Page 145 of Kingmakers, Year Three

The Bell Tower is still standing, but just barely—it now tilts to the side worse than ever, with several more holes in the walls and no steps to climb up to the top.

Shouts come from the windows of the Accountant’s Tower, the students roused by the crashing and clanging of the bell falling down. Lights snap on in the infirmary—probably Sasha and Snow rising from their bed in their private quarters.

Laughing madly, Dean and I sprint for the stables before anyone can see us. We hide inside, amongst the piles of old furniture and files, until we find a box of ancient jerseys.

My jersey covers me much better than Dean’s—it hangs down to my knees, while his resembles something worn by Winnie the Pooh.

I can’t stop laughing.

“Maybe wrap another one around your waist?” I snort.

He seizes me and kisses me again, our mouths tasting of sex and ash.

Dressed but not exactly decent, we each run for our respective dorms.

“What in the hell?” Rakel says, when I try to sneak into our room unnoticed. “Have you been down in a coal mine?”

“I can’t possibly explain,” I tell her.

“Well, you missed a hell of an evening. Lola’s been bawling in her room and she won’t come out.”

“What happened?”

“Someone cut her hair off. She won’t say who.” Rakel gives me a suspicious look. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you? Because I would hope you’d involve me in any revenge plots against Lola and Dixie.”

“I didn’t know a thing about it,” I shake my head, mystified. “For once, I’m actually innocent.”

Rakel snorts.

“I don’t know what you were doing, but you’re the furthest thing from innocent.”

32

DEAN

The last week of school is the happiest week of my life.

I spend every moment possible with Cat. We go for long walks all over the island—across the vineyards fragrant with ripening grapes, down through the shady river bottoms, and along the wild, salt-swept beaches.

When the final marks are posted, I’m not in first place for my year. Anna Wilk took that honor, and Ares took second. I barely scraped third.

And yet . . . I don’t care.

Who would I have told, if I were first?

My father is dead. I can no longer impress or disappoint him.

And I no longer care what Danyl Kuznetsov or Abram Balakin think. In fact, when I consider the prospect of becoming Danyl’s lieutenant, all I feel is anxiety at the possibility that he might share Bodashka and Vanya’s ambitions of overthrowing Ivan Petrov and taking control of St. Petersburg. I want nothing to do with that.

The only person I want to impress now is Cat. She would much rather spend another lazy afternoon together than see me score a few points higher on my final exams.

I’m dreading a long summer without seeing her.

As we sit up on the cliffs overlooking the Moon Beach, the breeze tossing Cat’s curls around her face, I ask her, “Are you going to Los Angeles for the summer? To visit Zoe?”

“Actually . . .” Cat pulls up a blade of new green grass, twisting it between her fingers, “Miles and Zoe are coming back to Chicago for a few weeks. I was planning to meet them there. And I hoped you might come with me . . .”

“To Chicago,” I say.

---