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“Why?” I want Mr Ambrose to think I’m like him—calm in the face of any situation, unshakeable as marble—but unlike him, I can’t keep the emotion out of my voice. “I don’t understand—she’s perfect for this, we…” I don’t even know what to say, so I stop myself and take a deep breath. “I was certain she would accept.”
“She didn’t give me a reason,” Mr Ambrose says. “Neither does she owe me one.”
“But you know, don’t you?” I stare into Mr Ambrose’s hazel eyes, set deep into his grave face, searching for any clue, any information I can draw out of him. “Something’s wrong with her, isn’t it? What is it?”
“Zachary”—Mr Ambrose’s deep voice is solemn—“Theodora’s life is her own. She is entitled to make her own decisions, just as she is entitled to her privacy. I suggest you go speak to her. You’re her friend, she’ll talk to you.”
“Mr Ambrose”—I let out a frustrated laugh—“being Theodora’s friend is like standing next to the mountain instead of far away. It doesn’t matter how close you are, the mountain is still a mountain. You’ll never get to its heart, to what’s inside.”
“Theodora isn’t a mountain, Zachary. Not some mysterious creature from the heavens nor a tightly furled blossom nor any other metaphor your mind might conjure. She’s a young person, just like you. Just like you, she has dreams and hopes and problems and a mind and a heart and a voice. If you’re worried about her, then look after her. If you have questions about her, then ask her.”
“What if she refuses to tell me anything?”
Mr Ambrose sighs.
“My dear boy, she doesn’t owe you anything. Love is neither conditional nor transactional. If you truly love someone, you can’t love them less because they don’t give you what you want. And you certainly can’t expect them to give you what you want just because you love them. That’s simply not how love works.”
Mr Ambrose and I watch each other in silence for a moment. It’s not jarring to me that Mr Ambrose is speaking of love. He sees everything, and my love for Theodora is about as inconspicuous and discreet as a raging inferno.
I don’t even bother to deny it.
I know he’s right anyway. He’s a fiercely intelligent man, and he’s been alive for much longer than I have. His wisdom is something I trust implicitly.
With sincere thanks, I leave his office, determined to be the kind of man Mr Ambrose wants me to be: calm, collected, and mature. I decide to go talk to Theodora, to be composed and mindful, to avoid a confrontation at all costs and to keep my emotions under control.
My determination holds firm until I reach the top floor of the library.
And then I see Theodora.
And then every reasonable thought in my head is obliterated.
She’ssittingatherusual desk. Her long hair is half gathered in a gold hair claw. She’s wearing a sage-green sweater that looks impossibly soft, the sleeves long almost to her knuckles. When I approach her, she looks up from whatever she’s writing, and her face is small and pretty as a pearl.
The beauty of her melts me completely. It melts the reasonable thoughts out of my head and the measured words out of my mouth.
I didn’t want a confrontation, but my voice is a harsh accusation when I blurt out the question that’s been burning my tongue.
“Why are you refusing to be an Apostle?”
Our gazes meet. The forget-me-not blue of her eyes is highlighted by the delicate pink of her eyeshadow. Her face is a porcelain mask, with no expression marring the fragile surface.
Her emotionless calm kindles my despair like gasoline thrown into a fire.
Laying down her pen, she folds her hands together on the desk, leaning forward slightly to give me a small, mocking smile.
“What is it, Zachary?” she asks. “Is this the blade and the whetstone again? Are you afraid your blade will grow dull without the whetstone of my mind?”
I immediately understand what she’s doing. This is a sharp deflection disguised as a blow. She wants to appear as if she’s striking when she’s only really parrying.
“You know perfectly well that’s not the case,” I answer, narrowing my eyes at her. “Any whetstone can sharpen a blade. I don’t need you in the programme to excel—I need you there so that I can win.”
“Then win against the others.”
“A victory is only worthy if it’s against you.”
“So you’ve said before. But I know you, Zachary—so proud, so competitive. You’d prefer your victories to be against me, but any victory will feed your appetite.”
“No.” My entire body thrums like the chord of a harp after it’s been plucked. “No, Theodora. You can tell yourself this if it helps soothe whatever you feel about your decision, but you’re wrong. I know that doesn’t happen all that often to you—being wrong. But this time, you are. Because the truth is that I’m not competitive by nature and winning means nothing to me. It’syou. I need to win againstyou. You’re the only person in this world who’s my perfect equal—the only person who is worthy of me. Two beings like us cannot exist without a battle—we’ve been fighting it all along, and we’ll keep fighting it until there’s a victor.”
