Fracture

by C. J. Daugherty

  ‘But how will I know?’ Allie’s voice was plaintive. ‘How do you know which kind of love it is?’

  ‘Oh yeah. That?’ Rachel lay down next to her on the bed and pulled the duvet up over them both. ‘That’s the tricky part.’

  School the next day was torturous. Classes seemed to drag on beyond any reasonable linear timespan. Allie, whose sleep had been shallow after her nightmare, even with Rachel beside her to keep her steady, struggled to stay awake as the dull replacement teachers droned through the day’s text.

  In English and history – the two classes they had together – Carter kept his distance, never once meeting her gaze.

  Once, when she passed Jules in the hallway, guilt made her panic and she turned into the nearest classroom, colliding so violently with a teacher coming the other way that his papers went flying.

  At lunchtime the group gathered to whisper through their plans. Although she sat between Rachel and Zoe, just being at the same table with both Carter and Sylvain made Allie’s stomach flip, and she couldn’t bring herself to eat. Instead she methodically vivisected a sandwich.

  Jules sat at a nearby table with Lucas and some of her friends. Allie tried not to look at her, but her conscience drew her gaze inexorably in that direction and she kept catching glimpses of the blonde prefect talking and eating her soup.

  Across the table, Carter talked intently with Nicole and Rachel. The shadows under his eyes were the only indication that he hadn’t slept well last night either.

  Two seats over, Sylvain was also listening to their conversation, his brow knitted with concentration. His long fingers toyed absently with his knife, flipping it end over end. Allie found it hard to take her eyes off it – his hands were gentle and skilful; the silver caught the afternoon light and flashed.

  Abruptly, the knife stopped moving. Allie looked up to find him watching her. His expression was enigmatic – his eyes the cool blue of still water.

  Her heart skipped a beat and she wrenched her gaze away.

  Only then did she realise the others were looking at her expectantly.

  ‘What?’ Her tone was more defensive than she’d intended and she tried to lower it. ‘I mean, did someone… say something?’

  ‘I said –’ Rachel gave her an odd look – ‘what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the plan.’ Nicole looked from Allie to Sylvain and back again, as if she suspected something had transpired between them. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Allie said, flushing. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. My head’s not in the game. Please go over it again; I promise to focus.’

  Carter gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Right. I’ll explain it again.’ For the first time in nearly twelve hours he met her gaze directly. But his eyes weren’t warm. ‘Tonight we need to divide up the work. Nicole and I will search Eloise’s room. Zoe and Rachel will search Zelazny’s classroom.’ He glanced from her to Sylvain, a small frown creasing his brow. ‘You and Sylvain will search Zelazny’s room – Sylvain knows where it is.’

  Her throat tightening, Allie forced herself to nod calmly, but her heart was racing.

  Some teachers lived in cottages on the grounds, but most lived in a separate wing of the main building. Allie had never been in it. Entering the teachers’ wing was absolutely forbidden – only prefects were allowed, and even then they had to have a very good reason.

  The others were all looking at her expectantly, waiting to hear what she thought of their plan, which fairly thoroughly broke any of The Rules they’d forgotten to break last night.

  She squared her shoulders.

  ‘Sounds great. I’m in.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  T

  hat night, in the shadows at the back of the library, Allie paced impatiently. Sylvain was ten minutes late.

  She was sure she was in the right place – he’d been quite specific, and the nine-foot-tall bookcases surrounding her held only old, leather-bound books written in French. Bored, she let her fingertips glide over the thick bindings with their gold-embossed names of writers like Laclos and Langelois.

  Then, with a sigh, she glanced at her watch again.

  ‘Come on, Sylvain,’ she muttered.

  A rolling ladder leaned against the tall bookcases so readers could reach the higher shelves and she climbed up a few steps to perch on a rung, letting one foot swing.

  Even though worry was making her tense, the lack of sleep last night was taking a toll on her. Her eyes felt heavy. Resting her chin on her hand she let them drift shut. The darkness was welcome and soon she was dozing, her dreams filled with incoherent flashes of running and forests and a voice.

  Wake up, Allie.

  It was a familiar voice – one she liked. And for a second she kept her eyes shut, wishing it would say more. But it didn’t.

  Slowly, her eyes fluttered open.

  Sylvain was on the ladder now, too, balancing on one foot so that his face was even with hers. She blinked sleepily into his eyes, sapphire blue in the dim light.

  ‘Hey,’ she murmured. Her thoughts were still fuzzy – the moment felt unreal; dream-like. She hadn’t been this close to him since the winter ball. She could feel the warmth of his leg against hers, smell his distinctive cologne. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said. For a second he stayed where he was, his face so close she could see flecks of violet in the blue of his eyes. Then he jumped down to the floor in a graceful, athletic move. ‘I was delayed by one of the guards who wanted to ask me a million questions about whether I knew if someone had left the school building after curfew last night.’

