6. Unknown Number
Unknown Number
Desdemona
I get back to my bedroom, heart hammering.
It’s as tidy as Elias’s was messy, as bright as his was dim.
My books stacked in alphabetical order on their shelf, my tennis whites hanging from the wardrobe door, my timetables and lists pinned neatly to the wall above my desk.
My bedding white and creaseless, a single velvet cushion shaped like a seashell propped against my pillows.
I slam the door shut behind me. My entire body shakes as I just stand there, trying to bring my emotions to heel.
Don’t be silly, love. You don’t have to demean yourself like this.
Elias Lennox’s words burn into me like the brand of a cult leader on a victim’s arm. I want to rub it off me, to wash it away, but it’s seared in, indelible.
You don’t have to demean yourself like this.
Fuck you.
I’ll date you, Elias Lennox. I’ll raise you high in the ranks of Spearcrest, deliver you to the Brotherhood. I’ll make a prince out of you, just like you want. I’ll protect you from jail, if I can, and if I can, I’ll make sure our deal never costs you anything more than the naming of the price.
But I hate you, and I will hate you until there’s no blood left in my heart with which to hate you.
And admitting this to myself is like opening a floodgate: my emotions come crashing out.
Tears streak down my cheeks, burning like lava.
I shove my hand into my blazer pocket, drop it in my despair to get it away from me.
Notes come spilling out, fluttering down to the clean carpet.
I drop to my knees and grab them in furious handfuls—wishing I could burn them away, burn them to ash, just like my memories of tonight.
“Dess, I saw your light come on, I—”
My door opens on the sound of a soft, sweet voice, and I almost freeze in horror. I shove the money under my bed and turn, jumping up to my feet.
“Ophelia! You’ve not been answering your texts.”
Ophelia’s kohl-rimmed eyes, dark and clever just like Mum’s, move slowly, from the floor up to me. She closes the door behind her, frowning, and speaks with a slight wobble in her voice.
“Dess. What’s wrong?”
In the three days since the twins showed me Birnam’s body in the boathouse, I’ve not heard a single peep from Ophelia, not received a single text back. Why would she come to me now, of all nights?
“Nothing, Fee. Come in. Are you alright? I’ve been so worried—”
“Are you crying?”
I wipe my eyes hastily with the sleeves of my blazer.
“No, don’t be silly. I’m just tired. Come in, sit down.
” I rush her to my bed, grab her hands as we both sit down on the edges.
“Why haven’t you texted me back? I’ve been worried sick.
Has something…” I swallow, not quite daring to meet her eyes. “Has something happened?”
“I turned my phone off.” Her tone is stubborn, almost angry. She’s still glancing at the floor, where the money lay moments ago, trying to catch my eyes, which are still sore and swollen with crying.
Ophelia’s never seen me cry—how could I let her see me cry now? After what might’ve happened to her, what Birnam might’ve done? I need to be strong for her, not a pathetic, weeping mess.
“Why? Is everything alright? Are you—?”
Unbidden and painful, Birnam Hastings’ text flashes in my mind, and with it, all of the sickening implications.
I force myself to catch my breath, to inhale deep into the pain, dispelling it.
There are a hundred questions I’d like to ask my sister, but all of them would be like sinking a knife into an open wound.
“Are you okay, Fee?”
The question drops from my lips, raw, almost broken.
“I’m fine.” She’s already standing, already pulling her hands out of mine. “I don’t even know why I came here, you’re clearly busy.”
My heart sinks.
“I’m not! I was just getting ready for bed, I—”
I stand, try to reach for her, but she’s already retreating towards the door.
“Stay, Fee, please.”
“No, no.” She shakes her head. Her waist-long hair, which she started dyeing night-black only last year, curtains her flushed cheeks. Her dark eyes glimmer with unspoken words, unspoken pain.
In the end, my voice comes out low and weak and pathetic.
“I love you, Fee.”
She pauses in the doorway. She doesn’t look at me. I can’t see her face, behind that black fall of hair.
“Night, Dess,” she mumbles.
The door slams before I can even reply.
Spearcrest might be relentless, a furnace of pressure, but at least there’s no time to wallow in misery.
The following week is a relentless cycle of classes, homework, prefect meetings, nervously checking the Inquisitor account for updates on Birnam, and failing to speak to my own sister.
She doesn’t even respond to my texts. This part is nothing new: Ophelia’s been blanking my texts for years now.
I don’t know why; it’s like the moment she became a teenager, I was demoted from beloved sister to intrusive ex.
Now, I’m forced to stalk her social media page from a friend’s phone, since she’s got me blocked. I only ever really see Ophelia at home during holidays, or on the rare occasions she allows an amnesty and spends time with me of her own free will.
“Have you spoken to Ophelia?” I ask Blaise one afternoon.
We’re sitting at the front of our literature class; our teacher is helping a student in the back while the rest of us annotate our copies of Othello—my least favourite play for obvious reasons.
“Not since the summer holiday,” Blaise responds, looking up from his book in surprise. “Why?”
It’s uncanny how much he looks like the perfect mix of both his parents: light brown skin, light brown eyes, soft short hair.
From his mother, Theodora Dorokhova, he inherits his grace and a sense of delicate beauty; from his father, Lord Zachary Blackwood, he inherits his charming smile, his genteel manners.
When I see him, I think of them, of winters at his family manor—I think of home, family, safety.
“She’s not answering my texts.”
Blaise waves a hand. “She doesn’t answer anyone’s texts.”
“She answers yours.”
He smiles indulgently. “Naturally—my privilege as the favourite cousin.”
Blaise is everyone’s favourite cousin, but why would Ophelia choose him over me? I was the first person to hold her when Mum and Dad brought her home from the hospital. The one she’d come to when she needed her little shoelaces tied, or when she’d found a pretty spider in the garden.
“You alright, Dess?” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “You look more tired than usual.”
For a second, I consider telling Blaise, but he wouldn’t get it. Everything always falls into place for him. High grades without having to study hard. Endless parties without ever being exhausted or burnt out. A little sister who adores him.
“I’m alright,” I say quickly. “Don’t worry.”
“My darling cousin.” He tilts his head. “You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?”
My phone buzzes. Normally, I would never allow myself to check it while in class, but this time, I reach swiftly into my blazer pocket. I swipe my screen and my heart sinks when I see that the text waiting for me isn’t from Ophelia.
It’s from an unknown number.
Unknown: Meet me tonight, love. My bedroom.
“Who’s that?” Blaise asks with a delighted smirk.
I delete the text and shove my phone back into my pocket.
“It’s nothing,” I answer him, mind already a thousand miles away. “It’s nobody.”