We must always strive to show gratitude for our blessings. We earn little,

  yet we receive much from our great and glorious Civilized World. In

  acknowledgment of these gifts, we must dedicate ourselves to lives of civility

  and obedience, for it is through virtue alone that we become worthy of paradise.

  —CONSTANCE FONTENAY, THE VIRTUOUS CITIZEN

  CHAPTER 3

  Death leaves a bitter aftertaste.

  I walk down the corridor toward the waiting elevator, my legs growing weaker with each step, and sink onto a cushioned chaise inside. The mirrored walls, made of tiny silver tiles, reflect my image in fragments. A strange face stares back at me, warped and distorted by the angles of the glass. The features are all wrong. My eyes are too large and off-center, my lips are twisted as if broken, and my blonde hair is too pale against an ashen, unfamiliar skin tone. Only the scar on my chin remains unchanged, a thin, white line still sharp from the fencing saber that left it.

  There’s a carafe of cool mint water on the trolley, and as I pour myself a glass, my hands tremor, spilling water onto my dinner gown. They never shook like this while holding a fencing saber, not during duels with more skilled opponents or even when I killed the Blue. With the nanobot hilt pulsing in my grip, I felt grounded, anchored in purpose. But now, without my saber, I feel adrift in a vast, endless sea, with only a distant light from Grandmaster University to guide me.

  So, that’s where I have to swim.

  “Which floor, Miss Waldsten?” an automated voice asks from the control panel.

  “First,” I reply, checking my wristwatch. It’s almost time for family dinner, my last one at home. Dad’s private jet is already fueled and waiting in a hangar at the airport. As soon as dessert ends, I’ll head to Roaring Rails Station, one of only two terminals servicing trains to Grandmaster University.

  The elevator doors begin to close when a large hand slips through the narrowing gap. The doors shudder and reopen, revealing a tall robot dressed in a pink wool suit, its blond hair combed into a sculpted wave and its square face set in a polite expression. The robot moves with fluid, eerily humanlike motions, which is why all robots are required to distinguish themselves from humans by wearing pink. The rule earned them the nickname “Pinkies.”

  “Good day, Miss Waldsten.” The Pinkie bows in greeting. “Pardon my intrusion, but I wished to inform you that I have mailed most of your belongings to Grandmaster University.”

  “Not all?”

  “All but one.” The robot pulls a broken digital picture frame from its breast pocket. “I discovered this photograph beneath your bed while packing your room.”

  The Pinkie offers me the shattered photo, but I don’t take it. A familiar pain tightens in my chest as I examine the two smiling faces, barely visible through the cracked screen. Charlotte’s dark-skinned arm is draped over my shoulder, and mine is wrapped around her waist. A jeweled comb glitters in her silky black hair, mirroring the sparkle of my diamond-and-feather headband. The digital caption dates the photo to two years ago, on tap dance night at the Midnight Martini Club.

  The last time I saw her.

  “Given the damage, I thought it appropriate to set the photograph aside,” the Pinkie continues. “However, if you wish, I can repair—”

  “It’s damaged because I damaged it,” I say.

  “So, you do not wish to have it repaired?”

  “No. You can throw it out.”

  The Pinkie bows. “As you wish, Miss Waldsten. Good evening.”

  The elevator doors close. As the car descends, I’m struck by a bitterness that hits me like a rush of cold air. It’s an old feeling, but today it feels as fresh as a torn scab. I steel myself against it rather than let it drag me down, like I used to.

  I thought I’d moved past Charlotte’s betrayal. I didn’t bat an eyelash when I learned she’d been accepted to Grandmaster University. But now I realize her long, serrated knife is still lodged in my back. I’ve just gotten used to the pain.

  When the elevator stops on the first floor, I walk directly to the dining hall. The path leads through a foyer decorated with portraits and a conservatory filled with jasmine and freshly watered plants. I pass a smoky billiards room and a library with a spiral staircase, where two voices echo from the open door. My parents.

