Page 117 of Kingmakers, Year Two

It takes me calling home to my father to be fully convinced. I phone him on Sunday, which is the day we’re permitted to use the old-fashioned bank of telephones in the ground floor of the Keep.

I never call my father, usually. He communicates via letters that I detest opening.

However, today he seems to be expecting my call.

“Hello, Catalina.”

He never calls me Cat. He never has.

“Hello, father.”

“I assume your sister told you the news.”

“She said you made a new deal with the Princes. A more advantageous arrangement.”

I’m trying to flatter him. I know my father’s pride. If he senses any hint of triumph in Zoe or me, he’ll be furious.

“I don’t expect you girls to understand the complexity of my business. But yes, you could say it is infinitely more advantageous,” he says, with pompous magnanimity.

“I—I’m very happy for you, father.”

“It’s an embarrassment for your sister to be cast off by her fiancé. She better hope the American is serious about pursuing her. I doubt anyone else will be interested after the way she’s behaved.”

“I think he’s very serious about her,” I say, quietly.

My father responds with a disgusted sniff.

“I hope you’ll never behave in such a whorish way, Catalina. I raised you to understand what a wife owes to her husband. A woman’s value is easily diluted. Like a bottle of wine, once the cork is popped?—”

“I understand, father,” I say, quickly.

I’m seething with anger, my hand shaking around the receiver. Howdarehe talk about Zoe that way, when he’s never felt love or devotion in his life. He’s a hypocrite, a reptile, a slimy fucking?—

“See that you do understand,” he says, shortly, hanging up the phone.

I slam the receiver down in return, wishing I’d had the courage to do it before him.

I hate him. I hate him so much.

I loathe the idea of going home this summer. I wish the school year would never end, a sentiment I never thought I’d feel, but now I embrace it wholeheartedly.

I prefer Kingmakers. I can say that now. For all its faults, for all the ways it terrifies me, at least this place is honest in its intentions. No one pretends to love me here, pretends to have my best interests at heart, while poisoning me from the inside out.

My father doesn’t know anything about who I am, not really.

I am a fucking Spy.

Luther Hugo made no mistake when he chose my division. He looked at my school transcripts. He noticed what my father never bothered to see. Nascent skills. Embryonic expertise.

I’ve been building those skills all year.

Now it’s time to put them into practice.

I’m tired of terror, tired of waiting for men to attack so I can fumble in reaction.

It’s time to face my last fear at this place.

Time to go hunting for Rocco Prince.

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