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And yet I feel as if he’s standing right behind me, watching me with his stormy face. Waiting to see what I’ll do.
Waiting to see if I’m a whore.
Every part of me turns to ice. So does my voice when I answer Zachary.
“I don’t need your help, thank you.”
“Are you sure?” He tilts his head. “You look lost, and I was here in the summer, so I can—”
“I’m fine.” My voice is firm and hard. Why couldn’t it be that way when I was in the car with my father? “I know where I’m going.”
“Alright.” He gives a small, courteous smile. “Well, I hope you are settling in okay. Would you like me to walk you to your form?”
There’s a panic inside me I can’t describe. Terror and anger and anxiety and regret and a horrible, sickening fear.
“I would like you to leave me alone.” I look straight into his eyes. “Thank you.”
For a moment, we just watch each other. I’d forgotten how nice the colour of his eyes is: a deep, rich brown, several shades darker than the brown of his skin. His eyes are the warmest part of him, but there isn’t enough warmth in them to melt the ice in my words.
To melt the ice I’ve filled myself with.
He straightens himself like a soldier regaining his composure.
“I’m sorry for bothering you.” His tone is stiff and formal.
He turns around and walks away, and I hasten in the opposite direction. I still have no idea where I’m going, and I end up getting to form late.
I don’t speak to Zachary for the rest of Year 7.
It’s not an easy year. I struggle to make friends, and the work is harder now we’re in secondary school. I spend a lot of time studying, trying to keep up, and making sure I do well enough to stay in the top classes for every subject.
Sometimes, I see Zachary in the corridors, in classes or during assembly. He always looks the same: his uniform impeccable, his curly hair short and tidy, his expression intense and earnest. When we cross paths, he looks at me but never speaks to me.
I always look away first.
At the end of Year 7, the summer exam results are displayed in the main corridor of the Old Manor, in great glass cases. I don’t bother searching the lists; I just look at the top, where I know my name will be.
For every subject, the top line reads the same.
#1: Zachary Blackwood and Theodora Dorokhova.
Chapter 4
Glass Coffin
Zachary
TheodoraDorokhovadoesn’tletme anywhere near her.
She’s like Snow White in the glass coffin; I can see her quite clearly but never reach her. Like Snow White with the bite of poisoned apple in her throat, Theodora seems to be suspended in some dormant state, waiting to wake up.
Maybe waiting for somebody else to wake her up.
I spend all of Year 7 watching her from afar. We both end up in the top sets for every subject, which means that, more often than not, we end up sharing classes. I see her in the corridors, in the lower school dining hall. Sometimes I even see the pale shape of her move like a phantom down a path on the grounds or crossing the green lawns.
Sometimes, our eyes meet. She says nothing. There’s no hatred and dislike in her eyes—but that doesn’t make it easier to guess why she’s refusing to have me near her. It only makes it harder to figure her out, like a scientist trying to come up with a theory with too little evidence.
When our first term at Spearcrest is almost over, Mr Ambrose keeps me behind after the last assembly of term.
