.
They were ordinary men, handed an extraordinary task.
But they rose to meet it. And we remember them for that.
We honor their lineages, too. Most of the Nine Gentlemen’s descendants are high-citizens, from the Reeves to the Husseys. Only a few are low-citizens, born with great names but denied power under high-citizen rule. Winston Glass is one of them.
And tonight, we’ll celebrate it all—the energy shield and the Nine Gentlemen’s sacrifice—with fireworks, music, and so much light it’ll wash the stars from the sky.
Charlotte drives my hovercar to the Luminescent Lake while I stare out the window, clutching my daffodil brooch as if holding it tightly enough could slow time, keeping the moment when I have to tell Edmund the truth forever out of reach.
Jazz from Big Band Beats drifts through the air, and Charlotte hums along sentimentally, as if it’s a song she once danced to with Jack.
When she takes a sharp left, cutting down a hill toward the lake, the humming stops.
I can feel her glancing at me, at my hands knotted in my lap and the sweat gathering on my upper lip, but she waits until we descend into the lot and park before speaking.
She turns, presses a handkerchief into my palm, and says quietly, “Lore… I know something bad happened. And I know you’re pretending it didn’t because you don’t want to tell me.”
I swallow and dab the handkerchief to my lip, not bothering to look composed. Charlotte knows me, maybe better than my own sisters. There’s no point in lying, and right now, I don’t want to.
So I nod.
“I’m not asking you to tell me.” She ashes her cigarette out the window. “The only reason I’m saying anything is because you look unhappy. And I want you to know that if you need me, I’m here.”
I know she means it, but I almost wish she didn’t. Because once I tell Edmund, and he turns on me forever, Charlotte and I can’t stay friends unless she’s willing to risk her place in his entourage. And I’d never ask her to.
So I say nothing. Instead, I lean across the seat, lift the cigarette from her fingers, and take a long, clumsy drag. I cough, hand it back, and squeeze her hand in thanks before stepping out into the balmy air.
It’s hot today, the kind of heat that makes every shady tree look like a friend.
The beach is crowded with low-citizen students scattered among sun umbrellas and folding chairs stuck lopsided in the sand.
A few people splash into the shallows, laughing as they dare each other to go further, but no one wades past their knees.
Out on the water, far from the noise and heat, the high-citizens drift in pearly yachts, their sails rippling in the wind like paper love letters.
They sip chilled drinks on polished decks, shaded by striped canopies.
The boats are massive, so wide that if I screamed to Charlotte from one end, she probably wouldn’t hear me from the other.
We walk barefoot across the sand toward a rack of public hoverboats with sun-bleached hulls and cracked white leather seats.
We climb into one, but just before we detach it from the mooring, we spot Dickie sputtering toward shore in another hoverboat, sipping moodily from a soda bottle.
He’s wearing blinding orange swim trunks that clash with his pale chest, already splotchy and pink from the heat.
We wait as he wobbles up to the dock, squinting against the glare.
“Mr. Langley,” Charlotte calls. “Why are you departing so early?”
Dickie scrambles ashore and lets out a breath of relief as his feet hit the sand, either because he’s finally in the shade or because he hates large bodies of water. He never learned to swim.
“’Cause I forgot my plane.”
I know he’s talking about the carbon-fiber drone he’s constantly crashing and asking Jack to fix. “Why do you need it?”
“Um, hello? To film the fireworks.” He downs the last of his soda and tosses the bottle into the lake. “Gotta head back to my suite. And I’m gonna take my sweet time doing it, too. The party’s a bust.”
Charlotte and I trade a bewildered glance, then call after Dickie to ask what he means, but he’s already trudging down the shore.
We brush it off and turn back to our hoverboat.
As we push off into the lake, the water shimmers beneath us, its bioluminescent glow softened by the daylight but still visible in the gentle ripples.
Piranhas dart in quick, predatory splashes of color beneath the surface.
Charlotte and I lean over the side of the hoverboat to watch the deadly fish as we weave between the rows of anchored vessels bobbing in the water.
Edmund’s yacht sits near the center of the lake, only a stone’s throw from the Sailing Strip, where the Mensur will be fought in two weeks.
We guide the hoverboat upward, rising effortlessly into the air. Edmund’s yacht is three stories tall and even features a private helipad. On the first level, a Pinkie in a striped uniform stabilizes our hoverboat for landing.
I step out, frowning when I notice two other hoverboats docked here.
There should be only one, if it’s just Edmund and Jack.
I get a sinking feeling as I realize Rosamund must’ve invited herself to be near Jack.
I feel her presence before I see her, like a tremor before an earthquake.
The urge to retreat to my suite flares, sudden and visceral, but I force my feet to move as the Pinkie leads us down the deck.
The planks stretch long beneath our feet, still damp from the hot tubs that circle the stern. It takes minutes to reach the far end, and when we finally round the last canopy, Charlotte hunches up like a hissing cat.