They move off, footsteps echoing down the long corridor, their voices fading into the arching silence of the old academy.
I wait until I can’t hear them anymore.
Only then do I let myself slide down the wall, knees pressed tight to my chest. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely untangle them. I stare at the floor, at the tiny pinpricks of blood where my nails have dug into the skin.
I count to ten, then again, then again.
But the shaking doesn’t stop.
At some point, I get to my feet. I don’t know where I’m going, only that it has to be away from here. Away from the sound of their laughter, from the chill of knowing that my life was bartered away before I was even old enough to say no.
I run.
Taking the stairs two at a time, then through a side corridor, ducking past the breakfast hall, past the clusters of girls with their cruel faces and their perfectly braided hair.
I don’t stop until I reach the farthest bathroom in the old east wing.
Inside, it smells of old soap and bleach. Picking the biggest stall, I lock the door and sink onto the floor, my back against the cool porcelain tile.
For a few seconds, I let myself cry.
It’s a silent, ugly thing—no sobs, just hot tears and a raw ache in my chest. I press my palm to my mouth to keep from making a sound.
When it passes, I look at my reflection in the murky steel of the door.
My face is pale and my eyes are hollow, circled in shadow.
I stare at myself, trying to find the person who needs to be strong enough to make it through all of this.
I don’t recognize her yet.
But maybe, if I keep looking, I will.
Okay, get the fuck up and lock in. There has to be a way out of this.
Unlocking and walking out of the stall, I head to the sink. I try to steady my breath but it comes out in jerks. I rest my palms on the edge of the counter and press down, pretending that I can transfer my shaking to the old vinyl.
There are no windows. Just a single bulb over the mirror, too bright, buzzing faintly with the effort of staying alive.
I catch myself wishing the light would flicker out and let me vanish.
I close my eyes and try to remember something that isn’t this place, this moment. I think of my mother’s hands—long, elegant fingers, always warm and soft, always smoothing back my hair. She died when I was nine. My father never talked about her, and now I wonder if she ever meant anything to him. Or if she, too, was a contract.
A sound cuts through the silence—a low thump, the heavy tread of shoes on tile.
I freeze.
The door flies open so hard it rattles the hinges. Eve rushes in, face set and eyes wild. She sees me and her whole body sags, just for a second, like she was bracing for something worse.
“Shit,” she says, and locks the door behind her. She leans against it, out of breath, her cheeks flushed with cold or adrenaline.
We stare at each other. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, but the tears start up.
“I saw you run,” Eve says. Her voice is soft, but it bounces off the hard surfaces. “But Goddamn girl, you’re fast.”
I want to ask why she came, but my throat closes. I manage a nod.
Eve surveys the room, like she’s checking for threats. Her uniform is rumpled, shirt collar half untucked, blazer missing. She looks more alive than anyone I’ve ever met.