  ‘What?’ Instantly wide awake, Allie leaned forward to see him better. ‘Do they know it was us?’

  Sylvain shook his head. ‘They don’t know who it was. But they know someone was there. We must be very careful now.’

  The prospect of danger seemed to excite him – the colour was high in his cheeks and he bounced on the balls of his feet as if he had too much energy to simply stand still. A curl had escaped from his wavy hair and tumbled forward over his brow.

  Seeing it reminded Allie of how she’d felt the first time she’d run her fingers through Sylvain’s hair – the thrill of the forbidden. And the effect it had had on him. The way his arms had tightened around her waist; how he’d pressed his lips more firmly against hers.

  It had all felt so different from kissing Carter.

  So was that romantic love? She asked herself now, hopelessly. Or the other kind?

  Climbing down from the ladder, she stretched her arms above her head trying to wake up her muscles. ‘Cool. I’m ready when you are.’

  Watching her, he gave a bittersweet smile. ‘I wish that were true.’ Then he pivoted and headed down the aisle of books. ‘Come on. We should go.’

  Dropping her arms, Allie rushed after him so hurriedly she stumbled over a stack of books someone had left at the end of the aisle.

  ‘Here’s your hat; what’s your hurry…’ she muttered.

  ‘What did you say?’ Sylvain shot her an inquisitive look.

  ‘Nothing.’ Allie shrugged. ‘I was just quoting a line from a film I like.’

  ‘Do you like films?’ He looked genuinely pleased at the idea. ‘Which is your favourite?’

  As always happened whenever someone asked her favourite book or film, Allie’s mind went blank – it was as if she’d never seen a film in her life. Everyone was always trying to impress everyone else with their great taste. So it took her a second to realise she’d just quoted a line from one of her favourite movies.

  ‘I like It’s a Wonderful Life,’ she said. ‘I mean, I used to watch it with my family every Christmas before… I mean… It’s pretty good, I guess.’

  What she meant was, she used to watch the film back when she was happy. Before Christopher ran away and her world fell apart.

  He looked at her seriously. ‘I think it is an amazing film – one
of my favourites. I love Jimmy Stewart.’ His accent made the name sound adorable – ‘Jeemee’. They’d made it to the door and he held it open for her as he warmed to the topic. ‘I love films – when I’m at home I’m constantly watching movies – I particularly like old movies in black and white. They seem better than modern films, although I don’t know why.’ He cast a sideways glance at her. ‘Have you seen Jules et Jim?’

  Mutely, Allie shook her head. It sounded French and sophisticated. Of course her parents wouldn’t have had that around.

  ‘It is by François Truffaut, a great French filmmaker – I think perhaps the best ever,’ Sylvain said as they stepped into the grand hallway. It was quiet at this hour and the polished oak panelling shone in the low light. ‘You remind me, sometimes, of the actress in it. Your hair… other things…’

  His words made warmth bloom in Allie’s chest, uninvited. It was nice being compared to a French actress who was probably beautiful and mysterious as French actresses always were. The casual conversation served to distract her from worrying about the work ahead of them and she wondered if Sylvain had brought it up on purpose. It struck her that no one at Cimmeria ever talked about ordinary things any more. It was always Nathaniel, Jo, Isabelle, Lucinda, death. It felt almost odd to discuss something normal people talked about.

  ‘I’ll have to watch it,’ she said. ‘If you love it so much, it must be good.’

  Jules et Jim, Allie said to herself, trying to memorise it. Jules et Jim, Jules et Jim, Jules…

  ‘Maybe we will watch it together some day,’ he said and gave her one of those Sylvain smiles that made her feel like no one else existed in the world except the two of them.

  ‘Now, we should go this way.’ Reaching for her hand, Sylvain pulled her with him to where the hall broadened to hold several classical marble statues. They ducked behind a wide plinth where they couldn’t be seen by anyone passing through. The entrance to the staff residence wing was just a few feet away.

  Crouched behind Sylvain, Allie studied him curiously. His breathing was even but his muscles were tense – she could see the tendons in his neck, raised in relief under the smoothness of his tawny skin. His tension was contagious, and she could feel her own breaths shorten. As if he’d noticed this, he glanced over his shoulder at her.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Allie nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He stood, and she stood with him. ‘Now.’

  Moving silently, they ran across the empty hall to the door. Unlocking it with a key, he let Allie slip through first, running in after her and closing the door behind them.

  On the other side, the corridor was dark. As Allie’s eyes adjusted she could just make out heavy oak beams and carved wood. This must be the older part of the building. On either side, the hallway was lined with widely spaced doors, each with a number on it. These were the teachers’ apartments.

