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 14

  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.

  “You mean about Jack and Edmund?” I ask.

  Charlotte’s mouth quivers, and she presses her lips into a hard line. “I know I said I’m ready to talk, Lore, and I am—just not about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” Her voice breaks on the word. “What happened between the three of us was my fault.”

  I suspected as much back in the blue first-year carriage. Jack barely acknowledged her, and when he did, the pain in his expression was louder than any outburst. Unlike Edmund, Jack didn’t seem to want revenge. He just wanted her out of his sight.

  “I’m not going to judge you, Char,” I say. “We all screw up.”

  “Not this bad. I know I made a big stink about the shot duel, but…” She pauses, her eyes darting away from mine. “If the scorpion had stung me, I would’ve deserved it.”

  She pulls away and sinks onto the window seat, where a stream of sunlight harshly highlights the puffiness under her eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept well in days.

  I drift over, still curious, but I don’t push. Instead, I sit beside her and say quietly, “We can talk about whatever you want.”

  “Thanks, Lore.”

  Charlotte shifts into a cross-legged position and fishes an emerald-studded lighter from her pocket. I recognize the lighter as the one her mom gave her before she died. During our friendship, Charlotte never went anywhere without it. Seeing the lighter is comforting, a small sign that not everything about her has changed.

  Charlotte’s fingers shake as she works a cigarette free from a gold case, and they shake even more as she tries to light it. I take the lighter from her, flick the flint wheel, and hold the flame steady at the tip of her cigarette. She leans in, takes a drag, then exhales a ribbon of smoke toward the glass.

  “There’s a party in the Speakeasy on Sunday,” she says. “The spider’s going to be there.”

  “The spider?”

  “Rosamund,” Charlotte clarifies. “Edmund’s twin sister.”

  I recall seeing Rosamund in the dining hall earlier, one hand holding Edmund’s, the other clutching Jack’s. Her grip was possessive, as if the boys were the two halves of her heart, whether they wanted to be or not.

  “I saw Rosamund with Edmund, Jack, and Dickie at lunch,” I say. “Does she have a thing for Jack?”

  Charlotte coughs mid-drag, blowing out smoke in short, irritated bursts. “Hell, I wish it were just that. Rosamund is obsessed with Jack… and with Edmund, too. Dickie says she can be perfectly nice when they’re not involved, but the second you get close to either one, you’re on her kill list.”

  Charlotte flicks her cigarette ash. “That’s the only version of Rosamund I ever knew. She was everywhere when I was with Jack—always turning up, flirting with him right in front of me, showering him with expensive gifts as if she thought she could buy her way into his pants. You know that hovercar Jack picked us up in at the train station?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “The spider’s the one who gave it to him.”

  I nod, understanding why Charlotte sat on her coat the whole ride. “Jack rejected her, though, right?”

  “Yeah, but not in the ‘screw off’ way I wanted. Now that Jack and I have split, Rosamund knows I’m wide open. Worse, Dickie told me she found out Jack helped us on the train. She thinks I’m trying to get back together with Jack, so she’s gunning for me again.”

  Charlotte drapes her hands over her knees, her gaze hardening as if she’s staring down a demon she chose to run from rather than face. And now it’s finally caught up to her.

  “Why don’t you just skip the party?” I ask. “I put in for a dismissal with the Office of Student Affairs. You should, too.”

  Charlotte lets out a dry laugh. “Ha—yeah, right. The Stag Leap Gala is a first-year rite of passage. Nobody skips it. Why don’t you want to go?”

  Two Pinkies wheel in a steaming dinner trolley and park it by the window seat. I wait until the robots are gone before saying, “Because I’m pretty sure Irene is going to come after me during the party… maybe even try to kill me.”

  Charlotte snorts, as if I’m joking. But then, realizing I’m serious, her smile falters, and she sits up straighter. “How, exactly? The Speakeasy’s got security up the ass. Even Irene can’t get away with shanking you in public for no reason. She’d disgrace herself and her whole family. And even if she’s crazy enough to risk it, you can fight back.”

