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Pax nodded. “I’m observing an appendectomy today, but first Ms. Beaumont is coming by for more drilling of pointless subjects.”
Lila hoped he’d take a shower and change out of his pajamas before his tutor arrived. She’d rousted him out of bed for the first month after Trevor died, standing in his room and making herself an unavoidable nuisance until he took care of himself.
Was he backsliding now?
“I’m going to take a shower. Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“That look. Like you’re about to drop a bucket of ice water on my head.”
“I don’t have a look,” she said, knowing she did. Pax was one of the few who could recognize it. “You pay attention to Ms. Beaumont. You have to study hard if you want to become a doctor.”
Lila straightened his hair and squeezed his shoulder. She wanted to ask when he would return to boarding school, but she knew that he’d only shut down. The halls of his school reminded him too much of Trevor, and he couldn’t bear the thought of going back without him.
She wouldn’t push. Not yet.
“Geography and grammar and art? I don’t need to know any of that to b
e a trauma surgeon.”
“Oh really? I wouldn’t want someone working on my body who sounded like an ignorant fool or who couldn’t read a map of my innards.”
“You wouldn’t want anyone working on your body anyway.” He grinned, a sliver of the old Pax showing through. “Except for the person working on it last night. Who was that again?”
“You don’t know him.”
“Are you sure? I know a lot of people.”
“I know where I can find a pot of cold water.”
His lips twitched. “On that note, I should get ready for Ms. Beaumont.”
“A shower—”
“And clothes, I know. Geesh, you can be so annoying sometimes,” he muttered as he slid back into his room.
Lila turned back to hers, glimpsing a flash of white and black at the end of the hallway. Alex had ironed her skirt and blouse perfectly, and she’d fashioned her hair into a bun without a hair out of place. She always looked put together, no matter what time you looked in on her. Lila had never learned her secret.
The slave nearly dropped her duster, and her mouth opened in surprise. Her eyes dipped, roving over Lila’s lack of pajamas. She cocked her head to the side, curiosity flashing for one brief second.
Then it was gone.
A week ago, Alex would have grinned immediately. She would have grabbed Lila’s hand and dragged her into her room, instantly peppering her with question after question after question. Where had she been? What had she done?
More importantly, who had she done?
Lila might have shared a few details, venting about her partner’s disinterest, even if Lila kept his identity to herself. They’d laugh about things. They’d have hot chocolate. Lila would share her feelings about shooting the gunman, even though she hadn’t killed him after all. They’d finally talk about Alex’s mother and brother, and Alex would forgive her. She’d cry on Lila’s shoulder about poor, wayward Patrick. They’d wonder how they’d never seen his true nature before.
But that would never happen now. They weren’t best friends anymore. Perhaps they hadn’t been for a very long time. Tristan had said once that they were on a different level now, that a slave and a highborn couldn’t be friends, not when one owned the other.
Alex’s eyes grew hard as Lila stepped forward. “Alex, I—”
“Ms. Wilson,” she reminded Lila, the first words she’d spoken since the argument in Lila’s room, the night of the Wilson riot. She gripped her duster and forced her lips into a smile, her eyes narrowing with every passing second. “I saw the news. You’ve moved on, haven’t you? You’re killing them yourself these days, in front of audiences, rather than letting Bullstow do your dirty work. I heard they clapped afterward.”
“Ale— Ms. Wilson, I—”
Alex didn’t stay. She turned on her heel and click-clacked downstairs, leaving the railing undusted.
