Page 114 of Because I Killed Him
The words seem to sever the last thread of her composure. With a broken sob, Charlotte leans across the console and clings to me. I switch the hovercar to autonomous mode just in time, narrowly avoiding a drift into the neighboring vehicle. Then I hold her back, letting the world blur past in streaks of light and noise.
When Charlotte finally pulls away, she exhales a long, ragged breath that brings color back to her lips. She wipes her eyes, blots her cheeks, and then refreshes her makeup, just as she must’ve done every day before walking into rooms with Jack’s and Edmund’s accusing stares.
I understand now why she changed her face.
It wasn’t for beauty.
It was because the old one knew what she did.
It’s more dangerous for a high-citizen and a low-citizen to fall in love with their differences than to believe no differences exist at all.
—CRISPIN ROTH, GENETIC ENGINEER
CHAPTER 26
By the time Charlotte and I reach the Tangerine Tree, the parking lot is gridlocked. Luxury hovercars with custom finishes in glossy chrome, midnight lacquer, and soft pearl are packed together, and valets rush to park them in neat rows. Even the private docking bays are full. I’ve never seen so much traffic here. Word must’ve gotten out. Today, everyone wants to be where Edmund and Rosamund are.
Charlotte and I trudge across the icy lot toward the entrance, carrying our gifts. Mine: the Hellion’s badge. Hers: my gold-plated pocket watch chain. While the chain isn’t worth much, it’s all I have, besides a half-eaten chocolate bar left in the backseat by Dickie.
At the door, a Pinkie checks our entourage badges, then waves us in. The cafe is a burst of electric blue marble, with geometrically ridged pillars and gold-potted tangerine trees between the tables. But beneath the aroma of espresso and orange zest, the air reeks of impatience.
A long line winds through the cafe, starting at Edmund’s private booth and spilling into the snow. Unlike at the Blue Dormitory, this isn’t a queue of Pinkies. These are high-citizens draped in winter coats of cashmere and silver fox fur, their shoes polished to a mirror shine, their arms cradling gifts wrapped in indigo and silver.
The high-citizens’ eyes track Charlotte and me as we pass, their glares biting into us like teeth. Two low-citizens cutting the line, walking straight to Edmund’s private booth. They look at us like dogs going to sit at ourmaster’s feet. But I let their stares roll off me. They’re not better than me. If anything, since the Tangerine Tree duel, Edmund has been their master, too.
At the private booth, the doors are closed. A Pinkie steps forward and announces that Edmund is taking a brief pause from receiving visitors to eat and that no one is to wait on his account. “Mr. Prew requests that all guests join him for breakfast instead,” the robot says. “He has arranged for the meal to be complimentary. He will greet each of you personally once he is finished.”
The tension in the line eases at once. Conversations resume. Coats are unbuttoned. The high-citizens, unaccustomed to waiting for anything, move toward the cafe’s tables, smiles breaking across their faces as they sit and eat.
Charlotte and I enter Edmund’s private booth, and as the cafe’s noise fades, I realize we’re the last to arrive. The boys are already sprawled on a cerulean velvet couch, dressed to the nines. Their bow ties are anchored by gold stick pins, and their suits, though distinct, harmonize in richness. Dickie’s is burnt orange and custom-woven; Jack’s is a forest green three-piece with a velvet lapel; Edmund’s is a midnight blue tailcoat, dark as water under moonlight. Their pocket squares, each a shade lighter than their ties, tuck neatly into place. Black onyx cufflinks glint at Edmund’s wrists, while Jack’s oxblood shoes show just enough wear to suggest regular use. Beneath Dickie’s cuff, a vintage watch gleams, its polished face like a constellation under glass. Even Jack’s hair, for once, is slicked obediently into place.
They’re like a portrait that shouldn’t exist, colors that shouldn’t mix, yet somehow, impossibly, they do.
When Edmund notices us, he throws down his napkin, rises quickly from the couch, and bows.
“Happy birthday,” I say. “Snow on your birthday’s meant to be a lucky sign, you know.”
He glances out a nearby window toward the hovercar-filled lot. “It’s not snowing.”
“It will.”
“The weather report says it won’t.”
“They’ve been wrong before.”
Edmund tilts his head, intrigued. “All right, Miss Waldsten. If it snows, I owe you a drink. If it doesn’t, you owe me two.”
I smile. “Fine by me.”
He gestures for Charlotte and me to sit. As we move toward the table, his eyes flick over my hair, almost too quickly to notice. My Pinkie styled it up today in a sleek rolled tuck. The way Edmund looks at my bare neck makes me self-conscious, and a warm flush spreads to my cheeks. I don’t usually wear my hair this way. Maybe that’s why he’s staring.
When Charlotte and I settle onto the couch, Jack glances up from his breakfast and gives us a quick once-over. His distant, hazy eyes linger on Charlotte a little longer than on me before drifting away. In that moment, I feel the sharp edge of the pain I’ve seen on his face so often. And finally, I understand it.
Dickie tips an imaginary hat in greeting, then resumes his conversation with Edmund, his hands gesturing wildly as he recounts the Ranger spur Edmund missed due to his meeting with Irene.
“The spur was brutal,” Dickie declares, snapping his fingers at a Pinkie and ordering chocolate crepes. “Not as advanced as our tech, of course, but still a real weapon of war.”
Edmund sets his forearms on the table, his face lit with curiosity. “Wycliffe said there’s still blood on the rowel.”
