Page 129 of Because I Killed Him
“Everything okay, Harry?” I ask.
“No. I mean—yeah.” He pulls off his cap and twists it between his hands. “But I’ve got to go.”
“I thought you didn’t have plans tonight?”
“I thought so, too.” Harrison shrugs, trying to play it off, though the cap keeps twisting anxiously in his fingers.
I know it’s his Blue. I can almost hear the rattle of the chain she’s fastened around his neck as he rockets back toward the shore. Harrison’s life here on campus isn’t much different from that of many others in entourages. Most Blues treat their low-citizens like pets in pearls, each bound to them by debt or a costly contract signed with something closer to a soul than a pen.
I realize then how rare my situation is… how rare Edmund is.
I can only hope Harrison finds a way out. I hope he leaves Lily’s entourage at the end of the year and learns to stand on his own. If he doesn’t, he’ll be caught between Lily’s demands and Vivian’s claim. He can hide an engagement, but not a marriage. And if I’ve learned anything about the Blues by now, it’s that they don’t like to share.
Gaze too long at the street and you’ll forget you live in the gutter.
—DICKIE LANGLEY
CHAPTER 31
My days now begin with sunlight instead of blood.
No more standing on the edge of my balcony, stiff with dread, watching students herded to the guillotine through curtains of dirty snow. No more bile creeping up my throat as I await the blade’s fall. No more feeling seconds stretched thin between life and death.
Now I wake serenely, almost as I used to back home. Some mornings break silver and damp, while others blaze gold with a low winter sun that slants through the windows, softening everything it touches. Time moves faster now, no longer measured by executions but by training sessions and assignment deadlines.
Without death, even my balcony feels different. It used to loom outside my suite like a dark, conjoined twin of the locked room in Waldsten Mansion back home. I avoided looking at the balcony, let alone stepping out. Now, Charlotte and I sit there in the evenings, wrapped in fur coats, our Bonds linked, coursework pulled up on our feeds. Sometimes my Pinkie quizzes us on definitions or flags a mistyped formula; other times, the robot hovers by the railing, buzzing faintly, as if watching over us.
I take breaks now and then, telling myself it’s to rest my brain and stretch my legs, but each time my eyes drift past the Guillotine Yard to the Blue Dormitory. His suite is on the fourth floor, seventh balcony to the right.
The windows blaze with light tonight. Edmund was supposed to host a party in the Speakeasy, but he moved it to his suite after he, Jack, andDickie were banned for the rest of the year—a decision handed down after the boys tore through the Oval on hoverbikes fitted with firework cannons and nearly set the place on fire. Tattletale ran a full spread.
Laughter spills over the balconies in wild, unruly bursts. Music thumps through the stone, loud enough to rattle the windows. I watch two high-citizens wrestle a flaming sofa toward the railing and heave it over the edge, where it tumbles end over end into the dark below, shedding sparks like a dying comet.
I wonder what Edmund is doing inside, whether he’s laughing like that, head tipped back, eyes bright. I wonder if he knows which balcony is mine and whether he ever looks across at my suite the way I look at his.
Charlotte, curled in the chair opposite me, her hair half-contained by a knotted headband, follows my line of sight. “Dickie said Rosamund’s at the party,” she murmurs. “So really, the only thing we’re missing is torture.”
I chew the inside of my lip, embarrassed that she caught me staring, even though there’s no point pretending with her. “Glad to be missing out on that,” is all I manage.
Charlotte tilts her head. “You and Edmund are getting pretty close now, huh?”
“I guess so.” I rub the back of my neck. “Is that okay with you? I mean, because of what—”
“Of course it is.” Charlotte waves a hand, then kicks off her slipper and props her foot on the railing. “I’m glad things are working out. I like seeing you happy. It’s just…” She exhales slowly, her gaze drifting to the dark stretch of campus, dotted with streetlamps. “Well, this isn’t gonna last forever, you know. Not like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our entourage membership ends in September. And after that—” She sighs and then lights a cigarette. “I’m not trying to be a downer, Lore. Really. It’s just that we don’t know how Irene’s trial is gonna turn out. There’s a chance she walks. And if that happens…” Charlotte shrugs and takes a frustrated drag of her cigarette. “Irene and Edmund will get married. That’s already a done deal. Irene’s not going to want Edmund anywhere near us after that. She’ll pick his new entourage. And it won’t include you and me.”
The sudden prick of pain beneath my breastbone surprises me. I already knew this. I’d run through every possibility before, but I hadn’t allowed myself to think about it in a while. Now that I am, the feeling cuts both ways.
Because I don’t want to leave. If I have to say goodbye, I’ll miss Edmund more than I’d ever admit out loud.
Charlotte and I return to studying after that, trading notes and running through assignments. The sun lingers later in the sky now, though the days feel shorter. Snow melts into slush, slush turns into puddles, and the breeze begins to lose its bite. Spring is on its way. I feel it in the wind on my skin as I walk to class, and I see it, too.
Fur gives way to lightweight jackets, pastel suits, airy linens, and silk scarves loosely tied at the neck. Seersucker makes its return. Tea dresses and cruise dresses once again flare above shiny shoes, and stylish oval sunglasses glisten beneath angled boater hats. Parasols turn inside out in the wind, drawing laughter from those holding them. Everywhere I look, the harshness of winter is softening.
I still dread the drummed-up quack science of Cloning Theory, but most days I don’t mind my lectures. Some I even look forward to, especially Political Theory & Governance.
