Page 7 of Wicked Salvation
“I’d prefer to be called Duchess Anastazya,” she says, her smile never faltering. “And do they not curtsy in your country to acknowledge those of a higher rank?”
I fold my arms. It’s refreshing to feel something other than sadness for the first time in a while. The anger is welcome, familiar,comforting.
“You consider yourself a higher rank than me, Anastazya?”
She nods, still smiling. “I am aGrand Duchess.”
“Well, here in the UK you’re nothing more than a commoner. We don’t acknowledge fallen dynasties,” I sneer. “And by the way, I’mLadyEden Lockhart, the daughter of Viscount Lockhart. I think you should be the one who curtsies.”
That perfect little smile falls from her face.
She’s speechless for a few moments, so I go in for the kill.
“However, you don’t have to call me that. You should thank me for my graciousness. My entire existence isn’t staked on clinging to a title. Is yours?”
Anastazya laughs shakily. “No, it does not.” She straightens her already perfect hair. “Which bed is mine?”
Neither, I want to say.
I don’t want to give her my bed, but I also don’t want her sleeping in Vivienne’s bed. She’snother replacement—no one could ever replace her. After a few seconds of consideration, I point to the bed that used to be mine.
She moves her things over, then swings open the closet.
“I don’t think I’ll have enough space,” she mutters mostly to herself.
I don’t care—so long as she doesn’t touch my clothes.
Suddenly, the room feels cramped. I can’t stay holed up in here anymore with this stuck-up Russian “Grand Duchess.” I consider going to the Administrative office, but it’s not well-mannered to cause an uproar over something like a room assignment.
I don’t understand why she got assigned to this room in the middle of the term. And maybe I shouldn’t. If this has something to do with Vivienne, I’d rather not know. I’m already viciously upset with the school as is.
This would be my final straw.
I go back into the bathroom, changing into my uniform for the first time in what feels like forever. It’s looser than I’d like—but a fresh coat of makeup brings back some of my understated elegance. If only there was makeup for souls too. Something that could cover the rot, the grief, the unending sadness, hiding it from everyone—even yourself.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I leave the room without a word.
I don’t know where I’m going—anywherebut here will do.
I’ll let Silas know where I end up.
I’m sittingby a bench in the rose bushes when Silas shows.
I look up at him, framed by the diffused light trying to peek through the stormy sky. He’s wearing a bright smile, his hair neat, his uniform immaculate. He’s the Silas I remember, the one who made my heart stutter the first time I saw him in person.
The man I’m going to marry.
He pulls me into an embrace, kissing me so deeply I would’ve lost my balance if it weren’t for his hands around my waist. When we pull apart, he’s looking at me with something akin to devotion. My stomach twists at the thought that I’m the only thing that matters to him—I’ve never felt so strange about that thought before.
“I’ve missed your beautiful face,” he whispers against my skin.
Silas is perfect.
But I burst into tears anyway, somehow.
I crush myself into his chest, crying so hard my body starts to tremble. Silas’ body is stiff, his hands unmoving. I’m not sure how long I stand there, just crying. But, by the time I’m finished, there’s a huge wet stain on his shirt—makeup, tears, lip gloss, it’s all there. He looks down at it, then at me.
“What’s wrong?” He asks.
