Page 8 of The Pawn

But I think she's on my side, helping me craft my plan for revenge.

Chapter 4

"She marked me," Tanner complains, holding his palm out towards Lukas. "Look—it's the symbol of the Beast."

Lukas peers at his open palm, pale brows raised doubtfully. "Sure that wasn't just you playing tricks with your lighter again? Because she doesn't seem like the sort."

Little Brenna Cooke, weak as a newborn lamb. That's how Lukas DuPont must see me—he thinks Tanner would eat me up if given the chance.

Holding out my palm, which is burned more than Tanner's, I complain, "He threw the lighter at me, and it burned when I caught it." My mother gasps, grabbing my wrist and tugging my hand towards her. "I didn't know the safety band was off."

Mom murmurs, "That needs some antibiotic salve to keep it from scarring..."

"Here." Wally pulls a tiny first aid kit out of his jacket, because of course he's Boy-Scout-level prepared. "I've got a bandage for it. I can do yours too," he tells Tanner.

Eyeing me, a little smirk twisting up his lips, Tanner shrugs. "Oh, I'm fine. It's barely a burn. It's New Meat over here I'm worried about—she held that lighter so long I thought she'd wind up well done."

So he plays along with games. No surprise there: admitting why the candles were lit, why our hands were near them, would mean admitting that he tried to burn me first. That doesn't mean I shouldn't be careful next time—putting that tiny hint of a burn on his hand could've cost me, especially if he reported me to the administration.

But boys like Tanner don't tattle. They like their revenge up close and personal. If he gets back at me, he'll do it where no one's looking, and Daddy Senator will never find out.

Once my hand is properly disinfected and bandaged, the sharp pain dulling to a subtle roar, the tour is back on. Lukas shows us everything: boys' dorms Lawrence and Hadley Hall, girls' dorms Rosalind and Lovelace Hall, the Gladius Outdoor Space, the Scholars Hall, and the Coleridge Center where dining and most of the administration is kept, as well as the teachers' rooms, for those who sleep on campus.

Last, but far from least, is Carthage Library.

“There are two different architectural styles in the interior of Carthage Library, because in 1972, the entire structure was redone by prominent architects in the area." For the first time in the tour, Lukas DuPont seems animated instead of drolly neutral. This must be his favorite building. "There are over fourteen millions books here, many of them kept in archival condition. If you look to your left, you'll see a carved relief in the tradition of ancient Roman..."

I’m tuning him out, I realize, because Lukas Dupont’s obsession with architecture and history matters far less to me than looking at all the books.

So. Many. Books.

It’s like that scene out of the animatedBeauty and the Beastmovie, only better, so much better. The shelves go on and on, in front of me, to either side of me, above my head. The infamous stairs to the second floor, rebuilt in recent decades, are made of frosted glass, and there’s a cutout in the middle of the ceiling that turns the floor into one huge balcony. You can see up into rows and rows of more books, a seemingly endless supply, too many for one person to ever read.

For a moment I’m a child, full of wonder.

Then I turn to my right, instinctively, looking for Silas, wanting to share this with him—no. He’s dead.

He came here for this, was tempted to Coleridge by promises of nicer violins, better classes, and enough books to sink your teeth into. If he’d settled for Wayborne Public High School back home in Virginia, we’d be having our end of summer celebration right now, melting ice cream running down our chins, playing tag with Wally or turning Jade’s mother’s lemons into endless lemonade.

Instead, I saw him lowered into the ground in a casket, makeup over the bruises on his neck, pale and lifeless.

I’ll never get to share this wonder with him.

I let the emptiness wash over me, sharp pain in my right hand as I press down on the snake bite scar and burn on my palm. Experiencing life without him in it feels perversely unfair. Every moment of joy is something stolen that he’ll never have. It makes no sense that I'm even here when he never will be again.

It’s too much to dwell on, so I let myself float through the tour of the library, idly taking note of the layout of the shelves. I feel Wally’s eyes on me, his hand guiding me when I nearly stumble over stray obstacles, his voice a rumble in my ear. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter as the tour continues, not waiting for any response from me or seemingly caring if none comes.

“I think our tour is twice as long because of the charming European. He sure does like to chatter.”

We move through the foreign section.

“There are so many books here. D’ya think any of the less popular ones ever get lonely because all the other books are read but them?”

Here are the classics.

“I reckon this place is bigger than our whole school back home.”

This is the art history section. Graphic novels and illustrated books, Lukas explains, are up the stairs.

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