  Mom paces the library, her stilettos clicking like spilled marbles, while Dad explains that I’m still determined to become a Public Person and attend Grandmaster University. Mom’s face falls as she listens. Her legs buckle slightly, and she braces herself against a bookshelf with a startled gasp. Like Dad, I know she thought watching Bloody Sunday would change my mind. Dad moves in and catches her, cupping the back of her head as she melts into his chest, sobbing.

  “She won’t survive it, Bruce. She’s not even allowed to defend herself.”

  Dad pulls her closer, a muscle tightening in his cheek, yet he stays silent.

  I turn away, conflicted. This isn’t what I want. I don’t want to hurt my family or make them worry. I just want to get my life back on track. It’s all I’ve worked for over the past year. Now that I finally have the chance, I can’t let it slip away, even though attending Grandmaster comes with risks. If I wait until I’m twenty-one to become a Public Person, the same danger will still be there. There’s no avoiding it, only delaying it.

  Fighting a surge of guilt, I hurry past the library to the dining hall. The Pinkies have already lit a fire, and the air smells of burning beechwood. A black marble clock ticks on the overhanging carved mantle, where one of my fencing trophies is displayed, a daily reminder of what I’ve lost. A Pinkie in a drop-waist dress arranges the table: five place settings with gilded plates, long-stemmed wine glasses, bone-colored linen napkins, and silver cutlery that gleams in the light of the crystal chandelier.

  The dining chairs are empty, but outside on the terrace, a faint shadow moves slowly and purposefully across the flagstones.

  “Loredana,” Hillaire calls.

  I don’t respond. Instead, I grab an open bottle of red wine from a sideboard and drink to wash away the bile in my throat. After drying my mouth with a napkin, I head onto the terrace with the bottle tucked under my arm, even though I know I should take it easy. I’ve only been drinking for two months, since I turned eighteen and officially became an adult. Any age younger than that, and you might as well be a child: no drinking, smoking, voting, driving, not even dating.

  Outside, Hillaire stands at the terrace railing, her face turned toward the dimly lit topiary gardens lining the drive. It’s too dark to see much beyond the glowing lampposts, yet she seems focused on something near the tennis court.

  “I waved at you from the tree,” she says, turning at the sound of my approach. Though short, with a childlike frame, she still appears older than fourteen. Tonight, she looks especially thin beneath the relaxed fit of her green pantsuit. The strands of her white-blonde bob are frozen around her face, as if she used an entire can of hairspray.

  “I saw,” I reply.

  “But you didn’t wave back.”

  “I was too busy trying not to puke.”

  Hillaire’s eyebrow arches high. “So you’re admitting you lost your grip?”

  “No. I watched every beheading.”

  “How many?”

  I sip from the wine bottle grimly. “Forty-nine.”

  She tilts her head, impressed. “Good to know you’re still capable of seeing things through.”

  Her jab is well-aimed as usual. I’m not sure why she’s trying to provoke me, but I resist taking the bait.

  I never told my sisters I killed a Blue or that I have a weapons restriction. Instead, I told them I quit fencing after losing in the semifinals of the Junior Fencing World Championship. Ever since, Hillaire has called me a quitter.

  But it’s better than the alternative.

  Her loyalty to the Civilized World has become her whole personality. If she ever finds out I killed a Blue, it could ruin our relationship. As for Vivian, her lips are looser than a plastic bag. She can’t keep a secret to save her life.

  “Where’s Viv?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  “Gone.” Hillaire tugs at her trouser leg, revealing an ash-stained burn hole in the silk. “She threw her cigarette at me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I told her that smoking makes her stink worse than an armpit.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean to burn you, but you know how sensitive Viv can be.” I set the wine bottle on the railing, trying to balance it on the narrow strip of wrought iron. “You should ease up on her. If you guys can’t get along, who are you going to hang out with when I’m gone?”

  Hillaire bites her lower lip, betraying a flicker of anxiety. “I’ll be alone, not lonely.”

  “But Viv will be.”

  “She should be alone. It’s what she deserves.”

  The wine bottle slips from the railing, and I catch it with a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Hillaire’s mouth curls bitterly. “Vivian’s barely spoken to me since she got engaged to Harrison. She hasn’t gone to the tree fort with me once. If she’s lonely while you and Harrison are at Grandmaster, it’s what she deserves.”

