by Sara Wolf
“One! Two! Three! Sir Ursine isn’t moving - is this it for our adorably chubby champion?”
Sir Ursine’s eyes gaze up at me, all black and all artificially smiling. Cheeky bastard! He knows what Ciel said to me! I can see it in his beady eyes - he knows he’s lost the battle, but he’s won the war!
“ - eight, nine, TEN! That’s it!” I bolt to my feet and accept the imaginary cheers of the crowd with my arms up. “Sir Ursine’s out - which means Lilith wins! Raaah! RAAH!! Lil-ith! Lil-ith! Lil-ith! Lilith! Look this way! Lilith! You’re amazing! I wanna marry you! Even if you are childish!”
My extremely sane chanting is interrupted as the door’s yanked open by a very displeased-looking professor with an equally displeasing mustache.
“Aw shit.”
“Miss Pierce, why aren’t you wearing your uniform?” He asks. “It is classroom hours.”
“Sauce,” I whisper.
“Pardon?”
“Got sauce on it.”
The professor’s probably heard it all before. He could slap me with detention. Pretty sure Von Arx is waiting till I hit three to tell Mom about my bad behavior. I squirrel my hands in each other nervously, but he takes one look at my pathetic pizza-sweater-swollen-eyes self and lets me off the hook. Mildly.
“Are you in my next class?” He asks. I scrabble to pick up Sir Ursine from the floor and hide him behind my back.
“No?”
“Are you in any of my classes?”
“Um. Also no.”
He sighs. “Then please, leave the facilities open for those who are.”
“Right-o.” I slip past the professor with the agility of a tortoise. “Cheers.”
I leave his less-than-enthused ass behind and meander out of the empty music room. Even with the whole getting-busted thing, I feel a little better after shouting it all out. And crying. And then shouting again. It’s been a long day.
It’s sixth period right now - archery. I’ve only missed half of it. I can still make an appearance. Tardiness is a mortal sin to Von Arx, but Ms. Soyon likes me. I think. Not sure why. But maybe I could convince her not to mark me down as late? I trudge out of Knight Roux and head outside for the lawn. It’s pretty quiet, considering everyone’s in class. The groundskeepers are the only movement - carefully picking at bushes and kneeling by flowerbeds. I don’t see Gabe - why would I? Creepo’s been sacked.
But I do see a writhing mass of action, of emotion, bunched up in a corner between a hedge and a sun-kissed bannister of Knight Roux. It’s at least five dudes, and they’re all circled around one person.
Big uh oh.
I creep closer on the stairs, clinging to the bannister and listening. Angry French punctures the air, murmurs and growls underlying it. Only one guy’s talking, the rest of them scoffing along. The guy in the middle is too tall to be mistaken for anyone else - Prickland. Unlike the five dudes circling him with all the body language of tigers chomping at the bit, he’s utterly relaxed. Every part of him is held lazily, save for his eyes. He darts them from face to face, appraising each guy with laser precision.
I should mind my own business. This is Prickland’s business, not mine. He’s the one who’s got the list of people who hate him. He’s the disciplinary committee, not me. I can’t understand shit-all of what they’re saying, or what’s going on. But even Alistair can’t take on five people at once. It’s just not realistic. And I might not like the asshole, but I like assholes who gang up on other people way less.
The tallest guy in the circle suddenly snaps something in French, and in one smooth move pulls his fist back, aiming it right at the back of Alistair’s skull.
“Strickland - !” I yelp. Alistair’s eyes cut up to me, and he holds up one finger.
“Hold on a second.”
And in that one second, he fluidly dodges the punch coming for him. The guy who threw it stumbles forward, fist smacking empty air. He looks back up at me.
“What’s up?”
“Uh. Nothing.” I rock on my heels. “What are you…up to?”
“Exercise.” He dodges another punch, this time from the left. He grabs the guy’s arm and twists it behind his back. The guy yelps, and Alistair throws him forward into his friends, and they nearly all go tumbling down like bowling pins. He hasn’t looked away from me once. “You?”
