Page 39 of Spearcrest Prince

I’m about to give up when I find a series of stone steps leading away from the castle and down the hill through trees. Following the steps, I descend into a small copse. There, nestled amongst twisted tree trunks and tangles of thorns, is a tiny little chapel. Candles burn on a ledge of stone at the foot of a small statue of Jesus.

I pause, staring at the chapel. It’s so small only a child could fit inside, but the statue is painted with bright, fresh paint, and most of the candles are lit. This tiny, isolated place of worship might be in the middle of nowhere, but it’s not abandoned or forgotten. Grabbing my camera out of my bag, I snap several shots of the chapel.

Once I’m done, I turn around and almost jump out of my skin.

“Putain de merde!”

Balanced on the enormous trunk of a fallen oak, Anaïs sits like a strange, sinister statue in a nest of leaves and shadows. She’s wearing blue jeans, a cream jumper and a sky-blue woolly hat. Her sketchbook is propped on her folded legs, and she holds a pencil in her hand.

Although my heart has already leapt out of my chest, she seems perfectly calm.

“I didn’t take you for the religious kind,” she says.

Her tone isn’t mocking. As usual, it’s slightly dreamy. But there is a note of amusement in her voice, the slightest twinge. I draw closer to her with a frown.

“I’m not.”

She shrugs, as if she doesn’t need convincing because she doesn’t care, and gets back to her sketching. I step right in front of the tree trunk she’s perched on, almost closing the space between us.

“Are you avoiding me?”

She looks up. “No. Why?”

Because you’re never anywhere to be found. Because you don’t seem to want to spend so much as a second in my company.My thoughts are so loud I’m almost nervous she’ll hear them.

Now I think about it, Anaïs doesn’t seem to want to spend time with anybody at all. Aside from that night when she came to the club with Kayana Kilburn and the others, I’ve never seen her spend time with anyone in Spearcrest. I never see her with her classmates or at campus parties.

How could anybody be happy with that kind of life? Does she not get lonely? Being alone when surrounded by people is worse than loneliness—one of the worst things I can imagine. And yet it doesn’t seem to bother her at all.

“At what point were you planning to work on this stupid assignment, then?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “Whenever you want.”

“Now.”

“Alright, why not?” She holds up her sketchbook. “I’m drawing the chapel you just photographed. We can compare work if you like.”

“What’s there to compare?” I smirk. “The assignment is Truth—a photograph is always going to be more accurate than a drawing. Even if this is a debate and not a competition, photography is still most truthful—it will always be.”

“The assignment isAletheia,” she says. “Not quite the same as Truth.”

So she’s been drinking the Weston Kool-Aid? Artists are so pretentious. Although I don’t know why this should surprise me: Anaïs is a billionaire heiress in battered trainers and ugly clothes who thinks she’s not part of thebourgeoisieshe so openly despises.

No matter how unearthly she seems, she’s just as pretentious as any other girl in her art class.

“Okay,” I say, suppressing a sigh. “SoAletheia—what is it the German guy said? Disclosure?”

“Heidegger. Yes, disclosure, but also unhiddenness. Unconcealedness.”

“Oh, is that it?” I roll my eyes and check through my camera for the shots I just took. Turning the camera around, I show her the monitor. “Go on then, have a look.”

She does. Leaning forward, she tucks her hair behind her ear and takes the camera in one hand, pushing the button to cycle through the photos. The camera still hangs around my neck by its strap, and she’s so close I can smell her. Lilacs and sun and that chemical sesame seed smell.

I watch her as she looks at the picture. She has pretty eyes and delicate features. I’m struck with the sudden and intrusive thought that if Anaïs had some style—if she wore make-up and dresses and did something nicer with her hair—she might actually be my type. Maybe that’s the reason I want so badly to make her come.

Grabbing my camera out of her hand, I recoil from her.

This is why I should never think with my dick.

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