  I nod, even though I know this isn’t about the tree fort. It’s about Hillaire’s fear of losing Vivian once she and Harrison get married next summer.

  “Are you mad at me, too, Hilly?” I ask.

  Her eyes narrow on me. “No. Why would I be?”

  “Well… I’m leaving you, too.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “Because you didn’t choose an outsider over family. And because, in a few years, I’ll be at Grandmaster with you.”

  She looks at me from the tops of her eyes, two small beads flecked with green. I never shared her confidence that I’d be accepted to Grandmaster University or her obsession with the campus. For Hillaire, becoming a student means everything. It’s the only thing she works toward, studies for, and trains for. The rules say she can’t apply until she’s eighteen, but if things go wrong while I’m there, I’ll crush her dream because there’s no way Dad will let her apply.

  “Harrison might be an outsider now,” I say. “But by next summer, he’ll be family. It’s true we’ll see Viv less, but that’s the shitty part about growing up. Childhood always ends with leaving home.”

  The words echo back at me, reminding me I’m in the same boat. When I leave for Grandmaster, I’ll be leaving my childhood behind, too. I twist the neck of the wine bottle between my fingers, each turn like a countdown. The sky has darkened, clouds tinged with smoky yellow, and the smell of rain hangs heavier in the air.

  Hillaire’s nostrils pinch with frustration. “You’re not making any sense, Loredana.”

  “Which part doesn’t make sense?”

  “You’re telling me I should accept Vivian abandoning me over a man, but if that’s what you believe, why did you cry for months after Charlotte did the same to you?”

  I shoot her a hard look, reminding her I don’t talk about Charlotte anymore. “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “Because Vivian didn’t cut you off overnight. She didn’t disappear without a goodbye or even an explanation.”

  “Well, she will once she gets married,” Hillaire says. She pulls her lucky gold coin from her pocket and clutches it as if grounding herself. The features of her left hand are deceptively lifelike, despite being a robotic replacement for the one she lost in an accident two years ago. “Besides, it’s not just about Vivian abandoning me,” she continues. “Harrison isn’t right for her. He’s not a leader, and she shouldn’t follow him. You should find out if he has a mistress at Grandmaster before Vivian marries him.”

  I turn sharply, the wine bottle clanging against the railing. The look in Hillaire’s eyes is confident yet mechanical, almost like a Pinkie, and it sends a ripple of discomfort through me. “What the hell, Hilly? Why would you even say that?”

  “Because I look at what’s there, not what I want to see. You should warn Vivian about Harrison. She listens to you.”

  “I’m not warning Vivian about anything.” I step closer in challenge. “I like Harry. I always have. If you really hate him so much, you should tell her yourself.”

  “You’re right.” Hillaire nods and pockets the coin. “I’ll tell her now.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Wait.” I grip her arm. “Tonight’s my last dinner at home, and I don’t want to spend it refereeing a shit-flinging match between you and—”

  “Too late for that,” Vivian says darkly.

  She’s standing between the open terrace doors, holding a cigarette in a pearl-studded holder. In the dim light, it’s hard to tell her apart from Mom. They share the same high cheekbones, bee-stung lips, and curly black hair that’s both wild and soft all at once. The main difference is their breasts. Mom’s are small, while Vivian’s are so large that all her clothes need to be specially tailored.

  “Were you lying this whole time, then?” Vivian asks Hillaire, her hurt showing in the soft lines of her face. “When Harry and I started dating last year, you told me you liked him.”

  “I barely knew him.”

  “Oh, and now you think you know him better than I do?”

  Hillaire shakes her head, as if there’s no point in trying to convince her. “Date him for a few more years. Then you’ll see what I see.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Harrison is a coward.” Hillaire stands with an air of authority, despite being a head shorter than Vivian. “If you marry him, you’ll regret it. But by then, it won’t be easy to leave. And because you don’t listen to anyone but yourself, it’ll be no one’s fault but your—”

  “Oh, shut up already, Hillaire.” Vivian clenches her cigarette holder as if she might snap it in half. “You want to know the real reason I don’t like spending time with you anymore? Because you’re self-righteous and condescending, and even though I always supported you, you never supported me.” She walks toward us, the hem of her satin evening gown catching on the heel of her T-strap shoes. “I’ve done my best to put up with your shit over the past year, but now I’m done. After I get married, I don’t want to see you anymore. And I don’t want you at my wedding, either.”

