Page 27 of Winterveil

Julian couldn’t pay much attention to the demonstration, which involved the same projector machine he had seen in the practice room, and strange silver disks that needed to be placed on Klaudia’s temples. He could only focus on Klaudia herself: the shifting of her gray eyes, somehow both deep and clear as ice, the parting of her lips, outlined in that same careful red, the way her dark hair bounced around her shoulders as she moved. She wasn’t what anyone would call pretty—it seemed too fragile and insubstantial a word—but something about her demanded his focus.

The other students seemed to agree. They stared at her in rapt attention, as if a goddess had deigned to walk among them. Even at his very best, at his most charming and eloquent, at rallies filled solely with his own supporters, Julian had never been given half that reverence. Yet Klaudia seemed utterly indifferent to it all. And when Professor Narendra dismissed her, she left the classroom without looking back.

All that adoration wasted on someone too unfeeling to appreciate it. Julian slid down in his seat, stomach churning.

At the end of the day, Julian returned to his dorm room, exhausted. It was not physical exhaustion—his muscles didn’t ache the way they did after a lacrosse game—but rather a sort of cerebral fatigue. His mind was crammed with realist principles and Hobbesian philosophy. Dr. Iver had been right. He did miss studying for Latin exams with Landon, the two of them sprawled out together on the lawn, Julian’s head resting on Landon’s thigh.

Collapsing onto his bed, Julian pulled out his tablet. Mikhail was gone, off with Jane most likely, giving him some much-needed privacy. He unlocked the tablet and tapped to the ranking board.

Julian scrolled until he found his own name: at the very bottom, tied with someone named Giselle Buckley, who had evidently enrolled only a day before he had. He scrolled back up to the top and stared at the first names.

Klaudia Shimonova

Carter Egan

Matteo Alemu Sorensen

Mikhail Karchenko

The gap between Mikhail and the fifth-ranked student was vast enough to prove that there were only four real contenders. Four people between him and number one, between the relief of a weekend furlough, between a reason to write to his mother with good news and to make his father look him in the eye again. All throughout the day he had been stealing glances at his fellow students, trying to gauge his place among them.

How many had been elected mayor of a major city at age eighteen, the youngest in the country’s history? His name had helped, of course, and so had the endless well of money, but that couldn’t account for everything. He had beaten out six other Democrats to nab the party nomination. He had defeated his Republican opponent in a landslide.

He could do it again; he could defy the odds. He could win. Julian began to imagine the letter he would write, black ink against a clean white page. Dear Mom and Dad . . .

The letter came together in his mind with a satisfaction that warmed Julian to his core. He took out the books he had gathered from the library and spread them across his desk, preparing for the long hours of studying that lay ahead.

But that was when another thought occurred to him—a postscript to the letter.

Don’t worry, he would write. It’s not like before. I’m not like him. I’m coming back.

His mother would cry, and his father would burn the note, the hearth in their parlor lighting up like a funeral pyre.

Nine

Spring 2037

Rural Virginia

By the next day, Nadiya was aware that she had caused a scandal.

No one dared to say a word to her face, of course, but she caught the whispers. Even the espionage students weren’t subtle. The gossip was that Nadiya—yes, Nadiya—had eaten lunch with the new girl. Yes, the new girl, redneck Barbie, did you know she’s a pageant queen? Have you heard her accent?

Nadiya had begun to get strange looks in the hall. When she passed, the other students would flush and duck their heads, murmuring to each other behind their cupped hands. I heard they talked. I heard they even laughed.

Matteo was derisive. “You have to be kidding me,” he said, when they met for breakfast the next morning. “What did you even talk about? Squirrel hunting? Lawn chairs in the living room?”

“What do we talk about that’s so sophisticated? Half the time you’re admiring your reflection in the back of a spoon.”

Matteo tried to look wounded, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You know, this is compromising all your efforts to seem intimidating.”

It would be a lie to say she didn’t enjoy seeming intimidating. But that was what made eating lunch with the new girl all the more out of character. Nadiya told herself she would never have done it had Dr. Iver not given the order. She didn’t want to get a reputation for friendliness.

She also didn’t want to admit that some very small part of her had enjoyed talking to Giselle. She was funny, and interesting, both guileless and guileful in a seemingly contradictory way that also made perfect sense.

Admitting that would’ve meant . . . what? That she was following Dr. Iver’s orders so consummately that she had made their friendship genuine? Or that she was insipid enough to allow herself to be charmed by a girl whose past included modeling star-spangled bikinis? Or was it something else—something more confounding, something worse?

She didn’t want to fuel any more gossip, so instead of the dining hall, she invited Giselle to join her at the shooting range. Why not? Giselle had said she wanted to learn to defend herself; she should at least know how to fire a gun. Basic weapons management was a required course at Valeran, so Nadiya would be giving her a head start.