Page 57 of Because I Killed Him
A swell of voices draws my attention to the dining hall entrance, where Edmund, Jack, and Dickie stroll in. Edmund pauses to greet a few Blues in his path, then veers toward a young woman near the kitchen, who is balancing a bottle of champagne on her hip. Edmund whistles at her as he approaches, but she doesn’t turn. A small brown monkey is perched on her shoulder, its tail looping around her neck like a furry scarf. A tiny straw boater sits on the monkey’s head, and a lit cigarette dangles from its mouth.
“Rosie,” Edmund calls.
The young woman turns at last, revealing sharp, arched eyebrows and wavy, dark brown hair that falls to her waist. Statuesque and sultry, with velvet-petal lips, she wears a blue bias-cut satin gown that hugs her curves and dips just enough to hint at her breasts. Her sun-tanned skin and diamond-cut features are similar enough to Edmund’s that I realize she’s his twin sister.
Rosamund tilts her head at Edmund, smiling slyly as she lifts the champagne bottle and smacks the base with her palm. The cork pops free and flies toward him. He fumbles, then catches the cork with his other hand.
“That counts as a drop,” Rosamund says, her laugh as lively as the stream of champagne spilling onto the floor. Passing the bottle to a Pinkie, she sweeps toward her twin brother and throws her arms around his waist. Edmund lifts her, kisses her cheek, and sets her down.
Dickie bows, but Rosamund barely spares him a glance. Instead, she turns to Jack and plants a kiss on each cheek, her red lipstick smudging his skin like a mark of ownership. Jack rubs the lipstick away, stiffening as she threads herself between him and Edmund. She grips their hands as they cross the dining hall, her eyes on Edmund as if he’s the moon and on Jack as if he’s the stars.
Halfway across the hall, Edmund breaks away to take the cigarette from the monkey’s mouth and flick it to the floor. The monkey shrieks, clawing at Rosamund until she slips it another cigarette and lights the tip. Then she seizes Edmund’s hand again, lacing her fingers through his with a broad, satisfied smile.
Rosamund guides the boys toward the Blue dining area, a private enclave sealed by gold-leaf butterfly doors. Her grip on them is firm and unyielding, making it clear they’re hers and that she doesn’t want to share.
But Irene Hussey doesn’t strike me as the type to share, either. Irene waits at the entrance with six other high-citizen women, all dressed for a hunt. A cloche cap slants stylishly over her black bob, and a rifle case rests casually across her back.
The moment Rosamund sees Irene, she drops Edmund’s hand as if it burned her. Rosamund’s curtsy is deep enough to pass for polite, but the slight arch of one eyebrow says otherwise.
Edmund’s greeting isn’t much warmer. He bows with the eagerness of a man checking a box, brushes his lips against Irene’s gloved hand in the briefest kiss imaginable, then straightens and strides through the doors without another glance.
The rest of the group follows… everyone except Irene. She remains motionless in the doorway until, suddenly, like a hunter in a forest hearing a twig snap behind her, she turns her head toward me.
There’s no smile this time. Slowly, she raises three fingers, holding them steady so I can see. Then she walks away, her rifle case swaying as she disappears through the doors.
First, five fingers. Now, two days later, three fingers.
I get it now.
It’s a countdown.
When class ends for the day, I head straight to my hovercar and activate the self-driving mode. The control stick engages as my Pinkies and I lift off and speed toward the Green Dormitory. I barely notice the campus streaking by as I activate my Bond and skim my social calendar—a neglected list of parties I hadn’t even glanced at, thanks to Dad’s strict orders to leave my suite only for class. Most of the events are optional, organized by recreation coordinators to distract students struggling with Bliss withdrawal. But one event catches my eye: the Stag Leap Gala, only three days away. It’s a mandatory event welcoming first-years to Grandmaster University, held at the campus’s extravagant lodge, the Speakeasy.
I remember the Speakeasy from Harrison’s tip list. He warned me to avoid it, if possible, because it’s the only public place on campus where the formal behavior laws don’t apply. There are no rules for posture, speech, or introductions. The Speakeasy hosts a collection of wild, roaring parties he described aspure chaos.
The temperature suddenly feels too warm in the hovercar, so I lower my window and breathe in the cool, pine-scented air. Is the Speakeasy where Irene plans to make good on her threat? But why there, of all places? Sure, the Speakeasy might be rowdy, but it’s not a surveillance-free zone. There are cameras, security drones, Coppers, and Pinkies. How could she bypass all that? And why give me a warning beforehand?
On the Office of Student Affairs website, I draft an email requesting permission to skip the gala. With five other students targeted over the Bliss ban, I bet mine won’t be the first they receive. By the time I hit “send,” the hovercar glides into the Green Dormitory parking garage.
I jump out and take the elevator, my thoughts racing too fast to notice the world around me. But when I round the corner to my suite and see Charlotte standing outside my door, every worry in my head goes still.
She’s leaning against the frame, taking quick, shallow drags on a cigarette as she surveys the hallway like she’s on watch. When her eyes meet mine, her forehead lifts wistfully, as if she’s as relieved to see me as I am to see her. She pulls the cigarette from her lips, exhales with determination, and says, “I’m ready to talk.”
The Blues rose to power because they were engineered for endurance, the greatest virtue of all. What is the use of courage if it fades? Of strength if it breaks? Of will if it fails?
—HUBBEL GRANT, ACTOR
CHAPTER 12
The moment Charlotte and I step into my suite, I push through my wall of Pinkies and throw my arms around her. Relief crashes over me in a sudden, freeing wave, as if I’ve been holding my breath since stepping off Harrison’s jet. The words spill out before I can stop them, tumbling over each other.
“Forget what I said on the jet.” I squeeze her tighter. “I was hurt, embarrassed, and pissed off, but Harry was right. We need to stick together. If you hadn’t helped me on the train, I’d already be dead.Please, Char. I don’t want you to leave.”
Charlotte is stiff at first, as if deciding whether to hug me back. Then, slowly, she softens and wraps her arms around me in that warm, familiar way I’ve missed so much.
“I wasn’t planning to leave you,” she says quietly. “I just needed some time to get my shit together.”
I pull back to look at her. She’s wearing a full face of makeup, heavy enough that I can tell she’s trying to hide behind it, but there are cracks. Her nose is pink at the tip, and her eyes are glassy, as if she’s been crying.