  Hillaire lifts one shoulder into a shrug. “I’ll just go to the next one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your marriage to Harrison won’t last, so there’s bound to be others.”

  Vivian lets out a bitter laugh, then seizes a handful of Hillaire’s hair. “You bitch.”

  Hillaire straightens, tight as a bolt, and warns, “Let me go.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll make you.”

  Vivian clicks her tongue. “Go ahead and tr—”

  Hillaire spins, her leg whipping up, and kicks her. Vivian jolts backward, her T-strap heel snapping under the force before slamming straight into me. The air rushes out of my lungs. I reach for something solid, but my hands pass through empty air as the patio lurches toward me. Then I hit the stone, taking the full impact of the fall, while Vivian lands heavily on top of me.

  “Loredana!” Hillaire rushes to my side. “Are you hurt?”

  “Get off me, Viv,” I groan.

  I roll out from under her and sit up, a sharp sting flaring in my right hand. Within seconds, it spreads like fire. When I look, I see the skin has been scraped clean off my palm. Bright green blood wells from the wound, darkening where it mixes with dirt and leaves.

  Vivian winces, as if she feels the pain herself. “I’m sorry, Lore. I didn’t mean—”

  “We’ve only got an hour left,” I cut in, pushing to my feet. “If you two want to piss it away, fine. But after that, everything changes.”

  Hillaire crosses her arms, looking confused, while Vivian’s eyebrows knit together in realization. In less than a day, I’ll be at Grandmaster for nine months, and when I return, Vivian and Harrison will be married. Things will never be the same again, not like they are now, not like they’ve been for our entire lives.

  “You’re right, Lore,” Vivian says at last, lifting the torn hem of her gown. Her face hardens again as she looks at Hillaire. “One-hour truce?”

  Hillaire checks her watch and frowns. “Make it until tomorrow. I need to be in bed by ten.”

  “Fine.”

  Vivian snatches her emerald hair comb from the ground just as the dinner bell chimes through the open doors. We all pause, exchange grim looks, then shuffle inside to take our seats. At the table, I roll up my sleeve to keep blood from staining the fabric.

  Hillaire’s hair sticks up where it was pulled, and Vivian’s evening gown is torn, with her lipstick smudged, but neither of them is injured. A Pinkie delivers warm, wet cloths and a tube of regenerative gel, which usually heals injuries like mine within forty-eight hours.

  By the time I finish treating the scrape, Mom and Dad enter the dining hall, hand in hand, with all traces of worry gone from their faces. Dad’s hair is styled, his silk ascot perfectly arranged, and he’s holding a glass of scotch. Mom wears a beaded gown with a draped silhouette that flows around her ankles like a cloud. Her long black hair is twisted into structured, glossy waves, and her makeup does a good job of covering the bruising from her recent facelift.

  “Girls.” Mom’s mouth drops at the state of us. “What have you done to each other?”

  “Loredana told me to tell Vivian how I feel,” Hillaire replies. “So I did.”

  “Told?” Dad sets down his scotch. “Or showed?”

  He turns on me, head cocked, as if expecting a detailed rundown, but I stay silent.

  “All right, then. We’ll talk about this when Loredana’s gone,” Mom says, trading a disappointed look with Dad. “And don’t think I’ll forget.”

  Mom takes one chair at the end of the table, while Dad settles at the other, his chin bowed low. “For this meal, and for all that we possess, we thank the Civilized World,” he says.

  Two Pinkies bring out the first course. I lean back, nauseated by the sound of chewing around me. After watching the executions, the thought of food turns my stomach. Instead, I keep my eyes lowered and spread another layer of numbing regenerative gel over my hand. The somber gazes of Mom and my sisters chip away at my resolve, and for a moment, I wish the gel could numb the rest of me, too.

