Page 24 of Spearcrest Prince

“You two aren’t supposed to be working together,” she says as she comes to a stop next to us.

Séverin looks up with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before. A courteous, open smile tilts the corners of his pretty mouth and reveals pearl-white teeth.

“Ah, I’m so sorry, Miss Godrick. Anaïs has just moved here from France—I’m not sure if Mr Ambrose has told you about the… unusual circumstances we both find ourselves in—but in light of everything, I thought it might be a good idea to partner up together on this assignment? Especially since Anaïs and I are both so busy with our studies. We have so few opportunities to spend time together, and I know how much my little Anaïs misses home…”

He turns to me. It’s fascinating how beautiful and genuine he can make his smile look even when I know it’s false. I roll my pencil in my fingers, itching to sketch his face, to capture this intriguing phenomenon of false loveliness.

“Ah, yes, I understand, Mr Montcroix,” Miss Godrick says, smiling warmly at us both. “Thank you for explaining. I think in this case it should be fine for you two to partner up on this task. I’ll let Mr Weston know. You two keep up the good work.”

Séverin’s smile doesn’t fade until Miss Godrick’s back is turned.

I tilt my head. “Who’s the liar now?”

He shrugs. “Guess it’s my turn this time. You’re still a gold digger, though.”

“And you’re still agros bourgeois,” I reply.

“You’re not going to need amemento moribecause I’m going to end up strangling you with my own bare hands.”

“You need amemento morito remind you that you won’t be able to dismiss death as easily as you dismissed Parker and Miss Godrick.”

“No.” He smirks. “I’m too beautiful to die.”

“Too vain to live. Narcissus drowned looking at his own reflection.”

He takes his camera out of his backpack and pops the cover open. Holding it up to his face, he adjusts the lens and mutters, “Keep talking. My essay will be about how your mouth is amemento moribecause everything you say brings you one step closer to being murdered at my hands.”

“Those frail aristocratic arms couldn’t squeeze the juice out of a lemon,” I say, smiling sweetly for his camera. “I doubt you could choke me, let alone strangle me.”

“Choke you?” he says, peeking up at me above his camera. “I don’t want you like that, Anaïs.”

“I thought you didn’t want me at all.”

“Stop talking. I want to take your portrait while your mouth is closed. My essay will be about how only death will be enough to make you stop talking.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Those are all different ways of saying you have no idea whatmemento morimeans. At least Parker knew what it meant.”

His features twist into a grimace. “Your comebacks are worse than your fashion sense.”

“At least I have one.”

“Barely. You weren’t even wearing shoes the last time I saw you. Like a goddamn pauper orphan out of some tragic fairy tale.”

“And you look like the evil fairy prince that steals babies from their cradles to replace them with goblins.”

He lowers his camera and smirks. “Better a prince than a pauper.”

“Ah, yes, the Montcroix motto that inspired this engagement.”

He flips me the finger, and I return the gesture. Soon after, Mr Weston takes the students away to develop their photographs, and I sit and use one of my sketches to draw my portrait. When the bell rings at the end of the lesson, Séverin is nowhere to be seen, so I make a quick exit.

I’mbrushingmyteethand getting ready for bed when my phone vibrates. I open the text sent from an unknown number. There is no message, just a picture of a photograph. I open it.

It’s a blurry photograph of me in the art studio. My mouth is open, and my expression is amused. With the white collar of my uniform and my plain black hair, I barely recognise myself. The photograph is far from flattering, and a text pops up underneath it.

Séverin: Best I got. Memento mori: remember you will die,so put in a bit more effort while you’re alive.

I rifle through my backpack in search of my sketchbook and pull out the portrait I drew after he left. It’s Séverin, a cocky smirk on his face, an extravagant crown on his head. I take a picture of it and send it, followed by a text.

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