  “No… I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Charlotte glances at my hand. “You’re healed now, so what’s the problem?”

  I run my thumb over the smooth new skin. Dad warned me to keep my weapons restriction secret, and I would with anyone else, but Charlotte is different. She’s the person I trust most, more than Vivian and Hillaire, even more than Dad. If I want to rebuild things with her, I can’t lie. Back when we were closest, she always knew when I was lying, even to myself.

  “What I mean is, I’m not allowed to fight,” I say.

  Then I tell Charlotte everything, from the attack in the locker room to the weapons restriction that followed. Apart from my witness testimony, it’s the first time I’ve told the story aloud, and recalling it in detail is painful, as if every word cuts my tongue.

  By the time I finish, Charlotte’s frown is so deep it seems to carve new lines into her face. Her lighter sits abandoned on the table, and a burnt-out cigarette hangs forgotten between her fingers. “Shit, Lore,” she says hoarsely. “Which Blue?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I get up from the window seat and pace around the sofa, hoping Charlotte won’t dig any deeper. Talking about what happened is one thing, but talking about Charles Blackwell is another. “What matters is that unless I can convince the judge to suspend the ban, I can’t touch a weapon for the next two years.”

  Charlotte presses her fingers to her mouth as if fitting puzzle pieces together. “The judge who sentenced you… that wouldn’t be Judge Bradford, would it?”

  “Yeah.”

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  She nods slowly, understanding why I wanted to help Jane. “I don’t know, Lore. Judge Bradford might want to help you, especially after what happened to his daughter, but he’s in a chokehold. If he lifts your restriction and word gets out, they’ll throw the whole damn book at him—corruption, favoritism, bending to personal politics. Anything they can use to bring him down.”

  “So, what do you suggest?”

  Charlotte falls silent, as if weighing options. The way her fingers tap against her knee holds the rhythm of habit, the kind you develop after having to plan your escape too many times. I think about how life must’ve been for her with Rosamund relentlessly circling.

  Finally, Charlotte stands from the window seat. “I think we should map out the Speakeasy. I’ve already looked at the blueprints, and the place might as well be its own fucking district. But if we study every room and learn the ins and outs, not even the sixth years will be able to find us.”

  In other words, hide. Again.

  “It’s a good idea, Char, but I’m getting tired of running. If we keep this up, maybe that’s who we are.”

  “It’s not who we are,” she says firmly. “But right now, it’s who we have to pretend to be.” She grabs her lighter from the table, curling her fingers around it as if drawing strength from its weight. “Winning isn’t about fighting every battle. It’s about choosing the right ones. There’s gonna be a time for you to deal with Irene and for me to get even with Rosamund. But that time isn’t now. In the Speakeasy, we hide.”

  ***

  Subject: Stag Leap Gala Attendance

  Dear Miss Loredana Waldsten,

  Please be advised that attendance at the Stag Leap Gala is required of all first-year students, in accordance with the longstanding traditions and standards of propriety at Grandmaster University. Accordingly, your request for a formal dismissal has been reviewed and, regrettably, denied.

  You may bring private security to the event. However, I assure you that the safety of all students on the Grandmaster University campus is our utmost priority, and we take every measure to ensure a secure environment during events such as the Stag Leap Gala.

  I appreciate your understanding. May you always be virtuous.

  Sincerely,

  Lars Wagner

  Director of Student Affairs

  I stare at the email with a heavy, sinking heart. It feels as if I’ve been pushed off a cliff, but there’s no rush of wind, only a horrible, crushing silence as I wait to hit the bottom. The only way forward now is through. In two and a half days, I’ll be trapped at the Stag Leap Gala, forced into a dark, pulsating crowd with a Blue who wants me dead.

  My last thread of hope is the petition I sent to Dad. He’ll forward it to Judge Bradford, and I’ll know before Sunday whether my weapons restriction can be lifted temporarily. It’s a long shot, but it’s the best I’ve got.

