Page 58 of Kingmakers, Year Three

And she did answer my question, without entirely meaning to.

The reason why I’m willing to do all these things with Dean, the reason I let him tie me to that wall . . . is because Idotrust him. As much as he scares me, I’ve come to believe that he won’t actually hurt me. Not in any real or lasting way.

The pain of whipping and spanking is nothing compared to the pleasure that comes after.

I get up earlierthan usual the next morning, so only a dozen other students are scattered throughout the dining hall when I grab a bowl of oatmeal and a pot of mint tea.

I prop my Extortion and Racketeering textbook up against an earthenware milk jug, intending to study and eat simultaneously. All the time I’ve been spending with Dean is undermining my efforts to improve my grades this year.

I’ve only read through a single page before Hedeon plops down in the seat next to mine saying, “Who in the hell decided that oatmeal’s an acceptable breakfast food? If the Victorians ate it, that should be reason enough to chuck it off the menu forever.”

“It’s actually pretty good. It’s got blueberries and cinnamon and?—”

Hedeon shoves away his untouched bowl.

“It’s still slop,” he says.

He hasn’t shaved in a week or two, and his thick, dark stubble is halfway to a beard. It makes his eyes look all the more blue.

I can’t help casting a nervous glance around the dining hall, in case Dean sees us sitting together all alone. He’s obviously touchy about Hedeon, which is laughable because there’s never been the slightest spark of romance between us.

Hedeon just wanted me to use my access to the computer lab to search through old student records. He never explicitly told me that he was looking for his parents—that was my assumption. I think I’m right though, because Hedeon seems to hate the Grays, despite the fact that they named him heir over his brother Silas.

I feel guilty that I let that secret slip to Dean. I didn’t mean to. He quite literally tortured it out of me, however pleasant that torture might have been.

Even though I wasn’t able to access the student records, I did suggest to Hedeon that he might find paper copies amongst the detritus of cast-off filing boxes, broken furniture, and abandoned sports equipment in the old stables.

He never told me if he found what he was looking for.

I ponder if I’m brave enough to renew the topic now.

Hedeon sits sullen and silent, his expression as unwelcoming as I’ve ever seen it. If I wait for him to be in a good mood, I might as well wait for the second coming.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Uh, Hedeon . . . did you ever . . . find that thing you were looking for?”

“What?” He says, startled out of whatever moody thoughts were swirling around in his head.

I can feel myself blushing, but I persist, “In the boxes . . . in the stables . . .”

His jaw clenches, and I think he’s going to tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. Instead he says, in a low, defeated tone, “No. I found a box of records from around the right time, but the files didn’t say anything useful. It was stupid to think they would.”

“Do you know your parents’ names?” I ask, hesitantly.

He shakes his head, his dark hair hanging down over his eyes.

“I don’t know anything about them. I only assumed they came here because a long time ago I found a gray envelope crumpled up in the back of a drawer. It had half a wax seal on it—the Kingmakers seal. At the time both Silas and I were too young for school, so it wasn’t for us. It’s the only clue I have. The Grays won’t tell me anything, not even my mother’s name. I have no pictures. I have nothing at all.”

I frown, considering that.

“Did your parents—the Grays, I mean. Did they go to Kingmakers?”

“Yes, but decades ago. They’re old. They spent a long time trying to have their own children.”

I’m wondering if the envelope could have been from one of their acceptance letters. People don’t always clean out their drawers.

Perceiving this, Hedeon says, defensively, “The envelope didn’t look that old.”

I’m not sure how accurately one can discern the age of paper, but I don’t want to argue with Hedeon. So I only say, “Maybe they know someone who works at the school. Maybe a teacher wrote to them . . .”

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