Page 102 of Spearcrest Prince

“Tu a l’air complètement perdu, fils,” my mother says softly.

“Iamlost.” I let my head fall back against my headrest. “I’m lost, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You should have told us,” my father says quietly. “You should have told us what was happening.”

“What would you have done?” I ask, bitterness rising in my voice. “You wouldn’t have ended the engagement.”

“Certainly not. If I based all my decisions about this family on the hormones of an eighteen-year-old boy, then I would be just as lost and foolish as you, my son.” My father shrugs and takes the glass of whisky he’s poured for himself but hasn’t touched yet. “But I could have given you advice.”

“I don’t need advice.”

My mother laughs softly. “No, you’re doing well on your own. So well that you’re falling in love with your fiancée and don’t know it. You want her, but you don’t want to be engaged to her. You told a boy in your school you were going to kill him and got yourself excluded.C’est pas très joli,tout ça.”

“Aah,” I groan, buried by the stark reality of her words. “Je suis foutu.”

My father looks at my mum. “Tu penses qu’il est foutu, notre fils? Hein, ma fleur de nuit?”

My mother sighs and nods. “Malheureusement oui.”

Chapter 36

La Daurade

Anaïs

Isitonthefloor in the art studio, forehead resting against the cold glass of the window. Outside, the winter is slowly melting into spring. Long hours of rain follow long hours of dreary sunshine. Everything is grey and sad.

In front of me, the damaged painting sits, waiting patiently for me to bring it back to life. The image that once existed there is gone—it’ll never reappear. To repair this, I can’t retread where I’ve already been.

I have to forge a new path.

Earlier in the week, Miss Godrick pulled me aside. She explained to me that Séverin Montcroix confessed to damaging the exhibits. I didn’t bother feigning surprise. I just waited for her to carry on.

She explained that Séverin was going to be away for a few days to serve his sanction for the fight with Parker Pembroke. But after he returned, he would be expected to make up for what he’d done.

“It’s fine, Miss Godrick,” I said to her. “I’m sure he’ll do his best to help.”

She tells me how sorry she is about my ruined painting and then gives me a comforting squeeze of the shoulder.

But I’m not upset. I don’t have anybody coming to the end-of-year exhibition—my parents are busy with work, and Noël is too far away. So the exhibition itself doesn’t mean much to me. The grant is as good as gone, and there’s no point crying over it.

The only thing that’s truly important to me is the grade I get. So long as I secure the grades I need for my Japanese university applications, then I’ll be alright.

When I arrived in Spearcrest, the thought of moving to Japan—of being far away from my parents and reunited with Noël at last—was the only thought keeping me going. My motivation for getting through the year, through the mess of Spearcrest and Séverin.

But now, the thought of moving is bittersweet. I think about my life with Noël in Japan, and I can’t help the strange, unsettling feeling that something is missing. That when I leave, I’ll be leaving a part of myself behind.

I glance down at my sketchbook. It’s open on a page that’s blank apart from the wordAletheiascribbled in the middle. I’ve been trying to think of something for my display for hours on end. But nothing comes to mind.

When Séverin and I had argued—or debated—the assignment topic, we’d agreed that art was more truthful than photography. My essay was well-written and eloquent. I’d been inspired and had a clear idea about what I wanted my display to look like.

But now that I have to start from scratch, surrounded by my pens and colours and paintbrushes, I don’t even know what the truth is anymore.

Normally, my mind is crystal clear. Visions appear, and I’m able to focus on them while I draw or paint, translating the images in my mind on paper or canvas.

But lately, my mind isn’t crystal. Emotions swirl and mingle in a chaotic mess. Like a messy palette, I can see glimpses of an image in there, but I can’t quite decipher, can’t quite organise it into shapes and features.

Because whenever I close my eyes, all I see is Séverin.

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