“Oh, you know,” I lean on the bannister. He’s got it handled, clearly. “Running errands. For professors. Very important people.”
“Looking like that?” He raises one brow at my sweater. “Where’s your uniform?”
“Eaten. By piranhas.”
“Must’ve been one hell of an errand. To South America. The only place piranhas live.”
“You know -” I start, but the five guys have finally clambered back to their feet, and they all come for Alistair at once. He’s ready. I wince at every smack of flesh, every throw. There’s less blood than I expected - and by that I mean no blood at all. Prickland could go for the noses, the lips - easy targets that bleed a lot and hurt a lot - but he doesn’t. Puffs of hot breath in the chilly air, the sound of jackets slithering against each other. When it’s over, he stands in the middle of a groaning circle of bodies on the grass.
“You know,” I continue as nonchalantly as I can muster. “I was looking at Wikipedia last night.”
“Interesting.” He brushes his cuffs off and drones in a way that indicates he absolutely does not find it interesting.
“Apparently, koalas get chlamydia and I was like; ‘that’s so sad, but also so relatable!’ you know?”
“Do you…” He pauses diplomatically. “…get chlamydia a lot?”
“No. But just imagine.”
“I’ll pass, thank you.” He presses his sleeve to his lip and winces.
There’s a long pause, me looking down at him and him looking up the stairs at me. They really do come after him. I thought he was exaggerating about the whole ‘I only fight to defend myself’ thing. Because of course anyone would say that to make themselves look good. But this time, this one time, it’s actually true. His chest heaves from the effort, and he didn’t come out of it unscathed - there’s a bruise rapidly forming on his cheekbone, and a nasty split in his lip. But he keeps his sleeve there, hiding the blood. And he keeps his hands tucked up in his sleeves.
“Did you hurt your hands?”
“No.”
“Then why are you -”
“Ten seconds,” He says, half-muffled. I start.
“For what?”
“I’m giving you ten seconds to get out of here before I give you detention.”
“For what?”
“Breaking dress code.”
“Little hypocritical, don’t you think? Considering you never wear your tie right or tuck your damn shirt in.”
“Nine, eight, seven -”
“What was it this time?” I blurt. “Why’d they come after you?”
“Breaking up their gambling ring. Six, five, four -”
“You’re kidding.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the thickest wad of foreign money I’ve ever seen in my life, waving it a little. My eyes go wide, my whisper half-choked.
“You weren’t kidding.”
“Three, two -”
“Alright! Fine! I’m gone!”
I only dare to look back when I’m halfway across the lawn. Strickland’s sitting on the stairs, rolling medical tape around his bloody knuckles and wincing.
Knuckles he kept out of sight while I was near.
C’mon, Lili. Seven months.
These people are only real for seven months.
26
The Whisper (Or, How impossible is a word we invented to spare ourselves)
At seventeen years and two months old, Alistair Strickland hates eavesdropping.
He hates the act of doing it, not the information it brings. He hates lingering, listening to other people’s mind-numbing problems. Everyone has the worst life ever. Or so they think. He h
ates it, but it’s a necessary evil in a school fueled by rumors - by the good faces everyone puts on to hide the secrets and lies beneath. Sharmila Ganguly can’t start her day without smoking a joint - or her afternoon. Henry Yang is cheating on his girlfriend with three other girlfriends. Bernice Comtois sleeps with her father’s older friends. Hyeri Choi uses the occasional Tiffany piece to bribe professors for better grades. It’s all incredibly boring to Alistair, but he has to keep tabs. If they slip up, if they start taking their drama out on other people…he has to keep the blade hanging high over their heads. Their secrets are his, thanks to Maria’s attentiveness and Rafe’s ability to get anyone to admit to anything with enough friendly camaraderie.
These people are used to getting their way. Getting away with anything.
Alistair Strickland is the only blade that’s ever hung over their heads.
He knows that’s only partly true. The price of a family with fame and fortune is usually crushing expectation. Do better. Do best. Prove your worth. He’s no different from them, in that regard.
