Page 53 of Because I Killed Him
His expression is curious now, as if he’s turning out my pockets with his eyes. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to tell him the reason I’m unsatisfied is becausehispeople caused the Bliss addictions in the first place. Instead, I force a shrug. “The punishment was just. I simply prefer not to celebrate death as I do life.”
“Then you are in the minority.”
“Does that make me wrong?”
Edmund flashes a pointed smile. “Worse. It makes you unvirtuous.” The doors begin to close, and he sticks out his hand to hold them open. “Good luck, Miss Waldsten.”
My feet drag as I step out, as if even my body is reluctant to leave. Theway he twists my words back at me is more irritating than when Hillaire used to follow me through the house, mimicking everything I said with a thin, taunting sneer.
“I have more use for advice than luck,” I say.
“You want advice?” Edmund nods at my empty belt. “Carry a saber.”
“I do not fence.”
“Oh, really?” He steps closer, grinning, and brushes a finger across the scar on my chin. “Then what isthis?”
I step away from his outstretched hand and fidget with my earring as I reach for a lie. “My sister accidentally clipped me with an ice skate blade last winter.”
Edmund’s mouth tightens, and I can’t tell whether he believes me. “How unfortunate. Why do you not fence?”
“I do not care for it.”
He crosses his arms and lets out a loud, grating laugh. “And I do not care for the color blue. Yet here we are.”
The elevator doors close again, and this time I hold them open. My irritation flares at the intensity of his laughter. “But you care about the power blue gives you,” I say.
Edmund’s laugh dies so quickly he almost chokes on it. “Yes. And so should you, seeing as I used it to assist you. If you truly celebrate life, Miss Waldsten, perhaps you should celebratemefor saving yours.”
I want to know why he bothered. Since he’s engaged to Irene, why didn’t he kick me out of his salon or kill me himself? But I run out of time. The elevator doors close over Edmund’s face, now lit with a smug pride that makes me want to punch a hole through the control panel and leave him stranded. I turn away, heat rushing to my neck, wondering why I feel so flustered and, more than that, how the hell Charlotte could’ve ever been friends with him.
She must’ve really loved Jack.
By the time I reach my seat on the Green level, I’ve managed to ease my frustration, though the echo of Edmund’s laughter still lingers like the stench of the Irasbis Gas. I keep my eyes down, avoiding the other Greenstudents as I settle into my desk. A digital tablet labeled with my name rests atop it. I power on the tablet and skim the guidelines, which state that no one, including Blues, may activate their Bond during class. Even worse, the professor can access our tablets, tracking every note we take and every search we make.
At 8:30 a.m., Professor Rudolf Yates strides in. He’s a Purple, still handsome in his sixties, with silver hair streaked with black and a waxed pencil mustache. On his tip list, Harrison noted that Yates has a notoriously short fuse but is easily placated with a well-chosen box of cigars.
Professor Yates sheds his fur-lined cape and steps onto the lecture platform. The platform powers on with a mechanical hum, rising into the air and gliding toward the holographic screens in the center of the hall. The screens form a suspended cube, ensuring every student has a clear view. Once in position, Professor Yates clasps his hands, bows his head, and says, “For this day and all its blessings, we thank the Civilized World.”
Then he turns on us with a hawklike stare. “As many of you are likely aware, President Theodore Reeve is scheduled to address the nation this morning. With Headmistress Prew’s approval, I am postponing the start of our lecture so we may watch the address live. Given the challenges posed by the Bliss Prohibition Act, I believe it is in our collective interest to hear what the President has to say.”
Around me, students trade curious glances, with some quietly debating whether Reeve will stand firm on the Bliss ban. As I listen, I try not to think about what it would mean if Reeve backed down: the target off my back, the chance to walk through the first-year Lecture Hall like a normal student, without every step feeling like I’m being hunted. Instead, I think of Mom’s words, that pain is the price of change, and I remind myself how long I’ve wanted life to be better for low-citizens.
Professor Yates activates the cube-shaped screens with a remote, tuning in to the Civilized News Network. The screens show President Theodore Reeve in the rose garden of the presidential estate, the Golden Gate Manor. Behind him, his security detail stands at attention, hands clasped in front. They wear deep blue uniforms with golden epaulettes and sweeping one-shoulder capes. On their jackets, two large, mirrored gold eagle wings extend across the chest.
Reeve, who’s nearly seven feet tall, has a face that strikes me as sad, as if a part of him is perpetually grieving, even when he smiles. His frame is built on broad, battle-ready shoulders that make his surroundings appear small, and his eyes remind me of lonely blue moons. His voice carries the quiet authority of someone who never needs to raise it, deepened by a warm, easy laugh that earns him an endless stream of admirers. Yet even in his mid-forties, he remains unmarried.
I’ve always wondered why people call Reeve “golden”, since his hair is as black as the patches between stars. Dad says that when he and Reeve were students at Grandmaster, everyone called Reeve “The Golden Boy.” Now, decades later, they call him “The Golden Man.”
Reeve exchanges a few words with his head of security, then strides to the podium. There’s a slight twitch in his hand as he walks, the kind you see just before someone pulls a trigger. Dad says Reeve is the only Blue he’s ever shared a drink with, but I doubt that means Dad trusts him. In the end, Blues always go back to their tables to drink with their own.
“To my fellow Blues, and every Green, Orange, and Purple,” President Reeve begins. “During my campaign, I pledged to serve our democracy with unwavering fidelity. I stood with you in the fight to prohibit the misuse of artificial media and supported your efforts to safeguard the privacy and security of Bond data. As president of the Civilized World, it is my solemn obligation to honor the will of the majority and preserve the rule of law, ensuring it remains untouched and steadfast against any faction, force, or person who would seek to diminish it. Yesterday, our noble representatives carried out their duties with integrity, voting on the Bliss Prohibition Act. With the welfare of our great and glorious nation foremost in their minds, they chose to prohibit the use of Bliss. I have now signed this legislation into law. As of yesterday, the twenty-first of September, the use of Bliss was banned. From today onward, the production, sale, purchase, and use of Bliss are illegal.”
Movement stirs on the high-citizen level of the lecture room; desks shift and chairs scrape against the marble, followed by the heavy drum of footsteps. I clench my hands in my lap, resisting the urge to look up.
Cameras flash in the rose garden, capturing President Reeve from every angle. He speaks confidently as he continues, “Yetthere are those among us who already seek to undermine the will of the majority. To protect our elected representatives, preserve our democratic institutions, and uphold the rule of law, I hereby announce thatanyattempt to threaten or harm the representatives who supported the Bliss Prohibition Act will be met with the fullest consequences permitted by law.”
The Blues are at the railing now, their voices rising in wild, angry bursts as they jostle for space. A glass flies over the railing and shatters against the holographic screen, right where President Reeve’s face hovers. Water streaks down his image like tears. Two Pinkies rush forward to clean up the mess, but Professor Yates waves them back, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. I keep my gaze fixed on the screen, still refusing to look up.
