Page 19 of Spearcrest Prince

The end goal has always been to follow in Noël’s footsteps and escape to Japan, where I’ll be reunited with him and finally get to live my own life.

A life away from my parents’ expectations, from the rich, upper-class people they so desperately want to be part of, from this archaic engagement with a spoilt, vain heir.

“I know,” I say finally. “I know, Noël.”

“Did something happen?”

Even if I wanted to tell Noël, where would I even begin? How would I begin to tell the story of trying to distract myself with a pretty boy in a club only to end up exchanging insults with my fiancé, like some political puppet in a mediaeval marriage?

Even thinking about these events is surreal, like something I’ve imagined into my memories.

“Nothing I could possibly describe to you.” I let out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-sigh. “Honestly, it’s all justRoi Soleilstuff.”

Noël laughs. “Yeah? What does that make you, then? The future queen consort?”

“Mm… more like the court jester. Or at the very least, a low-ranking valet.”

Noël’s laughter fades, and he sighs.

“You’re going to be okay, Anaïs.” Noël’s voice is low and soft. “Remember the stars. Remember how remote they are, so far from everything that nothing can possibly get to them. The world can admire your light or hide it away, but the Montcroix heir, for all his status and money, can’t get to you, no matter what. You’ll remember that for me?”

“Yes,” I whisper into the phone. “I’ll remember.”

“Bright and untouchable,” Noël reminds me. “Like a star.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll keep texting me often?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll remember how much I love you and how much I can’t wait to see you?”

“I can’t wait to see you either.”

“Love you, little sister.”

“Love you more.”

I hang up first so he doesn’t feel bad for hanging up on me. I stare at the phone for a second, his little face in the circle above his name. He looks exactly like me, and we both look like the exact mixture of our parents. We have our mother’s colouring and lanky build and our father’s straight black hair and eye shape. The same hair and eye shape that made every French person ask us the question, “But where are youreallyfrom?” from the day we were born, even though we were both born in France.

French people never really see us as truly French, but in Japan, where my brother now lives, people always ask him wherehe’sfrom, so I guess they don’t see him as truly Japanese either.

Neither of us truly belong anywhere—but that never mattered when we had each other. And we might be on opposite sides of the world right now, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll always have Noël, and he’ll always have me.

One year. I only have to make it through one year.

One year, and then everything will be okay. I’ll be free, with Noël, and my real life can finally begin.

Chapter 8

Le Baronnet

Séverin

“InheressayIn Plato’s Cave, American philosopher and activist Susan Sontag purports that ‘All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.’ Who can tell me what we understandmemento morito mean and, more specifically, its meaning in this particular statement?”

Hands fly up around the classroom in my peripheral vision. I’m sitting with my chin in my palm, my eyes glazed over. Our photography teacher, Jacob Weston, loves the sound of his own voice, but his words are little more than white noise, a dull backdrop to my thoughts.

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