Page 108 of Spearcrest Prince

Miss Imez pauses for effect. She’s trying to make me nervous—and it’s working.

“For the last five years, I’ve had the honour of opening the exhibition. However, this year, we want to try something different. We chose the theme ofAletheiato encourage our students to explore and investigate the concept of truth. With that purpose in mind, I wish you, Séverin, to open the exhibition.”

The silence is deafening.

“Pardon?” I say finally, my voice dull.

“You will be opening the exhibition with a speech, welcoming the guests and introducing the exhibition.”

“That’s—I can’t do that.”

“This is both a sanction and a great opportunity,” Mr Weston says, raising a hand. “What better way to take responsibility and atone for the damage you’ve caused than by introducing the exhibition yourself?”

“Won’t everyone wonder why a student is doing this, though? And I’ve never given a speech like that—not in front of—”

My mind races. It’s just going to be parents and alumni there. There are going to be other students—my peers. Artists and photographers from the actual business. And press. Definitely press. It’s not like I’ve not done press before, but never like this.

“I’d rather be excluded again,” I finish.

“We’ve made our decision,” Miss Imez says with the smile of a benevolent dictator. “I’d like the draft of your speech on my desk by the end of next week.”

They dismiss me without further ado. I leave their office like a condemned man walking to the gallows.

And when the door falls closed behind me, I swear I can hear stifled laughter.

Chapter 38

Le Joli Garçon

Séverin

Thefollowingweekissplit between worrying about writing the speech and worrying about Anaïs’s display. The painting I destroyed haunts me. Has she replaced it yet?

I want to help her, but I don’t know if she wants my help. I don’t even know if she wants to see me. She’s not texted me or come to see me in the photography studio. And I don’t blame her.

Why would she want to see me?

She gave me her forgiveness so easily the last time I saw her, and that just makes things harder. Part of me wanted her to shout at me, to insult me, even strike me. Her teary eyes and quiet dignity were so much more painful than any reaction she might have had.

I keep typing messages to send her and deleting them. I want to go to the gallery, to the studio where she spends all her time, to the library. If I could see her, everything would be okay.

But if she doesn’t want to see me, then I don’t know how I would handle it. The pain would be too much. The pain is already too much—it would finish me off.

So instead of facing her head-on, like I faced Mr Ambrose and my parents, I take the coward’s approach.

I creep into a corner of the gallery for a stakeout. She’s bound to turn up eventually. I’ll be able to watch her from my corner and see how she’s getting on with her display. See how she’s doing.

Seeher.

Of course, stakeouts are never as quick and straightforward in real life as they are in movies. I wait almost two days for her to make an appearance, spending far too much time lurking in a dark corner of the gallery in the shadow of some discarded dividers. It’s not my most elegant or glorious moment, but I almost feel as if I have no choice.

She finally turns up on a Thursday afternoon after everyone else has left.

When she steps in through the double doors, my heart leaps in my chest.

She walks in with that odd gait of hers, long slow steps like a ballerina through water. I devour her with my eyes. She looks as dreamy as ever, a content, faraway look in her eyes. Her black hair is tied back in a messy knot low at the back of her head, loose strands framing her face.

Even from my creepy corner, I can see the smears of paint on her drawn-up sleeves, her hands, her forearms, her cheeks and her chin.

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