  “Is this a family dinner or a funeral for the cow?” Dad finally asks, nudging the Beef Wellington with his fork. “Should I be giving a eulogy?”

  Hillaire sets down her glass of sparkling water and frowns. “Jokes are hardly appropriate right now, Father.”

  “No good joke was ever appropriate.”

  Across the table, Vivian and I share a small smile, grateful that Dad is trying to lighten the mood.

  Halfway through the first course, a Pinkie wearing white evening gloves enters the room. The robot leans over Dad and whispers something in his ear that wipes the humor from his face. Mom rises from her chair, moves to his side, and fidgets with her drop earring as she listens.

  I can’t hear much, but when the word prohibition slips from the robot’s mouth, I realize they’re talking about Bliss, the deadly drug Dad’s been fighting to eradicate from our streets throughout his political career.

  Dad listens for a moment longer, his fingers twisting in his napkin, then pushes his chair back with a screech of wood. “Oh, hell.”

  “What’s going on?” Vivian asks.

  “Those bastards.”

  “Who?” Hillaire asks, watching the Pinkie as if she might corner the robot in the hallway after dinner and squeeze answers out of it.

  “The Blues.” Dad throws his napkin onto the table. “We agreed to vote on the Bliss Prohibition Act next week so all the representatives could consult their constituents, but now they’re rug-pulling us. We have to do it tonight.”

  “You think you’ll finally get enough votes to ban Bliss?” I ask.

  “At this point, yes.”

  “Dad, you can’t ban Bliss.” Vivian shoots up from the table. “Almost everyone I know uses it, even Harry’s mom. If you ban it, everyone will hate you. Everyone will hate us.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck through a rolling donut if I’m hated,” Dad says. “We’ve had this conversation enough times for you to understand why this ban is necessary. Over a thousand Greens died from Bliss overdoses last month. It’s time to cut the cord.”

  “Fifty-two percent of the public supports keeping Bliss legal,” Hillaire points out. “If you do this, you’ll be labeled an enemy of democracy.”

  “And from there, you’ll become a target,” I add.

  “No, I won’t,” Dad insists.

  “How are you so sure?”

  His hesitation is so brief it’s almost imperceptible. “Because as rotten as our system is, we’ve still got the rule of law.”

  Mom, silent until now, moves behind him and whispers in his ear. Her dark eyebrows furrow sharply, forming the same focused expression she wears when she offers him advice. As his public relations manager, she controls his political image. It’s not an easy job because Dad struggles to control his temper even more than I do, but so far she’s managed to keep his reputation intact.

  Dad squeezes Mom’s hand and nods as if her words reassure him, then downs the rest of his scotch in one gulp.

  “As long as you’re feeling undemocratic, you should ban tobacco and alcohol while you’re at it,” Hillaire suggests, her thin lips curling.

  He grunts. “I’m trying to ban what’s dangerous, Hillaire, not what’s fun.”

  “When do you leave?” Vivian cuts in.

  “I need to be airborne in the next twenty minutes.”

  “But I’m supposed to use your plane tonight,” I protest.

  “Harry’s flying to Roaring Rails Station, too,” Vivian says. “I’m sure he won’t mind if Lore joins.”

  “Good. Arrange it,” Dad orders.

  He kisses Mom goodbye, then leaves the dining hall and gestures for me to follow. We walk through the house in silence, a heavy tension still hanging between us. When we step onto the portico, I shiver at the deepening chill in the air.

  A Pinkie hands Dad his leather briefcase. He opens it and pulls out a wooden box with green trim.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “A goodbye gift. Go ahead and open it.”

  The box unlocks with a tiny golden key. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, is a sparkling bronze brooch shaped like my favorite flower: a daffodil.

  “I made it myself.” Dad lifts his chin proudly. “There’s even a camera inside.”

  At first, I think he’s joking. Dad knows nothing about casting or forging; the idea of him making jewelry is like a bulldog learning to sew. Then I notice the inscription etched along the stem—To Bruce Waldsten, with highest honors—and my breath catches.

