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“She won’t do the exams,” my father interrupts. “I’m removing her from Spearcrest Academy.”
“Mr Dorokhov,” Mr Ambrose says, “I urge you to reconsider this decision. Removing Theodora from Spearcrest Academy will have serious consequences for her future, and I cannot understate how strongly I would advise you against making this decision.”
I stare at Mr Ambrose: this tall, strong, intelligent man who’s always been a figure of undeniable authority during my time in Spearcrest. He doesn’t realise it yet, but this is a debate Mr Ambrose won’t be winning.
In a room with anybody else, Mr Ambrose would hold seniority. Seniority of age, of experience, of education.
In a room with my father, Mr Ambrose is little more than staff.
Still, he tries. “You might not be aware of this, but Theodora is currently attending the Spearcrest Apostles programme, which selects only the very best student in the year group. The work she has submitted for the programme has been of outstanding quality—some of her writing is good enough for publication, even. And I shouldn’t be saying this at this juncture, but if it should encourage you to reconsider your position, Mr Dorokhov, then it is worth saying. Theodora is a front-runner of the programme and likely to be the candidate who will receive a full scholarship to Oxford University to study under the tutelage of—”
“Theodora is not going to Oxford University,” my father cuts in, deadly ice in his voice. “She’s not going to university at all. She is moving to Russia to live with me.”
Mr Ambrose is silent for a moment.
His eyes move from my father to me, his gaze settling on mine. His silence is a confirmation of my fate—I know right there and then that there’s nothing he can do to help me. All the power Mr Ambrose wields means nothing in the face of my father’s will.
“Mr Dorokhov,” Mr Ambrose says carefully, “I understand your wish to have Theodora close—she is your daughter, and after being educated in the UK for all these years, I understand your wishes to be reunited with her. But Theodora is one of the most academically gifted students I’ve ever had the honour to teach, and I know that pursuing higher education is something she dearly wishes to—”
“You’re not going to university,” my father says, finally turning to me. “You know this.”
I nod. I’m an eleven-year-old little girl again, my voice a hard egg in my throat, choking on it while I swallow down tears. I don’t dare say a word, I don’t dare even move. I sit still as a puppet, my hands clasped in my lap.
My entire existence is one big black blot of terror.
My father interprets my silence however he wishes. Most of the time, he takes it for obedience. Today, he takes it for rebellion.
“Or did you not tell your school? Did you lie to them, Theodora, like you lied to me?”
I never lied to you, I want to say.I never lied to them. I hid the truth to protect myself, to protect your plans.
“Theodora was encouraged by the school to apply to university, Mr Dorokhov,” Mr Ambrose interjects. “We encourage all our students to apply, even those who are unsure, as oftentimes students’ circumstances or goals may change after results’ day.”
“You encouraged her to apply to university?” My father sneers, looking straight at me. My eyes are trained on my feet because I don’t dare look into the chasm of his eyes, but I feel his weight like a grip around my throat, making it difficult to breathe. “Did you encourage her to be a whore, also?”
I go numb all over, my mind a screaming blank.
He knows. But how does he know?
How could hepossiblyknow?
Because someone must have told him.
The only person I told was Inessa—and Inessa swore on her cross she would never tell anyone.
Zachary, too, swore he would never tell anyone. But Zachary didn’t swear an oath—he didn’t need to, I trusted him too well. Zachary didn’t swear an oath, but would he ever betray me?
And then I remember the Young King’s stupid bet, that repulsive list they keep of girls in the year group they’ve slept with. If I check that list, will my name be on it?
And if it is, then what does that mean?
Does it matter?
My betrayal could only have come at Zachary’s hands—whether accidental or not. Does that matter?
Doesanyof it matter anymore?
Mr Ambrose is speaking, his voice harder than usual. He’s asking my father to remain respectful and refrain from using such language. My father doesn’t care. I don’t care either. I want to tell Mr Ambrose to give up, to let it go, that this is nothing compared to what my father will do once we leave Spearcrest.