It’s a good thing he stopped caring about all that precisely seven years ago, when Grandmother won the - well. Families like Alistair’s don’t use words like ‘custody battles’. Those are dirty, unclean words. Unfit for nobility, for a family that can trace its roots back to the formation of the Holy Roman Empire. They are ‘better’ than petty things like ‘courts’ and the details of childcare - or at least that’s what that woman likes to think.
How long has it been, since he’s thought of her as ‘mother’? Ten years? Twelve?
‘As long as I breathe, you will never disgrace this family.’
The cold fear licks at his heart, but Alistair has practiced. He’s had seven years to practice, and he has one more to perfect. His eighteenth birthday next September is a deadline, but it has always been a deadline. He’s always dreaded his next birthday, and the next, each of them drawing the bars of his cage closer. But fear does nothing but cloud the truth. He can’t afford to be afraid when that woman gets to see Rose half of the year. When there’s only ten months left until he inherits the crushing mantle. Ten months left of freedom - correction; of training. He has to plan. To calculate. To build his armor higher. To become strong enough to keep Rose safe. To fight her. Her, with all her money and connections and unnatural sway over the biggest players in the world.
Because once he turns eighteen and graduates Silvere, the real battle begins. The one with politics, backstabbing, money, sex, blackmail. The ruthless game. The terrible game the pinnacle of luxury brings. Every trick in the book will be used against him to force him to do what that woman wants, what the family wants. He’ll be told where to go, what to do, how to spend his money, who to marry. He’ll be expected to perform like a puppet on a stage, and punished when the act is less than perfect. He saw it happen to his father. He saw it break him. But Alistair will not make the same mistake.
He will not give them the benefit of love.
For every other student, Silvere is an escape.
For him, it’s a training ground for the real, sordid world waiting for him beyond the clean windows and rolling lawn.
He leans against the wall, focusing on listening to the snippets of conversation that float past as people shuffle to fourth period. His fingers move in his pockets, finding the square of gold foil and the pointlessly sentimental note folded within.
It helps. I promise.
Terrible handwriting, he thinks, and scoffs. Like a drunk monkey with no concept of space. He, of course, has perfect handwriting. Everyone in the family does. Why calligraphy is prized as some sort of sign of good breeding, he’ll never understand. And neither will Pierce, by the looks of it.
He’s not entirely sure why he’s kept the note this long. The foil, too. It’s all trash. It was just a chocolate. She offered it out of pity after seeing his darkest moment. It shouldn’t be this hard to throw away.
It shouldn’t be this hard to remember no one actually cares.
He’s still not sure why he ate it. His defenses constantly scream he shouldn’t eat anything from anyone, least of all people like her. Unknown factors. Mystery motivations. But the look on her face when he stormed towards her - pure fear. The burning in his heart when she opened the door and locked eyes with him - pure fear.
The same fear.
Voices cut through his thoughts, just then.
“No, yeah, actually. That tracks.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Alistair freezes on the wall. That first voice, quick and smooth and turned up at the ends, like it’s sharing a secret joke with itself all the time. Unmistakable. Pierce.
“Nothing,” Pierce laughs with her friend. “It just means he seems right up your alley. All science-y and shit.”
“Well excuse me!” Her friend (Ana Sequeira, Brazilian UN representative’s daughter, a weakness for pink and being the good girl) huffs. There’s a pause as their footsteps stop at the water fountain. “What’s yours, then? Let me guess; dark and mysterious.”
“Ugh, no. What do you think I am - unoriginal?”
“Then what is your type?”
Alistair hates eavesdropping. He hates the fact he leans in to hear better even more.
Pierce starts strong with a cough. “Y-You know.”
“I don’t, actually.” Ana insists.
“I mean, um. Gentle. Blonde. Prettier than me, I guess, but none of that appearance shit means anything if he’s not friendly and open and just…nice. You know? Smiles a lot, really kind. Understanding? Just someone who’s really friendly and refined and gentle.”
His fingers freeze around the foil note.
“So…Ciel.” Ana teases. He can practically hear the red in Pierce’s face.
