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I turn to give her a surprised smile. “The Spearcrest library? But you don’t go to Spearcrest…” I try to remember if I ever saw Zahara in Spearcrest. I’m certain I would know if Zach’s sister attended the same school as us. I realise he never really mentioned it. “Do you?”
She lets out a little sigh. “It’s a complicated story. I just started this year.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“Nobody does. Aside from Zach and his weird friend.”
Zach, of course, might have a multitude of reasons for not telling anyone his sister is in Spearcrest. Being a Young King, I suspect, comes with drawbacks as well as privileges—something that’s bound to happen when you’re a ground of young people acting like a crime syndicate or a city-state. So it doesn’t surprise me that Zach might wish to keep Zahara’s presence in Spearcrest under wraps.
What doesn’t make sense is him telling Iakov Kavinski. Why would Zach tell one of his fellow Kings and not the others? No, if Iakov knows, then the rest of the Young Kings must know.
Just like they’ll know about me staying at Zachary’s house over the holidays.
Several days ago, when I arrived home from Spearcrest, my mother greeted me with two pieces of news: that a formal invitation had arrived for me to holiday at the Blackwood estate and that my father would not be coming to visit during the holidays as he does most years.
“Some business problems are keeping him away,” my mother explained, “and besides, you’ll be spending next Christmas with him anyway.”
The reminder that I would be moving in with my father after the end of Year 13 makes my gut churn as if I was about to be sick. My mother and I never speak about me moving to Russia—if it’s bothering her, if it worries her or makes her sad, she doesn’t show it.
Then again, it might not bother her the way it bothers me. She was only twenty when she herself was shipped off to Russia to marry my father, and it wasn’t until she was in her forties that she moved back to the UK for my education and to spend time with her ailing father.
In all my life, I never heard my mother complain about any of it, not even once.
Maybe she doesn’t mind. Maybe it’s just her stiff upper lip.
When she told me I should go spend the holiday with the Blackwoods, I was pleased but not surprised. My mother is well-versed in the art of cultivating her place in British high society, and it doesn’t get much higher than the Blackwoods.
“Will Papa not mind if I spend the holiday away?” I asked her.
“Of course not. Why should he? Your papa would be pleased to know you are nurturing such powerful connections. And he trusts you—we both do. You’re such a good girl, Theodora.”
When I was younger, being praised by my parents meant the world. If they called me clever or obedient or good, I thought it meant that I was loved.
I know better now.
So I accepted the Blackwood invitation and came. I came because, for once, I didn’t want to be good, obedient Theodora, Theodora the doll, the puppet. I came because I wanted something for myself, I wanted to be selfish and unwise and maybe even a little wild.
I came because of that night in the Spearcrest library, because Zachary told me to ask him if I wanted his kisses, and I do want them. I came so that I could ask him, just as he told me to do, just as I assured him I never would do.
A lifetime spent doing the right thing—why should I not, for once, just one time before I go to Russia, do what I want?
Except that I arrived here to find myself face to face with Iakov Kavinski. A Young King, and more than that, a Russian. If Iakov knows I’m here, his father might know too. His father and my father are two sides of the same coin: two powerful, dark-hearted men, one turned towards the side of law and society, the other turned towards the side of crime and corruption. But the world of the ultra-rich in Russia is a small one.
I’m here now, and it’s too late to go back.
But I haven’t done anything reckless yet. I haven’t done anything to draw my father’s ire. All I’ve done is make it more difficult for myself to remain the perfect, obedient daughter. But that’s what I must remain while I’m here. What choice do I have?
“Hey, are you alright?”
A gentle hand suddenly cradles my arm, and I turn, blinking slowly. Zahara is standing by my side, a frown of concern on her face. I smile.
“Yes, I’m so sorry, I was deep in my thoughts.” I shake my head. “That was so rude of me, and I didn’t hear what you said. I’m so sorry, Zahara.”
“Oh, don’t apologise. I was honestly just having a rant.” She squeezes my arm. “Are you sure you’re alright, Theodora? You look pale, and you’re shaking a bit.”
“I’m just cold,” I say, moving away from her. “I’m completely fine, I promise. I’m always cold.”
I look around, desperate for a way out of the conversation, a distraction. My eyes fall on the small pile of books on the magnificent desk, the embossed title gleaming in the cool daylight.