  They moved quickly down the hallway, walking in sync. Out of the corner of her eye, Allie noticed Sylvain was holding himself oddly. His biceps bulged as if he expected a fight; his hands were in fists at his sides. He was nervous.

  The realisation sent adrenaline rushing into her veins. Sylvain was never nervous.

  They were nearly at the end of the corridor when he held out his hand to stop her. Looking up and down the hall to make sure no one saw them, he stepped to the door marked with the numbers ‘181’.

  He caught her eye. Each of them knew how much was at risk.

  Allie kept her expression calm. She nodded her head.

  Sylvain turned the handle.

  TWENTY-THREE

  T

  he door wasn’t locked. As it swung open, Allie could see only darkness ahead – hear only silence.

  Holding up his hand to indicate that she should wait, Sylvain slipped inside.

  Seconds later he returned and silently motioned for her to follow. Taking a steadying breath, she walked into Zelazny’s room.

  When the door closed the room was utterly dark. Allie stood still, afraid to move.

  ‘Sylvain?’ she whispered after a moment.

  ‘I’m here.’ His reply was muffled. She could hear the soft swish of his hands against the walls and realised he must be feeling for a light switch. Almost as soon as she thought it, the room was flooded with light. After the dimness, Allie had to shield her eyes.

  ‘Blinding,’ she said.

  ‘Only for a second.’

  Through the cracks between her fingers, she squinted into the glare. Sylvain stood near the door, watching her with a quizzical half-smile, as if she’d done something amusing. His earlier tension had disappeared.

  They were in an orderly room with a leather sofa and a low chair with a padded seat and wooden arms. A television and DVD player stood in the corner near a fireplace. The walls were painted a matte, masculine shade of grey with a clean white trim. Turning a slow circle she took in the bookcases lining one wall and a door leading into another room, which must be the bedroom.

  ‘It’s so small.’

  ‘It’s not so bad.’ Sylvain still stood with his back against the wall, looking around as if deciding where to start. ‘Why don’t you start with the bookshelves,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the desk.’

  Zelazny’s bookshelves stood above low wooden cabinets and stretched all the way to the ceiling. Most of the books they held seemed to be about the military – Battles of Britain, The Gathering Storm, something that looked philosophical called The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

  Their dull navy and grey covers were rough beneath her fingertips. Their smell of ink and aged paper filled her nostrils.

  With no clue how to really search, she felt around the edges and behind them for anything that might be tucked away. But they were just books. On a shelf.

  She glanced over to where Sylvain rifled through the papers on the desk. ‘Am I just looking for the key?’

  ‘That is the main thing. But if you see anything odd or suspicious that would be good, too.’

  Odd or suspicious? Like what? A gun with smoke rising from the barrel? A knife with blood on it? A pamphlet called How to Destroy Cimmeria Academy: A Rogue’s Guide?

  But now wasn’t the time for sarcasm. She tilted books forward to look behind them, and dragged a chair over to climb on so she could see the higher shelves.

  They’d been looking for quite a while in silence when Sylvain said, ‘What happened with you and Carter last night?’

  On top of the chair Allie wobbled, nearly dropping a book about the life of Winston Churchill. Catching it at the last second, she placed it carefully back on the shelf.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, keeping her face expressionless. When he shot her a dubious look she held up her hands. ‘It was just like we said: we hid out for a while in the woods until we were sure it was safe. Then we came back. Why do you ask?’

  His eyed her speculatively.

  ‘You were gone too long. Your hair was rumpled in that way –’ he gestured vaguely with his hand. ‘You seemed unhappy. You didn’t look at him and he didn’t look at you.’ He picked up a stack of papers. ‘Something happened.’

  For a fleeting second, Allie imagined telling him the truth. I kissed him. And he kissed me back. But it felt wrong and we were both sorry and now we’re not talking and if Jules finds out I’ll hate myself for ever. I think I only friendship-love him anyway. Whatever that is. And I’m not sure how I feel about you and I kind of wish you’d kiss me, too, so I could decide.

  Instead, she picked up another book and flipped through the pages.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, although her voice sounded odd. ‘Nothing happened. Carter just wanted to be sure it was safe before we headed back. You know how he is.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sylvain said dryly. ‘I know how Carter is.’

  Allie’s head jerked up as she looked over at him, wobbling on her unsteady chair. ‘What does that mean?’

  Without looking up, Sylvain threw her own word back at her. ‘Nothing.’

  For
a long few minutes the only sound in the room was the flipping of pages and the sliding sound the books made when she placed them back on the shelves. Sylvain asked no more questions but, for some reason, Allie wanted him to know she wasn’t back together with Carter again.

  But how do you even say that?

  ‘Look,’ she said finally. ‘Carter and I are friends. Or at least, we’re trying to be. That’s it. He’s with Jules. He… cares about her.’