CHAPTER 52
Some things arrive too early, others too late.
But when they’re right on time, it can only be fate.
—ALESSANDRA VISCONTI,
LITTLE BOOK OF MOONLIT RHYMES
CHAPTER 52
Jerome’s voice still rings in my ears as I break for the lavatory.
Vomit rises in my throat, hot as acid, and I can’t swallow it down.
I burst through the hallway, around the corner, find the door Henry showed Charlotte earlier, and slam it shut behind me.
I barely hit my knees in front of the toilet before the vomit erupts in wet, violent waves.
Between the convulsions, suspicion hits me in fractured images. Is Edmund doing this? Is he killing me? Wasn’t offering me Bliss and dissolving our formal agreement enough? Or was that the point all along? Did he give me the choice to walk away, knowing I’d take it, so he could finish me himself?
No. I can’t believe it.
My heart won’t let me.
Whoever is doing this, the way they’re attacking me now is subtle enough to go unnoticed. Nobody will ever suspect, because the crimes draining my civil credits are planted seamlessly in my record, backdated and timestamped, each one bringing the guillotine blade closer to my neck.
I check my Bond screen, shoulders heaving: 756.
I gag again as bile creeps up the raw edges of my throat. A few more minutes, and I’ll fall below the arrest threshold of one hundred civil credits. Once I hit fifty, I’ll be sentenced to the guillotine.
I hunch over the open toilet, vomiting until my ribs feel bruised. The acidic taste lingers on my tongue as I stagger upright and collapse against the sink. I force myself to look at my sunken reflection, like a ghost’s face framed in filthy hair, eyes red and swollen, vomit streaking down my chin.
Again, the thought that Edmund is behind this attack flares in my mind, and again I crush it.
No. It isn’t him. After the way he touched me, kissed me, held me as if I were the only thing keeping the world from becoming a stranger to him, it couldn’t all have been a lie.
I couldn’t have been so blinded by love that I missed the monster crouched behind his smile.
But it doesn’t change what’s happening.
I’m going to die.
My hands clamp around the sink, trembling, as if I can hold myself together by force alone. A low groan tears out of me, wracked with fear. I can almost hear the guillotine’s lever creaking, the blade preparing to fall. The weight is unbearable, as if my soul itself is screaming.
I swing my head back and forth, trying to beat down the panic, the choking terror of death. I reach for Dad’s advice, then for Mom’s encouragement, but it isn’t until I remember the last words I spoke to Hillaire that the noise in my head finally stops.
I won’t waste it.
I made that promise to her only yesterday. I swore I wouldn’t just survive; I’d live. But I see the truth now, clearer than ever, too late to escape: I never truly lived for anything at all. And now I’ll die for nothing, too.
My eyes level with the reflection in the mirror, and I see a coward staring back.
A coward who never spoke up, never fought back; who shut her eyes while others like her were dragged to the guillotine or collared like pets by Blues; who stayed quiet and called it survival.
Shame burns through me, deeper than any fear.
“I want another chance,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
Just one. To do it right this time. Please.
To fate, to luck, to whatever might be listening—just one more.
I swear I’ll live for something, even if it breaks me the way it’s breaking Dad and Mom, the way it’s broken so many others who never had to sink this low before they rose.
I’ll suffer for it. I’ll crawl for it. Just stop the civil credits from falling.
Just give me one more chance to make it matter.
Please.
The toilet hisses behind me, the only response I get. No mercy or miracle, just the cold tick of numbers slipping away.
584.
I leave the lavatory at 304 civil credits.
My body is calm, my stomach empty, my eyes clear for the first time in months.
I stride down the corridor, so focused I feel as though I could see through walls.
I’m going to find her. Rosamund. I’ll challenge her before the Coppers arrest me.
I’ll drag her down with me, so Charlotte won’t be left to suffer alone.
I have nothing left to lose, only something to gain if I can reach her in time.
In the foyer, Henry stands in front of the door, blocking the only exit.
“Excuse me, Henry,” I say, already thinking about where I might get ahold of a saber. “I will no longer be meeting with Professor Jerome today. Please inform him of my departure.”
“Already informed,” Jerome calls from behind me. He’s walking down the corridor in trousers and a crisp dress shirt, his boxers gone at last. “Henry tells me you’re getting clipped with a Section Twenty-Seven.”
I frown, still pushing past Henry toward the door. “A what?”
