Page 79 of Because I Killed Him
The Blue Dormitory towers like a mountain, its upper floors so high they obscure the starlight. The walls gleam in the darkness, a fusion of striated marble, pale stone, and dark ironwork that weaves like vines. Light seeps from the arched windows in warm ribbons, too carefully curated to feel inviting. Like everything at Grandmaster, the Blue Dormitory’s beauty has teeth.
At the curb, Pinkies in rose-colored uniforms rush to welcome the stream of incoming hovercars, guiding each into the underground parking garage. Blues, returning from the Speakeasy, step out in clicking shoes and flaring coats. A few are already heading through the dormitory entrance, a grand portico with gold-leafed archways. Beyond, mirrored elevators wait, their doors yawning open to carry the Blues to their private suites.
Edmund unbuckles his fencing scabbard, drops it on the seat between us, then steps out. “Follow me.”
“It’s after midnight,” I point out.
“Won’t take long.”
I still don’t move. More than I don’t want to enter a Blue’s suite alone at this hour, I don’t want to be seen doing it.
“Give me a good reason to go in there.”
“Privacy,” Edmund says. “Unless you’d prefer an audience for whatever argument you plan to start next.”
“I wasn’t planning to argue. I was planning to sleep. You can pick me up in the morning.”
Edmund leans back into the cabin, close enough that I catch the metallic tang of blood from the scratch on his neck. “Is it physically possible for that mouth of yours to ever sayyes?”
“Yes.” I smile pointedly. “Is it physically possible for yours to ever stop firing orders?”
“That would contradict its design.” His gaze drops to my bare, bloodied feet. “My sister left some shoes in my suite you can borrow—unless you’dprefer to walk back to the Green Dormitory like that and risk losing civil credits.”
I set my teeth, irritated that he has a point. While I don’t hate following orders on principle, obeying the Blues feels different, like blowing a kiss to the system I despise. After all the civil credits I’ve lost tonight, I can’t afford to lose any more.
“Fine,” I say.
I scoot out of the hovercar, startled when Edmund’s hand briefly closes around mine and helps me down. As soon as my feet hit the cobblestones, he slips that same hand into his pocket, turns, and heads for the entrance.
“What happened to not touching me because you’re engaged?” I call after him.
His laugh is a dry scrape. “The rule-maker is above the rules.”
He keeps walking, and I cup my bare arms against a sudden gust of wind. Then I bend back into the hovercar to retrieve my daffodil brooch, which fell onto the floor rug when I fainted. I hold my breath to avoid inhaling the cologne’s stench again. Edmund’s gleaming saber lies on the seat like a forbidden fruit I’m not allowed to touch. Something about the way it sits there, carelessly left yet perfectly positioned, catches in my mind like a thread tugging loose.
The scent.
I remember it now.
Charles Blackwell wore the same cologne the day he tried to kill me.
Edmund’s dormitory suite is a mansion in the sky. Room after spacious room unspools before me, dripping with luxury. The marble floors are veined with gold, and the ceilings are adorned with hand-painted frescoes. Velvet drapes spill from towering windows, framing a campus bathed in moonlight. The walls shimmer with gilded paper, their colors as vivid as a flock of parrots. The only thing Edmund’s suite shares with mine is the view, a perfect line of sight to the Guillotine Yard below.
I glance around, taking in the newness of every mosaic medallion and wall sconce. Edmund’s suite must’ve been one of the ones gutted and redone during the Blue Dormitory renovations.
Which explains why we’re staying.
This year, classes at Grandmaster started two weeks later than usual due to the renovations at the Blue Dormitory, and to make up for it, we won’t get a winter break. The gates will stay closed, and every student on campus will be kept from their families for two full semesters.
I wipe a little mud off my bare foot onto the sparkling clean floor as a Pinkie greets us in the grand foyer. The robot offers Edmund a glass of brandy, which he accepts with a dip of his chin. When the Pinkie moves to take his coat, he strides past it, as if he already has a destination in mind.
I follow Edmund through an art gallery of gold-framed paintings and sculptures under glass domes. Next, a library tiered with carved balconies and draped with rugs so soft you could sleep on them. Then, a training room paneled in polished wood and equipped with fencing gear. When we reach the dining room, voices crash into us, revealing an argument in full swing.
One voice cuts through them all.
“Turn on that light, Dickie,” Charlotte snaps. “And I’ll turn offyours.”
Relief settles in briefly before I hear a sharp crack. Edmund’s brandy glass shatters in his grip, amber liquid splashing onto his shirt sleeve. His shoulders tense, and his face hardens with a fury so visceral that it’s clear he didn’t expect Charlotte to be here.
