CHAPTER 42 #4
I glance back at the table and see him watching me, his expression concerned, as if he’s wondering whether I’m okay.
I force the most convincing smile I can and hold it until he turns his focus to the Blue trial.
Then I press my fingers to one of my teardrop earrings, gripping the edges until they bite into my skin.
Suddenly, the room feels unbearably hot.
“I’m gonna get some air,” I say.
Charlotte gestures toward the television, barely visible behind the Coppers hunched around it. “Don’t you want to stay for the verdict? Bogart says it’s dropping any minute now.”
“I’ll watch on my Bond.”
“Suit yourself.” Charlotte flags down a Pinkie and orders another Gibson. “Text me when Dickie gets here. He just messaged. Says he’s on his way.”
“What took him so long?”
“Claims he lost track of time. Playing some video game.”
I nod, already knowing it was Highball. “I’ll let you know when he’s here.”
Then I slip out, heading for the deck.
Night has fallen, but the area is far from dark. The Luminescent Lake emits an eerie phosphorescent glow across the moored yachts and the students gathered along the shoreline. Champagne corks pop, chairs unfold with a snap, and laughter drifts over the water as everyone prepares for the fireworks.
I move to the railing and grip it, the ache in my chest deepening.
Dad always says there’s no use banging your head against the wall over things you can’t change, but this time, I can’t help it.
I’d give anything to take back that final blow.
When I struck Charles with my saber, I didn’t realize I was striking Edmund, too.
I lean over the railing and press my head into my hands.
My fingers work to knead the tension from my temples, but it doesn’t ease.
Everything Charlotte said echoes, reshaping the night.
I exhale slowly, trying to force the images away, when I hear a sharp, muffled sound out of place amid the laughter.
I stand still until I hear the sound again, echoing from near the hot tubs.
I step away from the railing and walk across the deck, the soles of my sandals whispering against the planks.
When I round the corner, I spot Rosamund, half-shadowed behind the gauze curtain of a cabana. I didn’t even see her come up.
Her monkey perches on the rim of one of the hot tubs, tail twitching as it urinates lazily into the water. “Hurry up, Cary,” Rosamund whispers, her stiletto tapping a frantic rhythm. “Jack is waiting for me, and he—”
She stops, though not like she meant to. More like the words turned foreign the second they hit the air, and she’s only just realized how absurd they sound.
Rosamund drags a hand through her hair, her throat bobbing, and drops her chin into her palm.
For a long moment, she sits still, frowning at nothing.
Then the frown begins to fade, softening until it collapses inward.
She stands and turns away from the tub, brushing aside the curtain as she makes her way to the bar.
One hand moves over the counter, while the other grips the edge, as if holding herself upright.
Then, silently, her shoulders start to tremble. The first sobs are quiet, nearly inaudible, but soon they intensify, tearing out of her in harsh, jagged waves, as if something long-held has finally broken loose.
The sight hits me harder than I want to admit, even though I hate her. I don’t care that Jack doesn’t love her or that she’s making a fool of herself over a low-citizen who clearly wants nothing to do with her. Still, watching her fall apart makes one thing suddenly, painfully clear.
We’re all lying about something.
Rosamund straightens slowly and draws in a breath as if it hurts. Then she reaches into the pocket of her cover-up and pulls out a small black pill. Bliss. With a soft sniff, she slips the drug into her mouth and rubs her face with both hands, scrubbing the tears clean as if they were never there.
When her monkey finishes urinating, Rosamund crooks a finger, and it scrambles onto her shoulder with a noisy chitter. I step back, slipping into the shadows between a pair of dock chairs cloaked in darkness.
But then…
Oh, shit.
By the time I remember Blues have night vision, it’s already too late.
Rosamund spots me before rounding the corner and recoils, her shoulders dropping so abruptly that her monkey shrieks and jumps onto the railing.
For a moment, she stares at me, a bolt of pale, wide-eyed panic flashing across her face.
Then she lunges, fast and low, a guttural sound rising in her throat.
The Bliss is already taking effect, softening her features even as fury contorts them.
A half-smile tugs at her mouth while her eyes burn, as if her voice and expression are at war.
“You spying little rat.” Rosamund slams me back against the wall, her sharp fingernails biting through my swimsuit cover-up. “You think you’re clever, hiding in the dark like that? What did you hear? What exactly did you see?”
Her voice drips venom, but her cheeks are flushed and her pupils blown wide. The drug floods her bloodstream with false euphoria even as she seethes with rage, creating a monstrous contradiction, like watching someone scream through a smile.
“You think I can’t kill you?” she spits. “You think just because my brother’s protecting you, I won’t shove a saber through your gut? I can. And I—”
Rosamund cuts off, still staring at me, but a shock-like ripple spreads across her face.
Her head shakes slightly, as if she’s trying to clear it.
Then her lip curls, twisting with rage and disgust, even as a fractured, high-pitched giggle slips through her teeth.
She slaps a hand over her mouth, trying to push the sound back in, but it escapes through her fingers in a spray of saliva.
“On second thought…” Rosamund activates her Bond as if making a call. “Why put in the effort when fortune has such capable hands?”
I try to use the lull to slip free, but she slams me back, pinning me harder the more I struggle.
Fury floods in with the adrenaline. I still don’t know what Rosamund thinks she saw, but if it’s a fight she wants, fine.
I might be banned from weapons, but I still have fists.
And I’ve waited long enough to rip that smug smile off her face and shove it down her throat.
I angle back, ready to headbutt her, when footsteps slam across the deck.
Light flares from the corner as Irene rounds it with five Coppers behind her.
The men look sour, as if yanked from the verdict mid-sentence.
Irene moves quickly, eyes narrowed as she strides down the planks and takes in the scene’s scent.
“What is it, Miss Prew?” she says. “What was so urgent it couldn’t wait for the judge to finish?”
Rosamund releases me, her eyes bright as a wound before the blood wells up. She wipes the saliva from her mouth with a slow drag of her thumb, then points a long, clawed finger directly at me.
“I found her, Irene.” Rosamund’s voice is low but shuddering with triumph. “The whore who’s been screwing your fiancé.”