Page 142 of Because I Killed Him
I hurl myself away from the window, collapsing hard against the balcony’s frozen stone floor, where the ice bites into the skin of my elbows. I feel a sting and the wet warmth of blood, but the pain barely registers.
Stay down. Stay quiet.
Shit.
I crouch low, tuck my knees, and press my back flat against the wall. Images of Edmund’s fury flash through my mind, of how violated he looked the last time I walked in on him and his mother. He won’t let it go if I’m caught again.
But I have nowhere to run.
The campus hoverboards don’t fly this high, and there’s no access stairwell or emergency chute. The balcony hangs here, four stories up, sealed in by a railing too short to hide behind. My only choice is to call the Coppers for extraction and give myself away.
My Bond pings.
“We’re hitting up Jolt & Jive,”Charlotte writes.“Where are you?”
“Stuck,”I reply.“Go without me. I’ll explain later.”
I set my Bond to silent mode and huddle closer to the wall, my teeth chattering even as I try to clench them. Edmund’s and Phillipa’s voices drift through the windowpanes, muffled yet clear enough. If I angle my head just right, I can see past the curtains. Edmund is still winded and sweat-slicked from the duel. He towels himself off, smooths his hair, and draws his heels together before bowing to his mother.
Phillipa stands motionless in the doorway, looking nothing like I remember. The last time I saw her, she lit everything she touched. Now that light is gone, and what’s left is dim, almost desperate. Her coat hangs too heavily on her frame, and her hair is pulled back too tightly, accentuating the skin stretched over her bones. She looks thin and frail, asif whatever made her glow has been pulled out through her eyes. And those eyes, still blue, still clear, aren’t simply looking at Edmund; they’re holding him, clutching him like a wound.
Behind Phillipa, the Dobermans prowl the edges of the room, ears pricked as their heads turn toward the glass.
I go still. One wrong move, and they’ll see me. One sound, and it’s over.
Phillipa’s boot heels barely make a sound as she crosses the room toward Edmund. She reaches out with a trembling hand and catches his fingers, gripping as if she might fall without him. “Tell me it isn’t true, Edmund,” she says. “Tell me you didn’t withdraw from yesterday’s meeting with Irene.”
“It is true,” he says, staring past her. “I withdrew. And you know why.”
Phillipa’s lips part in a plea, and her fingers squeeze tighter. “You don’t need to love Irene to marry her.”
Edmund grunts. “Do I not? You are well acquainted with the terms, Mother. Once we are married, I am to be faithful to Miss Hussey in all things. If I am to be bound to her in such exclusivity, then affection is rather significant, I think… unless, of course, you would prefer I live as you have lived.”
Phillipa winces. Her eyes flick to the pearl bracelet on her wrist, then lift again, wet and frantic, as though she’s been exposed.
I suddenly realize that her marriage, like Edmund’s looming one, was arranged. Loveless. And now she’s trying to force the same fate on her son.
“Power,” Phillipa says, her throat working around a swallow, “isn’t freedom. It’s responsibility.”
“I do not disagree,” Edmund replies. “However, marrying Miss Hussey was never meant to be my responsibility. And it would not be, if—”
“The prior engagement is void,” Phillipa interrupts. “Irene’s fiancé is gone. The duty is now yours.”
My ears burn at the word.Fiancé?Irene was engaged to another Blue before Edmund? Who? And where is he now?
“You accepted this match,” Phillipa says. “You signed the agreement in exchange for the flight jacket. If you’ve decided now that it isn’t worth—”
“It is worth it,” Edmund says, but histone is flat. Empty.
“Good.”
Phillipa releases his hand, and her expression brightens to something faintly satisfied. Straightening up, she wipes away her tears with the pad of her thumb, first one cheek, then the other, as if she no longer has use for them.
“The ceremony will take place next autumn as planned,” she adds. “Directly afterward, you’ll declare a major.”
Edmund’s shoulders stiffen. “Why so soon? That decision is not required until my third year.”
Phillipa lowers her hand onto the head of one of the Dobermans and strokes it absentmindedly. The other trots over to Edmund, tail swaying gently, nose nudging for attention. He pulls his hand away, eyes fixed on the animal’s tongue with disgust, as though he knows exactly where it’s been. The whole exchange is starting to feel like a routine rather than a conversation, a performance both Edmund and Phillipa have grown accustomed to.
