Page 27 of All Saints: Pledge

Kendall’s eyes blaze fire. I’m pretty sure he’s about to throw a punch, but instead he grabs my shoulder, spinning me so that I am nose to nose with him.

Clara gasps.

I don’t move. Can’t move. I’m paralyzed by fear and anger.

“Don't fuck this up, Helena. This chance you have. God, you don't even know who you are! My father thinks he's so smart, and that you're here as some sort of test for me. You are meant for so much more than this guy. You aremine.”

I blink. I’mhis?What the actual fu?—

“Ours. You areours.” He corrects himself before stepping back. “Remember your contract.”

My insides are jittering. His words echo in a loop in my head.You are mine, you are mine. He may have corrected himself, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’dmeantit. Kendall thinks I’mhis? His to…what? To toy with? To control? To direct as a peon?

I shiver violently. That statement held power over my body and my blood. I shake my head to clear it. Power is one thing I cannot afford to give to Kendall Fucking Saint James.

“I'll remember my contract,” I hiss at him. “On one condition.” I shove his hand off my shoulder. “You. Don’t. Touch. Me. Ever.”

Instead of glaring, Kendall’s eyes flash with morbid humor.

Disturbed, I grab Dominic's hand and drag him across the street, trying to ignore the sounds of Kendall's dark laughter echoing off the surrounding cobblestones.

14

I'm not able to do much for the rest of the day except lose myself in study. I didn't answer the door when Clara knocked half an hour after the lunch spectacle.

What would I say to her? I didn't have any answers to questions she might ask. Why Kendall chased me down. What he'd said.

You don't even know who you are. What the hell does that mean?

And the whole belonging to him thing? First of off, fuck him, just on principle. Butwhywould he say that?

The contract sits on my desk like a rattlesnake, ready to strike me at any moment. I shove the earbuds deeper in my ears and turn up my white noise app to block out the entire world. Studying is my escape. My refuge. The one known quantity in this whole crazy mess.

At least, that’s what I do until four, when my alarm blares so loudly I fall off my chair and land on the floor. The smattering of power bar wrappers that have served as my nutrition today do little to break my fall. I turn off the alarm, noting that I've missedten texts today, half of them from Dominic asking if I'm okay. Bless him.

Setting my timer for fifteen minutes, I peel off my athleisure-wear—read: pajamas—fully cognizant "All Saints" ready might not be achievable in this timeframe. I'm at a level zero, and I need to be a Ten per my contract. Hopefully reporting for my first meeting with my chosen volunteer organization won’t involve fashion police. My guess is the choirmaster will expect more from me in the way of competence filing papers than choosing the correct shoes to compliment a dress.

Frizzy hair greets me when I look in the minuscule bathroom mirror, and it's hopeless. There will be no sleek waves today. “Time to channel PBS Masterpiece Theatre,” I tell myself. Running my brush under the water, I slick everything back into a severe bun, douse it in hair gel, and stab it repeatedly with bobby pins.

I look tired, but less chaotic. Edging toward severe ballerina, but not hungover freshman. Sheer bronzer, lip tint and cheek tint give me a false cheer, which raises me to at least a Five. In my closet, I go for basic black. Black pencil skirt, black tank top, black scarf tied around my shoulders.

The mirror tells me it's giving "sexy House Frau attending a memorial service", but it will have to do. I shrug and decide to lean into it, attaching a lace fascinator that resembles a modern widow’s veil. The tragic mysterious look boosts me from an Eight to a Nine, which is the best I can do on short notice. Worried I might run into Clara or Kendall, I peek outside before exiting my room. Thankfully, it's just the typical sleepy Sunday foot traffic.

My kitten heels click on the cobbles as I skirt the building and exit my quad. All around me, students and couples fill the grass. Reading, knitting, tossing a frisbee. Relaxed, happy, and blissfully unaffected by the drama I carry heavy within my bodyon a daily basis right now. Wild jealousy consumes me as I witness carefree individuals. People who got into Oxford without being a part of All Saints. People who can afford Oxford without signing a contract bartering their right to date.

In short order, the massive spires of All Souls Cathedral blot out my view of the sky. Oxford is known as the City of Spires—thin white fingers reach for the sky, clawing up out of the manicured grounds.

Inside, the deep, deep quiet of the stone church presses in on my senses, soothing me. I take in a lungful of the musty air. I can't describe why I love the taste and smell as much as I do, considering I've led a life avoiding churches as much as possible. This space feels...reverent, filled with the sounds of a choir of angels. Like an older version of God resides here, not the knockoff American one.

Soft scales emanate from the primary space and I hurry through the doors. I hope I’m not too late to help the choirmaster. When I'd seen All Souls choir assistant as an option on the list of approved volunteer activities, my mind wouldn’t accept any other alternative. Like a woman possessed, I’d not even finished reading my options before clicking on it in my app. I assume I’ll be organizing sheet music, or running errands, or ironing choir robes, and I love it.

There’s an indescribable pull to this. My body resonates as the singers make their way up and down the scales and I make my way up the center aisle. The choir sits near the front of the church, on a dais behind the lectern, under a soaring dome covered in stone carvings. Three rows of ornately carved benches face each other, both sides face the center where the conductor stands. I slide into one of the wooden benches and sit, content to wait for rehearsal to finish up.

I glance over the group of singers one by one and then there he is. The dark-haired angel whom I'd heard singing the firsttime. His tousled locks hide his eyes, but I feel sure he clocked my entrance. Like he’s just looked away from me. It’s a little heady, feeling like I’m noticeable enough to snag the attention of someone so talented and gorgeous. I start, realizing I’ve not only seen him singing before, but…he’s the server from the King’s Corner meeting. The one that winked at me. My heart zings, a moment of triumph in putting together the pieces before it crashes to the floor. Does this mean he’s tied to All Saints too? Is that why he notices me?

In America, Helena is a quiet nerd. Noticed by nary a human male in anything other than a tutoring capacity. Kendall made it clear to our entire school that he thought I was an ice princess. So much so, I never even got asked to a prom. Not even by a fellow nerd. It was like everyone was terrified to challenge what Kendall deemed. Here in Oxford, I feel...seen. I’m interesting. An actual blip on the radar of men and it'swild. If I had known dressing like a tragic widow would net me this kind of attention, I'd have started doing it in 8th grade.

Silence reigns, and my attention snaps up. The conductor has turned to look at me, and everyone has stopped singing. The conductor lookspissedthat I'm interrupting practice. “Are you Miss Eades?”

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