“Ghost charges. Fictional sins. They pile up on your Bond until a Copper carts you off to the slammer. Any guesses who’s playing god today?”
“No.”
“What’s your counter at now?”
I check my Bond. “209.”
Jerome snorts and looks at Henry. “Dead. Bring me the other one.”
Henry continues blocking the door. “This candidate is sufficient, Professor,” the robot says calmly, almost as if it’s speaking on someone else’s behalf. “Miss Waldsten and her family have already cleared the background inspection. And the footage of Mr. Blackwell’s locker room attack may prove—”
Jerome cuts Henry off with a snap of his fingers, then steps back and studies me with a sigh.
Gradually, his expression hardens, narrowing into something so precise it feels like he’s turning out my pockets, sifting through every hidden shame I have left.
Then his shoulders drop, and he rubs the cut on his temple—the one from my rock—with another sigh.
“Fine. But for the record, Henry, I wanted the other one. If this all goes to hell, it’s your bag of bodies.”
Jerome rummages in his trouser pocket, muttering, then strides back down the hallway and disappears into his office.
“The other one for what?” I ask, shifting impatiently. Every second they waste, Rosamund slips further out of reach.
Henry finally steps away from the door and holds one of its mechanical hands aloft. “Miss Waldsten, if you would kindly wait.”
“Why?” My voice cracks when I see my civil credits: 123.
“You will want to hear what the Professor has to say.” Henry’s gaze fixes on mine, unyielding.
From inside the office, I hear the mechanical whir of a biometric scanner. Jerome’s voice rings out, loud and exasperated. “What the hell’s the password?”
“Seven-one-three-seven-eight-nine-seven-three-seven-seven,” Henry recites.
“Too many sevens.”
“Yes, sir. I did mention that when you created the password.”
Jerome grunts, then I hear a lock disengage and a door open. A moment later, he reappears with a small, black velvet box. He shoves it toward me, eyebrow cocked.
I’m too distracted by my civil credit score to take the box: 87.
I’m below the arrest threshold now, which means the Coppers are on their way.
“Go on, sweetheart. Take it.” Jerome pushes the box closer. “Or are you waiting for me to drop down on one knee?”
My heart hammers at the implication. If he means what I think—
I grab the box, flip open the lid, and there it is, cold, glittering, and blue: an Aegis.
A gasp rips out of me.
“Put it on before the Coppers blow a hole in my door,” Jerome says. “Then we’ll talk.”
I push the Aegis onto my thumb without giving myself time to think.
The scanner pricks my skin, verifying my identity as it syncs with my Blood Ring.
Heat blooms under my nail and surges through my hand, arm, and shoulder, spreading through my entire body.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the rush.
For a moment, I feel painfully and dangerously awake, like stepping into sunlight after years in the dark.
What the hell is this thing?
I open my eyes as the Aegis syncs with my Bond. My credits, now at 53, begin to increase.
87…134…198…
Higher. Faster. I stop watching when the number clears 300.
My mind narrows around the terrifying truth that I was three credits away from handcuffs.
Three credits away from the guillotine. Three credits away from losing Dad, Mom, Hillaire, Vivian, and Charlotte forever.
Now, against all reason, against all mercy, I have it: a second chance, bought at a price I know will come due any moment.
I turn to Jerome, staring at the Aegis on his own thumb. “Whose Aegis is this? Which Blue?”
“No names,” he says, already heading back into his office. “That’s the deal. Now quit gawking and get inside. It’s freezing out here.”
He guides me back into the sweltering room and sits halfway on the edge of his desk, a massive block of wood and bronze so absurdly large it looks stolen from a courthouse.
I look back to find Henry has remained in the foyer.
Jerome watches me for a moment, arms crossed, his expression jumping between annoyance and appraisal.
“First things first, Waldsten—you’re not special.
You heard what I said to Henry. I didn’t even want you for this assignment.
You’re being offered this deal because you meet three conditions: you’re a student, you cleared your background check, and there’s a viral video of you carving up a Blue.
That’s it. So don’t start thinking you’re the apple of my eye.
We’ve got plenty of students on the books. ”
He pauses, and his gaze narrows, as if he’s weighing something behind his crooked grin. Then he jerks his chin at me. “Come here, Waldsten.”
Questions boil up, but only one escapes. “Why?”
“So I can properly introduce myself.”