  I still haven’t told Dad about Irene’s threat. He already knows plenty of people want our family dead. Adding Irene to the list would only push him to confront her parents, and that’s a war I can’t afford to start without proof.

  So, I wait.

  Charlotte and I pore over the Speakeasy’s blueprints, committing every detail to memory. As I scroll through the endless rooms, it quickly becomes clear that in a place like this, survival is a game of inches.

  The Speakeasy is a seven-story lodge nestled deep in a grove of cypress trees atop rugged cliffs that drop straight into the ocean. The only way there is by hovership. The Blues have their own grand portico entrance, while the rest of us are funneled through narrow, almost-hidden side doors.

  Inside the Speakeasy, each floor has a unique shape. The first floor is the Oval, the seventh is the Hexagon, and the others fall somewhere in between. On each floor, there are over a hundred rooms, each a potential threat or escape.

  Charlotte and I work in the private study of my suite. We huddle over my desk, our Bonds linked so we can share screens. We have the Speakeasy’s blueprints, a map of the surrounding area, access to online forums full of insider tips, and we’re tracking the Stag Leap Gala hashtag on Quill.

  Between hurried bites of food served by Pinkies, we examine every room of interest, marking hiding spots, tracing escape routes, and memorizing the ventilation shafts that wind like veins through the lodge. The shafts are narrow and confined, but they lead to hidden pockets within the sprawling chaos. We memorize ten paths, each leading to a room where we can barricade ourselves if necessary. If one path fails, we have a backup. If that fails, there’s another. And another.

  But time is running out.

  On Friday, we’re forced to break for class and the nightly group call with my family. By Saturday, our exhaustion turns the hours into a formless blur. But the Speakeasy is so vast and intricate that we allow ourselves only a few hours of sleep at a time. Every room, hallway, and corner could hide something… or someone. My eyes burn and droop from lack of rest. My brain feels overstuffed with information that slips through my fingers like sand, vanishing before I can grasp it. But every time I start to doze off, a Pinkie is there to jolt me awake.

  I can’t afford to overlook anything, especially with Irene’s threat looming over me. I might be strong, but I know my limits. Without my saber, facing Irene in close combat will only get me killed.

  By Saturday evening, I’m so drained I have to take an energy tablet. The artificial boost keeps me pacing in circles while Charlotte brushes her hair at my desk to calm her nerves. Two Pinkies quiz us relentlessly on the Speakeasy’s blueprints, testing our knowledge of every floor and room.

  As I answer, I try to ignore the nightlife pulsing through the windows of my suite. One moment, it’s the rowdy laughter of night golfers on the green; the next, it’s the distant hum of speedboats cutting across the water. Only once do I give in and peek through the curtains. A yellow moon hangs low over campus, like a coin tossed into the night. Students stroll the cobbled streets in eveningwear, their chatter blending with the whir of hoverboards and the beat of jazz spilling from half-open club doors. Somewhere, a woman sings at her window, her voice drifting like perfume on a breeze.

  The dark irony is that, beneath all the carefree smiles, I know these low-citizens are as caged as I am. The only difference is that they don’t have to fight for every moment of safety beyond their dormitory doors. If the Bliss ban had failed, I’d be out there too, catching a show at the theater, tap dancing in clubs, or sipping cocktails at a beach bar, without worrying whether my drink is spiked with a neurotoxin pill.

  Instead, the laughter and lights outside clash cruelly with the stillness inside my suite. Every tick of the clock feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of life or death.

  By the time Charlotte stumbles back to her suite, I can barely stand without feeling dizzy. My head drops to my desk, exhaustion pulling me into peaceful darkness, but it’s short-lived. The Pinkies awaken me with soft yet insistent hands and guide me to my vanity. The robots dress me, apply makeup, and style my hair into finger waves, then lead me onto the balcony to watch the daily execution.

  The morning sun stings my eyes so sharply that I trip over a potted fern left carelessly in my path. I catch myself with a silent curse, but it still costs me a civil credit, deducted on the spot.

  494 left.