  “Really, Dad? You made it with your Grandmaster graduation medal?”

  He shrugs. “It was just a hunk of bronze.”

  “Not to me, it wasn’t.”

  “I know. Why do you think I’m giving it to you?”

  He takes the brooch and pins it beneath the collar of my dress. For a moment, his large, rough hands, still scarred and calloused, feel like the protective ones that once shielded me from a world I was too young to understand. Now I realize I’ll miss them more than anyone else’s. “I love it,” I whisper, my voice thickening. “Thank you.”

  Dad pulls me close, holding me so tightly I wonder if he thinks this might be the last time. The wind blows around us, but in his arms, the cold feels distant.

  “I know the odds are stacked against us, Loredana,” he says, his voice a soft rumble against my ear. “I know life as a Public Person, especially at Grandmaster, won’t always be cut-and-dry. But will you promise me one thing?”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about your weapons restriction.”

  I pull away with a frown. “Why not?”

  “Because if you do, they’ll ask questions. It might even lead them to the court—”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I say, suddenly understanding.

  The court records, sealed because I was a minor, contain video evidence of me killing the Blue. If that footage ever comes out, my claim of self-defense won’t matter. My life at Grandmaster will be over before it even begins. No one will care that it was kill or be killed. They’ll only see blue blood.

  “I don’t plan to cause any trouble, Dad,” I say. “I promise I’ll keep my head down, even after I get the restriction overturned.”

  “Good.” He pulls on his coat and hat. “I have to go now, honey. I’ll call you after the vote.”

  He kisses my cheek, his breath warm against the cold rain that’s beginning to fall. Then he climbs into the back of the hovercar parked at the base of the steps. The rain pounds louder on the portico roof, dripping through the leafy branches of the trees as the vehicle glides down the cobblestone drive, passing the pool house and tennis courts, the fruit orchard and stables, the private shooting range, and finally the four-story compound where I trained for public life from the moment I could walk.

  So much wealth, and yet come tomorrow, none of it will matter.

  “We’re well off, Loredana, but most people are,” Dad once told me. “Never forget: the only meaningful power comes from blood. No matter how much money you have, it can’t buy freedom, and it sure as hell can’t buy time. Guillotines made of gold still cut off heads.”

  ***

  By the time I get back to the dining hall, dessert is already being served. Vivian smokes a cigarette between bites of cake, avoiding eye contact with Hillaire, who’s scowling at the smell, which she calls the perfume of lowlifes. With a grunt, Hillaire pulls a small, transparent mask from her pocket and puts it on. The mask glows faintly with each breath, filtering out the smoke. Across from them, Mom pours herself a glass of wine with perfect posture. She watches the clock on the mantle as she drinks, her expression impenetrable.

  I try to imagine what she’s thinking, but I’ve never been good at reading her. The only person who sees beyond her cold, quiet glamour is Vivian. They share the same shrewdness, the same flair for elegance, and the same double-edged ability to turn heads with a single step. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Mom took a job as Dad’s public relations manager, working tirelessly to avoid the spotlight. She always hated the way men looked at her for her beauty until she met Dad, who she says was the first to see beyond it.

  Near the end of dessert, a luxury hovercar coasts into the driveway, its ornamental grille and gullwing doors gleaming in the downpour. The vehicle adjusts its hoverfield, then powers down near the portico.

  “Harry.” Vivian springs from her chair, leaving her napkin crumpled on her plate.

  “May I be excused?” Hillaire glares at the window, as if she can see Harrison standing outside.

  “No,” Mom says. “You will greet Harrison with Loredana and me in the foyer.”

  Hillaire clenches her dessert fork until her knuckles whiten. “Yes, mother.”

  When we reach the foyer, Vivian and Harrison are stepping out of the rain, breathless and laughing. His arm rests on the curve of her waist. She walks on the balls of her feet, whispering into his ear.

  “Wait until you see it first,” he says with a teasing smile. “Then we’ll see if you still want to thank me.”

  Harrison’s charm, like cologne, hits you before he speaks. He’s tall and wears a peak-lapel suit that’s tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair, short and always well-styled, is fiery red, but it’s his eyes that draw you in: poison green, bright enough to strike a punch. I know he’s proud of them, mainly because Vivian gushes over them all the time.

