“Oh, I realize I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Jesse Philips. I write forThe Atom Magazine’s science news column on weekends—my main rodeo is lecturing.”
Realization settled into Bilal at the man’s name. He distinctly remembered, at several points during childhood, his dad saying that someJesse Philipsguy was the bane of his existence. Philips was always in their family’s business apparently, writing about all his father’s failures.
Perhaps Bilal could be endeared to this man, after all.
“Oh yeah, Mr. Philips. I’ve heard plenty about you,” he said, and the short balding man beamed so brightly, you’d think he’d never been acknowledged before in his life.
“I’m sure you have! As I said, your father and I go way back. Honestly, I wasso pleased when he invited me to the event tonight. I have been trying to get a press pass for ten years now. It’s truly a mystery as to why my application has never been answered before,” Mr. Philips said.
“Your invite probably got lost in the mail in the other years,” Bilal said dryly.
“That must be it!” Mr. Philips replied with a menacing grin.
“Must be,” Bilal muttered.
“I’m covering this event for my magazine’s Sunday edition, and I wanted to ask you a few questions. I hope you don’t mind.”
Bilal had thought his time answering reporters’ questions would be done with after the press conference. But it wasn’t like he could say no, especially not here, where he was expected to mingle, to impress guests and donors with his laundry list of “achievements.” After all, this was first and foremost a networking event.
“Go ahead,” he said, and Mr. Philips’s beady, birdlike eyes lit up with excitement as he brought out a recording device from his pocket before turning it on and bringing it up to his mouth.
“I’m here with Bilal Button, genius fencer, Olympic gold medalist, and the eldest son of the infamous Master of Prodigies, Leontes Button. Bilal, how is the evening going for you so far?”
“It’s going okay, I guess,” Bilal replied.That is, if “going okay” means “the worst night ever,”he thought.
“Would you say it feels… strange being here tonight?” Philips continued, and Bilal raised a confused eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, everyone knows, of course, that you left your father’s house almost three years ago to begin a permanent training residency in the city at the age of fifteen… incredible. So I figure it must be strange being around all your siblings and your father, whom I’d imagine you only have time to see on rare occasions like this one?”
“I guess,” Bilal said, tension rising in his bones.
“You guess?” Jesse Philips had a ravenous look in his eyes. “Sounds like some hesitation there. Do you regret leaving the Manor so young? Would you ever return?”
Fuck no, Bilal wanted to say but obviously couldn’t. “I don’t regret leaving. It was best to move out so I could focus solely on my career, especially since my coach wanted me to train more seriously for the big events like the Olympics, the grand prix, and the World Cup.” It was the rehearsed answer that both Henry and Claire had taught him to give. It was the only way to keep the secrets of thatawfultime in their lives dead and buried.
“Speaking of your career!” Mr. Philips said, and then not-so-subtly trained his gaze on Bilal’s cast-wrapped calf. “I heard about your accident—terrible news. How is your leg doing?”
It seemed like an innocent enough question, but Bilal had been asked this by his coach so many times over the past few weeks, and even more so in the last forty-eight hours by everyone else, that he knew there was nothing innocent about it. What they were really asking was,Is this injury a permanent one? Is your career over like the gossip sites say it is?
“My leg is fine, or at least it will be soon enough,” Bilal said, lying through gritted teeth. He had to get used to the feeling of lying, especially as he was certain he’d get more questions like this from other attendees tonight.
“Thank goodness for that!” Mr. Philips clutched his chest dramatically with the hand that was not gripping the voice recorder and let out a massively exaggerated sigh of relief. “I’ve heard so many horrific rumors, some saying you would never fence to your incredible standards again. What a tragedy such a world would be.”
Bilal felt a sharp pang in his chest.What a tragedy such a world would be.
If only Mr. Philips and all the other people speculating on his career knew the truth.
That Bilal’s accident was no accident at all.
Because who was Bilal Button if not a slave to his father’s interests andprodigal vision? Who was he without his piste or his blade? Who were any of them without their talents?
Ordinary. Unremarkable.Failures.
These were the words their father had threatened them with growing up. Bilal’d put everything into fencing. Since he was old enough to hold a saber in his hands, he’d worked tirelessly at it. Hours and hours, years and years of training himself to death, too scared to fail. The fear of not being brilliant had always scared him more than death ever could.
Now what scared Bilal mostwasthat life. A life of doing something he hated,beingsomeone he hated, and worst of all, being brilliant at it.
