Page 141 of Because I Killed Him
My throat tightens at the sight of its red-brick facade, weathered but proud, bathed in the last warmth of the sun. Tall sash windows, twelve panes over twelve, are perfectly aligned across all four stories, with green shutters creaking in the breeze. Ivy trails up one corner, darker than I remember. The white cornice trims the roof like a lace collar, and above it is the balustrade where Vivian and I used to sit with non-alcoholic champagne, dreaming up names for the men we’d marry, laughing until our sides hurt.
The front portico sits beneath a fan-paned arch, supported by foursoaring white columns. I remember running between them barefoot as a child, smelling the roses from the gardens out front, and hearing the long, fraying rope swing creak in the wind—until Hillaire cut it down after I fell and sprained my wrist.
And the porch… Dad’s porch. During the blue hour of evening, he’d sit there with his sleeves rolled up, playing his saxophone for us. I’d sit on the steps with my chin resting on my knees, listening to the soft, golden notes as the world slowed down.
Gradually, the mansion fades into the distance, shrinking behind Hillaire’s rigid frame and reminding me I’m standing on Edmund’s balcony, far from home, trying to breathe through the bitter ache of homesickness. I miss it so much I could cry.
“How are you doing, Hilly?” I ask, my voice breaking a little.
“Badly,” she replies, stopping beside an old, gnarled oak. She pulls her gold coin from her pocket and rolls it between the fingers of her robotic hand, so lifelike it nearly fools people. It’s the hand she always extends to others, probably to avoid offering a part of herself that’s real.
“Why? What happened?” I ask.
“Father’s trying to be heroic again,” Hillaire says. “He’s planning to run for Governor of the Rainbow District. And I want you to convince him to change his mind.”
The words pull me back to the day I met Edmund’s mother, when she mentioned Dad’s plans as if they were common cocktail gossip.
“Are you sure?”
“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be calling.” Hillaire’s nostrils flare. “He told me himself. And Vivian.”
Hillaire pinches the coin between her fingers, and two slender blades emerge from its sides before vanishing again as she loosens her grip. The blades are sharp but only for show, the same kind of coin used for the toss before competitive fencing duels, like the Mensur.
Hillaire is clearly angry, but beneath it, I detect a faint note of dread. And I don’t understand why. This is what she’s always wanted: to enter public life early, like Dickie did, and to live in the Rainbow District, surrounded by fellow high climbers as she works to earn a spot at Grandmaster. It’s all she ever talks about.
“Dad can’t do that,” I say. “What about home? Our life in the Green District?”
“There won’t be a life here. Or there. Not if he runs,” Hillaire says flatly. “They’ll kill him before he gets near the governor’s seat.”
A shiver runs through me, more from fear than the cold. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She turns her head with eerie calm, her beady eyes cutting straight through me. “You think this is over, Loredana? You really think that just because Father saved President Reeve, he’s safe? Thatwe’resafe?”
“No, I just—”
“The Blues haven’t forgotten what he did.” Hillaire shoves the coin back into her pocket. “They still want blood for the Bliss ban, for saving Reeve, for daring to stand in their way. The only reason they haven’t killed Father already is that Reeve won’t let them. But he will. Sooner or later, he will. And do you know why?” Her lip curls. “Because Bluesalwayschoose their own in the end. That’s why they never lose.”
The certainty in her voice, the bleak conviction that nothing we do will ever be enough, hits me like a punch to the ribs. Part of me wonders if she’s right. Reeve is protecting Dad today, but what about tomorrow? What about when he’s up for re-election and needs every ounce of goodwill from his peers? Will their friendship survive then?
I don’t know. And it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
“When Dad calls to tell me himself,” I say, “I’ll talk to him.”
“Talk to him like his life depends on it,” Hillaire urges. “Because it does.”
I nod, though my focus is already splitting, caught in a rush of movement below. Down the street, Jack and Dickie stroll past the Guillotine Yard toward the low-citizen clubs. Dickie’s Pinkie chaperone trails behind with short, mechanical steps. And further back, Charlotte follows in a daze, still rubbing sleep from her face.
Why didn’t they tell me they were leaving? And where’s Edmund?
I turn only an inch before remembering that Hillaire and I are still on video.
“Hold on,” she snaps, her eyes locking onto something over my shoulder. “Those carvings aren’t low-relief.Whereare you?”
I don’t answer.
Through the balcony window, I see Edmund still inside the fencing room, and he’s not alone. His mother has entered, flanked by her two Doberman Pinschers, their muscles rippling as they break away from her to sniff Edmund’s boots.
I hang up on Hillaire.