  Harrison flashes a ready smile at Mom before greeting Hillaire and me. When he leans in to hug Hillaire, she shoots him a scowl that stops his arms midair. He pulls back, grinning, and playfully taps her chin with his knuckles instead. She wipes the spot he touched, as if the contact left a stain.

  “Thanks for letting me fly with you, Harry,” I say. “It’s just you and me, right?”

  He exchanges an uncomfortable glance with Vivian. “Actually, there’s one other passenger.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s… Miss Deering.”

  “Charlotte?” The name comes out like a curse.

  He nods. “I know you’d rather not see her, but—”

  “Why can’t she use her dad’s plane?”

  “The interior is being renovated. If you’d rather not see her, Lore, I can tell her to fly with someone else.”

  Every part of me wants to let her scramble for another ride, or better yet, leave her stranded. After the way she ditched me, she deserves to feel at least a fraction of what I felt.

  “It’s fine,” I say, even though everyone knows it’s not.

  The wall clock strikes 9:00 p.m., and I feel every eye in the room turn toward me. Mom grips my hand, panic flashing in her eyes. Vivian lets out a soft, startled gasp.

  For a moment, no one speaks. The silence, cold and suffocating, presses down on my chest like a stone. Years I spent training for public life, preparing for every rule and scenario, except one: saying goodbye.

  It happens quickly, a haze of voices, arms, and tears I can barely process. My mind starts to drift, as if I’m watching the scene through a foggy window. Vivian sniffles as she kisses Harrison on the lips and me on the cheek. Mom wraps me in her arms, her eyes shining as she whispers, “I love you.”

  Hillaire lingers stiffly in the corner. She lifts her hand in a wave, the same one she gave me from the walnut tree during the execution, and this time, I wave back.

  A blurry moment later, Harrison and I climb into his hovercar. The cabin smells of leather and rain, and its soft brown seats are accented with shiny brass fittings. As the vehicle lifts off the ground, Vivian calls from the portico, her voice drowned out by the roar of the power core. I catch fragments of her words, something about Harrison and me taking care of each other. Then we’re off, gliding down the cobblestone drive, lampposts rushing past as rain splatters against the windshield.

  It suddenly strikes me that this is the first time I’ve ever left home on my own. Until now, all my teachers were Pinkies, and every exam was taken online. That’s how it is for all Private Persons, kept separate to limit our time in public. But tomorrow, I’ll be at Grandmaster, far from the safety of home, subject to all the laws of public life, with no way to turn back. The thought burns in my mind until a jagged bolt of lightning splits the sky, snapping me out of it.

  “You’re sure we can fly through this?” I ask Harrison.

  He nods, scrolling through the weather forecast on the holographic dashboard. “Yeah, my dad’s got a Bulletwing 890. Its anti-grav system generates a force field that’s designed for storms like this. We’ll have to fly lower, and the trip will take twice as long, but don’t worry—” He winks. “You won’t even spill your drink.”

  Reassured, I turn on the radio and tune into Big Band Beats. Bold jazz fills the cabin, easing the pressure in my chest. We merge onto the freeway and head east toward the coast, the hovercar speeding above the rain-slick road. The night is starless, with the sky layered in storm clouds as thick as curtains drawn too tight. But as we approach the coastline, a soft glow begins to spread along the horizon. It grows brighter and brighter until a shimmering wall comes into view, emerging from the ocean like the spine of a giant and vanishing into the storm above.

  The energy shield.

  Ten miles high and three thousand miles wide, the radiant dome of electromagnetic energy encircles the entire Civilized World. Its surface features a lattice-like pattern that flickers periodically, as if alive, designed to admit only what we need—sunlight, rain, natural wind flow—while blocking everything else. Always active, the shield defends us against attacks from land, air, and sea.

  Harrison observes the shield with a proud smile, while I can hardly look at it. The Blues call it an unbreachable front line, locking out threats, but sometimes I wonder if it’s the opposite.

  I wonder if the shield is locking us in.