Page 140 of Because I Killed Him
I didn’t lie. Not fully. That first year, I burned too hot, too fast. And I did walk out of that quarterfinal duel. But what I didn’t mention is that Dad followed me. And he wasn’t gentle. He didn’t put a hand on my shoulder or soothe me with gentle words. He shoved the saber back into my hands and said Waldstens don’t quit and that he’d rather raise a loser than a coward. “You don’t have to win to earn respect, Loredana,” he told me. “You just have to finish.” Then he added that if I didn’t get back out on the piste, he’d force me to take hoverboard ballet instead.
So I did. And I never regretted it.
Until now.
Jack steps closer, rubbing a hand along the side of his neck. “So, you’re another William Lee, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“I can help,” he says, then lifts a hand as if he doesn’t want to overstep. “If you want.”
I nod and shove down my guilt. “Thank you, Jack.”
Across the room, Dickie fidgets with his bowtie, his usual swagger dimmed. “Sorry, broad,” he says. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.”
“It’s all right, Dickie,” I assure him, but my voice feels distant, as if it’s echoing from another room.
I glance at Edmund. He’s by the gear cabinet, rummaging until he pulls a small box from behind a stack of chest guards. He checks inside, then walks back and presses it into my hand with a smile that makes it painfully clear he’s already forgiven me.
“Don’t quit,” he says. “And don’t be embarrassed. I once bit halfway through another fencer’s finger after he flipped me off.”
I force a small, stinging smile, but I don’t open the box. The weight of it feels wrong in my palm, too generous for something built on a half-truth. For a moment, I wish they’d laughed at me and mocked me until I was driven off in shame. That would’ve been easier than this.
“Thank you, Edmund,” I say quietly, hoping the words are enough to make him turn away.
Instead, he leans in, close enough that I catch the musk of his sweat. “You’re missing an earring.”
My fingers fly to my left ear.He’s right.Normally, I wouldn’t be bothered, but it was one of the teardrop diamonds Vivian gave me for my birthday last year. My mind retraces the day, through every room I entered and every hallway I walked. I’ve been pacing his suite like a ghost for hours.
Edmund checks the time on his Altimor again, then glances at Jack, who’s staring eagerly at a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the shelf as if it’s flirting with him.
“One more?”
Jack blinks, snapping out of his daze. “Yeah. Sure.”
I slip to the edge of the room and watch anxiously as Edmund and Jack walk onto the piste. They offer each other a clean salute—blade to face, then down—before Edmund switches the saber from his right hand to his left. They drop into stance, shoulders angled, lead knees bent, and rear heels grounded. Jack takes a high line, sixth or close to it, his blade tilted above his shoulder. Edmund lowers his guard and teases an opening down the middle. He always does this, always invites the first move, turning the aggression to his advantage.
I brace, telling myself I can watch and that the duel will be nothing compared to the blood-drenched dreams of Charles. But at the same time, I can feel Charles’s ghost groaning beneath Edmund’s boots like a fuse waiting to ignite.
Then, just as Jack feints high and Edmund lunges to take the opening, the buzz of my Bond vibrates against my temples. I glance at the caller ID, already expecting Vivian’s name to appear. It’s usually her these days, calling to thank me again for Coquette. Vivian never forgets what you give her.
But it isn’t her.
It’s Hillaire.
She’s the only person in my family who never calls first and avoids conversation as if it prematurely ages her. Which means whatever she has to say can’t wait.
Sometimes, I forget I’m Blue. But never on Saturdays.
—EDMUND PREW
CHAPTER 33
I step onto the balcony to take Hillaire’s call, and the clash of Edmund’s and Jack’s sabers inside fades into a distant echo. Out here, the wind is cold enough to sting, but there’s no time to grab a coat.
Before answering, I press my back to the icy stone wall, angling my body to hide the fencing piste behind me. Hillaire is as perceptive as a journalist. One quick look at the high-relief double-headed eagles carved along the balcony doors, and she’ll know I’m not at the Green Dormitory.
When I answer, her jutting-boned face comes into view, followed by her platinum-blonde bob, slicked with enough hairspray to stop a bullet. She’s dressed in her ribbed training nanosuit, with a rifle strapped to her back, walking stiff-legged down the gravel path toward the compound Dad built to prepare us for public life. The screen jostles with her movement, revealing glimpses of Waldsten Mansion, which slips farther into the distance with each step.