“I never said that!”
Their footsteps fade, the brewing indignation fades.
He stares at the bandages on his knuckles and wonders - quietly, impossibly - if someone like him could ever afford to be gentle, and friendly, and kind.
27
The Church (Or, How they love to bless you with their scorn)
It’s weird how on the first day of school every minute oozed by like cold honey. But then something happens on the fifth day, and God starts jamming the fast-forward button with nigh-kiddish glee. Friday comes and goes without Von Arx calling me in to test me on the rulebook, which means I’m off the rulehook, but which also means she’s still pissed. I could gather that much by the way she stoically stares at me during dinner - looking through me like I’m a pane of glass instead of a person, something she can’t be bothered to acknowledge. Something dead to her.
They don’t celebrate Halloween here - not like we do in the U.S. But the chef makes little orange and black meringues in the shape of pumpkins, and that’s the best I can hope for, really. I put a bedsheets over my head and try to scare Ana when she comes out of her room to get into the spirit of things, but she giggles and points out the sock static-attached to it and my plan fails spectacularly. I try and fail not to Facetime Mom three times a day, but she only answers once. Texts work better, and she won’t stop sending me pictures of amazing-looking seafood and old-as-hell architecture and pictures of her and Will, smiling together.
It’s a moment. There’s always that moment when I look into Will’s eyes, Will’s face so close to hers.
He won’t, right?
(you won’t, or I’ll kill you)
Friday comes and goes and finally it’s the first November weekend. No classes. No waking up at six-am like an eyebooger zombie. Just sleeping in, gloriously, and eating breakfast slow and also gloriously.
Or, it would be glorious. If Ana didn’t insist on going into the village.
Saint-Verde is maybe the tiniest town I’ve ever seen. It’s a town built around one stoplight and a single two-lane winding road in and out, one end leaking up into the misty morning Alps, the other snaking down into a greenest-green valley dotted with creaky old barns and twisted juniper tree
s. There’s one train station with a sleepy ticketmaster slouched over on a bench, a stone box Ana explains is a medieval church, and a smattering of red-roofed houses with sprouting eaves where people chose to use the packed-earth method of ye olden days of building. There’s just one tourist shop - crowded with intricate little clocks and crystal wind chimes and 80’s-bowling-alley-carpet-patterned sheep’s wool shawls. Older Swiss women stacked high with no-nonsense layers totter around, sweeping their doorsteps free of leaves with bleary gusto. A man packs fresh roll after fresh roll onto a display outside his bread shop, his ragged dog snoozing beneath it. Sprawling concrete car-jungle city, Saint-Verde is not. And I kind of love it. It’s like Hogsmeade’s cuter, colder cousin.
“Thanks, Lionel,” I lean into the driver’s window and smile at him.
“Anytime, Lilith.” He grins back. “Have fun.”
“Always.”
There’s a moment of tension, my hand on the doorframe as Ana’s friends from breakfast pour out of the other side of the car, tittering in French. The crisp Saturday-morning-sun pours over every nook and cranny of the world, Lionel’s faintly worried crow’s-feet included. Ana figured we’d all go to the village together, so I called him. Everyone else in school was going, too - a flotilla of fancy cars lined up around Silvere’s driveway. I can see them now parked behind a building in a field. Some of them still mosey around, puttering heat into the cold air as they drop off and pick up students. A bus would be way more logical and cost-effective, my poor-person brain cries. But I guess a single bus driver can’t effectively spy on four hundred rich kids, huh?
Lionel and I don’t look at each other, not straight-on, anyway. Out of the corner of our eyes. Like cats.
“I’m glad your hand’s better,” He finally tries, fingers tapping the steering wheel.
“Yeah,” I stroke my palm absently.
“The people here are all decent,” He continues, jerking his chin around at the village. “Just try not to pry too much.”
“Or make promises with them. Right?” I tease. It falls on flat ears, though, because Lionel doesn’t smile a bit. He looks a little strained - his face pale ever since the blood promise, now that I think about it.
