I pull up the alert again. William lost the civil credit over a formal language mistake. It’s something I often do myself, not out of defiance butout of exhaustion. Absolute adherence to the rules feels impossible some days. I know that. I live it. So how can I blame him for slipping?
The truth is, it isn’t William’s fault at all. It’s the fault of our system, this gleaming, brutal machine built to crush people like us. Laws like this aren’t accidents. They’re designed to punish compassion and discourage low-citizens from helping one another. Who in their right mind would risk so much to be kind?
I sink into the seat beside Edmund and Jack, barely noticing when Professor Fleming strides into the lecture room and starts the class. No matter how hard I’ve tried to forget, I remember what danger looks like for the average low-citizen. I remember what survival costs. I remember crawling through the ceiling shafts of the Speakeasy with bloodied hands and feet, every breath a plea to stay alive. Back then, death was everywhere. The Copper on the Regal Express wanted me dead. Irene Hussey and her friends wanted me dead. So did thousands of other students.
That’s what low-citizens face every day. That’s what their lives are shaped around. The only difference is that they don’t have a bailout like I do. They don’t have Edmund.
Professor Fleming meets my gaze from his floating platform, as if he’s about to call on me. But when he notices the twisted knot of tension in my face, he chooses another student instead. I nod at him, grateful.
I don’t want to take Dad’s call on Saturday anymore. I don’t know how to face him. I promised Hillaire I’d convince him not to run for Governor of the Rainbow District, but after this, aftereverything, how can I?
Asking Dad to step down would mean endorsing the very system I oppose: the unjust executions and arrests, letting someone like William rot in a filthy prison cell for months of torture over a few hot-tempered mistakes.
If I tell Dad not to run, I’m telling him not to fight. Not to try. And the worst part—the part that guts me—is knowing why he’s waited so long to tell me.
It’s not my permission he wants. It’s my belief, like the soldier who stands tall when his enemies tell him to quit, but breaks when someone he loves says the same.
If I say no, Dad will walk away. If he does, nothing will change or get better.
And that will be on me.
After Political Theory & Governance, we head to Edmund’s suite to study for exams. I’m not in the right mindset to study, let alone finish a single thought, but I go because there’s comfort in being near Edmund, in standing in the gentle side of his shadow.
In the foyer, Edmund asks if we can talk in private. Charlotte, Jack, and Dickie exchange stiff glances as they file into the salon, making it clear that they think Edmund is angry at me for giving William the civil credits while I was under the arrest threshold.
And suddenly, I wonder if they’re right.
The Pinkies close the foyer doors, sealing us alone inside. Edmund takes off his suit jacket and lays it on a coat tree before turning to me. A few strands of hair have come loose from his pomaded style and fallen over his forehead, highlighting the worry lines on his face.
“I’m sorry, Edmund,” I say, “for not asking you first. But there wasn’t time.”
He drops a hand to his side. Between his clenched fingers, his Blood Ring glitters, the source of all the sickness in our world, yet the one thing that can cure it, too.
“I care about you,” Edmund says, “and I want to keep you safe. But I’m not going to use that as an excuse to stop you from doing what’s right.”
I straighten, caught off guard. “You think it was right?”
He nods, though there’s conflict in his face, as if some part of him would rather challenge William to a death duel and rid me of the problem altogether. “Jack says William’s got a short fuse, always quick to blow. People like that can drag you under fast, and now you’re tied to him for life. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”
“I have to be.”
Edmund sighs, his eyes creasing as if he’s still caught within himself, forcing his resistance down. Then he moves closer and takes my face in his hand, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “How many civil credits do you have?”
“More than I need.”
“If you run low, you’ll tell me?”
“Yes,” I promise, though my voice quivers.
He leans in and presses a kiss to my throat, as if to steady it. “Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as it could be. And even if it were, I’d be worse.” His other hand lifts to join the first, framing my face. “Trust me to look after you.”
I do. And it reminds me of something Dickie said once, long before I ever looked at Edmund as anything other than a Blue:If Ed got struck by lightning, the only thing that would happen is that his cigar would light.I laughed then, thought Dickie was ridiculous, but I see it now. Edmund is the tallest, strongest tree in the forest, with roots so firm and immovable that trying to tear them out would only drive them deeper, all the way to the other side of the world. People like him can lose, but they can never be defeated.
“It’s more than that, Edmund,” I say. “I believe in you.”
His throat tightens, and for a moment, his face shows the torn expression of someone watching a path split, as if my belief conflicts with the kind others place in him. It’s a firm reminder that trees don’t grow alone, especially where the earth runs blue. I can almost hear the voices around him, loud and insistent, pulling, demanding, shouting for which way he should turn. And yet, when I speak, no matter how quietly, his head always tilts upward, as if he hears my voice above all the rest.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