  I keep my gaze away from the Guillotine Yard and focus instead on the Blue Dormitory terraces beyond. All but one are crowded with high-citizens lounging beneath shaded sun chairs. The vacant terrace is on the fourth floor, almost directly across from mine, and it’s filled with Pinkies cleaning up after what looks like a party from the night before. I can’t help but wonder whether the terrace belongs to Edmund. He told me he doesn’t watch the executions. Maybe he meant it.

  The longer I stare at the terrace, the more its emptiness draws me in, like a small pocket of freedom in a world that offers none to people like me. I keep my eyes on it as two students are led toward the guillotine, their final moments unfolding under the gazes of classmates and supposed friends. As the executioner pulls the lever, releasing the blade onto their necks, I wonder what brought them to this point. How many civil credits did these students lose over mistakes as trivial as mine? A careless stumble. A poorly chosen word. A second too slow to obey. Small, forgettable slips that, layer by layer, build into something heavy enough to crush you.

  When the execution ends and I return indoors, my body is shaking so uncontrollably that I can barely read the time on my wristwatch. Only ten hours left until the Stag Leap Gala. I head back to my study and try to focus on the Speakeasy’s blueprints, but my thoughts scatter and ricochet like stray bullets. My willpower is fraying at the edges, ready to break. One more pull and I’ll come apart.

  Thankfully, an incoming call from Dad snaps me out of it.

  His face appears on the screen when I answer, but it’s not the restless, sleep-deprived one I’ve come to expect. He’s in his office at the Capitol Estate, surrounded by the organized chaos of staff rushing to prepare for tonight’s Bridge Banquet at the Golden Gate Manor. The annual event aims to strengthen ties between high-citizens and low-citizens, serving as a symbolic gesture to bridge the gaps that still divide us.

  In the corner of the office, Dad is hunched over a pool table, chalking his cue. He leans forward, takes the shot, and sinks the one-ball into the corner pocket. Pool is a game he plays for only two reasons: when he’s feeling unexpectedly bad or unexpectedly good. The faint, almost imperceptible smile on his face hints at the latter.

  “Hey, Loredana, you got a minute?” he asks.

  I blink, trying to look calm rather than strung out on caffeine. “Did Judge Bradford suspend my weapons restriction?”

  Dad takes another shot, then shakes his head. “No. Bradford said doing so would risk his integrity as an upholder of the law.”

  Integrity. What bullshit. Bradford lost his integrity the moment he sentenced me to the restriction. I slump against the wall, too drained to stand upright. “Then why the hell are you so… happy?”

  Dad lines up his next shot. The cue glides across the table as he sinks the two-ball with a soft thud. “Because I just got off the phone with Winston Glass.”

  The name hits harder than if Dad had attached a defibrillator to my chest and shocked me. “What, you mean theWinston Glass?”

  “Yeah, honey.” Dad’s smile widens. “That one.”

  I sink into a nearby chair, feeling the ground tilt beneath me. Calling someone like Winston Glass a tech mogul would be an insult. He’s considered the brightest Orange who ever lived, the man who single-handedly transformed our technological landscape. His company, Cerebrum, provided us with the Bond, advanced hover technology, and many of our genetic enhancements. Even Blues are forced to tread carefully around him.

  “How, Dad?” I ask.

  Dad hands the pool cue to one of his staffers and steps into the lavatory, the only quiet space in his office. “Winston and I knew each other years ago, long before he became the name everyone knows. I didn’t expect much when I reached out, but he took the call.”

  I frown, and for the first time, the clear image I’ve always had of my father blurs. When it refocuses, shadows darken the edges, revealing parts of him I don’t fully understand. At home, he’s Dad. Out here, he’s a man playing a hundred other roles, with ties that reach closer to power than I ever realized.

  “Did the call go well?”

  “Better than well.” Dad closes the lavatory door, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Winston is on our side, Loredana. No daylight between his views on Bliss and ours. He’s going to help the people being targeted—including you.”

  I lean in, my pulse quickening. “Help us how?”

  “By sending us a gift.”