Page 96 of The Bargain

I stop short in my tracks. “Uh, that’s what I was about to ask.”

Zafira frowns. “I thought she was with you.”

“What?” It’s my turn to frown. “She normally trains with you on Thursdays.”

“Yeah, and she normally doesn’t skip classes or meetings or sneak boys into the girls’ dorm, but—” Zafira’s eyes move up and down the length of me, more appraising than judgemental. “There’s only one exception to all those things, isn’t there?”

I swallow hard, inexplicably shaken by the way she’s put all that together—my impact on Desdemona’s tidy, orderly life, the chaos I’ve put in it, the disorienting idea that I’ve somehow managed to tilt her life on its axis—tempted her enough to lead her off her righteous path.

I feel Zafira’s eyes following me even after I’ve left the tennis court, and there’s a dull heat in my cheeks, the stars in my blown-open heart burning bright. Fuck. If I’ve made a mess of Desdemona, at least she can safely say she’s made a mess of me right back.

And then I see her.

I’m walking down the central path that leads away from the tennis courts towards the Old Manor, where her head girl’s office is. The old oaks lining the smooth stone path are shaking hard in the ice-cold winter wind. Night has already fallen over Spearcrest; most of the students have disappeared indoors for supper. Despite the encroaching darkness and the wind and the trees, I know Desdemona’s figure as soon as I see it.

Something’s wrong. I know before I even reach her. I frown, drawing closer, and start back when she throws out an imperious hand, palm up.

“I want Birnam’s phone back.”

My stomach drops, the lurching sensation of being thrown off balance, or missing a step at the end of a staircase.

“What?”

“The phone I gave you, earlier this year. I want it back.”

Her eyes are huge, shining with a feverish inner light. Her cheeks are flushed, the faint brown mascara smudged like she’s been crying. Fuck. My heart sinks, a gutting feeling. She has been crying—her chest is heaving like she’s still being wracked with sobs.

I reach for her arm.

“Hey, are you alr⁠—”

She pulls back as if my touch is venomous and cuts me off. “I’m fine.”

“Is this about the police coming this weekend? It’s fine, love, they’ll⁠—”

“I don’t want to argue.” She says it low and tired and hurt.

“Argue? We’re not arguing, we⁠—”

“Then just get me the phone.”

I frown. My heartbeat is a jolt, a hectic staccato; unfamiliar panic tightens my chest. Something’s happened, something bad, and now Desdemona is all raw and restless with pain, and she’s not lashing out, because that’s not what she does—worse. She’s retreating, throwing up fortresses, walls on walls on walls until I can barely see her for stone.

“Is this about the deal?”

My voice sounds just as hoarse and scared as hers, now. But Desdemona doesn’t soften—she stiffens, bites down. Muscles shift in her jaw, her long neck taut.

“The deal is over. I’m pulling the plug.”

“What?”

“This whole bargain was a mistake. I should never have agreed, I should have—” She stops herself, raising a hand as if she’s made a mistake. “No—I should never have asked you in the first place. It was stupid, weak and selfish. It was shameful. I take it back, I take it all back—it’s done. Give me the phone back and you don’t need to worry about a thing.”

“I don’t understand. What’s happened? I knew what I was agreeing to, love, there’s no shame in⁠—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, poison on her tongue. “The deal is over, remember? That means we’re no longer pretending.”

I flinch like she’s slapped me clean across the face.