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There’s only one person in Spearcrest whose word I could trust completely. That person is Iakov. I’ve never known him to betray a secret or break a promise. Iakov’s head is Fort Knocks. Nothing ever leaves that dark place he has for a mind.
“I have a little sister—Zahara. She’s sixteen. She used to go to a private school in France, but something… bad happened there and she had to leave.”
“Right,” Iakov says.
No expression crosses his face. If he has any questions about what happened to Zaro, he keeps them to himself. I suspect he has none—I’ve never known Iakov to be shocked by anything.
“Long story short—she’s starting at Spearcrest in the fall. She’ll be in the upper school like us. Her name on file is our mother’s, so nobody’s going to know she’s my sister, apart from Mr Ambrose. I don’t want anybody to know.”
“But you’re telling me,” Iakov says. “Why?”
I swallow. “That’s where the favour comes in.”
“Mm.” He reaches for his bedside and grabs a box of cigarettes. Taking a cigarette out, he taps it against the box, rolling it between his fingers. He’s not allowed to smoke indoors, but Iakov always plays with cigarettes when he’s thinking or concentrating or worried. It’s a little tic that easily gives him away. “Alright. Spit it out.”
“I need you to look after her.” I’m more nervous than I thought I would be, asking him this. “Zaro is… Zaro’s changed these past few years. I always assumed she was going to be alright. Foolishly so. I don’t think she’s alright at all. She’s incredibly bright, and she’s sharp—she’ll draw blood if she can—but that makes me forget how young she is. And I want to look after her, but I’m going to be busy, and I don’t want her to slip between the cracks just because I’m concentrating on other things. She’s too important for me to leave what happens to her up to chance.”
Iakov’s eyes rest on my face, dark and neutral. He thinks his thoughts the way he always does, without feeling any need to express what he’s thinking and without filler words to bide his time.
When he’s ready to speak, he does. And when he does, he takes me completely by surprise.
“I had a little sister too,” he says. “I know what you mean. I’ll do it.”
I didn’t know Iakov had a little sister. I notice that he said it in the past tense—he “had” a sister. Iakov’s sentences are often monosyllabic, but his grasp of English is perfect. This won’t have been a mistake.
I give him time to elaborate but he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs the black case from his bed and unzips it, laying out its contents next to him. Saline water, iodine, gauze.
This feral beast of a man has a whole med kit for his injuries.
He starts to tend some of his wounds and glances up at me. “Tell me what you need me to do. Be specific.”
“I need you to keep an eye on her. Just casually, around campus, at parties. If she’s staying out of trouble, if she seems safe and happy, then there’s no need to interfere. The main thing I’m worried about is her being taken advantage of. And I don’t want her going off campus.”
“Why?” Iakov interrupts. “We do.”
“She’ssixteen. She’s not going off campus. Anything could happen to her.”
“Alright,” Iakov says. “And if she tries?”
I sigh and rub my hand across my face, suddenly tired. “Fuck, I have no idea. Stop her. No, tell me. Maybe follow her discreetly, make sure she’s alright, and tell me. I’ll deal with it. It’s probably better if she doesn’t realise I’ve got you looking after her.”
Iakov cleans a wound on his thigh with almost professional efficiency before dressing it. When he’s done, he sets his things aside and looks straight at me. “Bad idea.”
“Really?”
“If she’s smart, she’ll work it out.”
Iakov, of course, is right. Zaroissmart, and Iakov isn’t exactly the kind of person who can lurk behind corners unnoticed.
“So you think I should tell her?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, sensing a headache forming behind my eyes. “She’ll think I’m having you spy on her.”
“You are,” Iakov says with merciless honesty.
“Not really—only for her own good.” I think for a moment. “What if telling her only makes hermoresecretive?”
Iakov shrugs. “Maybe she’ll be more secretive. But maybe she’ll be more careful.”
For a moment, we just sit in silence. Me in the chair with my nascent headache, Iakov sitting on his bed like a tattooed, bruised version of Rodin’sThinker.
