Page 50 of Spearcrest Prince

“Are those the pictures you took for the assignment?”

He nods, and I turn back to the screen. The collection is strong: all the shots are moody, murky, misty—full of character. Naked tree branches like black skeletons against a backdrop of bruised clouds; a close-up of the lake, where the water is obsidian, and spiky sedges pierce the surface like needles; a wide shot of the mountain, wreathed in mist and blurred by a veil of rain.

“Well?” Séverin prompts. He turns the chair so I’m facing him. He leans on the armrests, trapping me between him and the chair, and peers into my face. “What do you think?”

“They’re great shots,” I tell him.

He narrows his eyes. His eyelashes are so thick it almost looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. I can smell his perfume, feel the warmth exuding from his skin. “Are you just saying that because you can’t be bothered debating for the assignment?”

I shake my head. “No. Your pictures are excellent. I thought the same thing when you showed me your camera roll that time. You’re very talented. You have a brilliant eye for composition.”

For a second, he just stares at me, eyes narrowed in mistrust.

He clearly doesn’t believe what I’m telling him, but all I can think about is how close he is. The warmth of him, the intensity of him. His intoxicating smell: expensive leather and comforting sandalwood. By now, I should be able to recognise all those things as signs of danger.

Because physical proximity to Séverin Montcroix never ends well.

“Look,” I say firmly. I plaster myself back in my chair, creating as much distance as possible between us. “If I didn’t like your photography, I’d just say it.”

He nods slowly but finally pulls away. I almost breathe a sigh of relief, but then he continues. “Alright. So when are we going to work on the assignment, then?”

Did I just mishear him? Or have I stepped through some inter-dimensional crack and into a parallel universe?

Because out of all the things I expected the least from Séverin, it would be him caring about schoolwork or that he would bother taking the time to work on an assignment together.

Unlike Séverin, I actually need to do well in this assignment. I need a strong essay, and most importantly, I need some amazing paintings. Miss Godrick told us about the end-of-year exhibition award and the grant that comes with it.

I didn’t lie when I told Séverin I’m not a billionaire—my parents are. Because the moment Noël moved away, they cut him off, and I’m pretty sure the same fate awaits me. If I win the exhibition award, it would mean a lot more to me than an ego boost from governors. It would mean the grant—enough money to start afresh in Japan without being a burden to Noël.

My art means everything to me. One day, it will pay for my way in the world. If I won this award, I’d be earning this money with my art. It would be a dream come true.

I have every intention of making that dream a reality. And Séverin, with his caprices and his games, would only get in the way of that.

“Look, we don’t have to work on this together,” I say cautiously. “You’ve got your photographs, and I’ve got my sketches. We can both do our work separately and just pretend we’ve done it together.”

He shakes his head. “No, let’s do it properly. Photography is the only thing I’m actually good at. I want a good grade on this. Even if the assignment is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

He rolls his eyes. “If you won’t admit it’s stupid, then you have to at least admit this wholeAletheiathing is incredibly pretentious.”

“Why, because it’s a Latin word?”

“Because it’s pointless. Do you think successful photographers care about the philosophical meaning of truth?”

“I don’t think you can fairly accuse every successful photographer of not questioning their art form and its meaning. Just because you’re repulsed by the idea of introspection doesn’t mean everybody is.”

He glares at me. “Introspection isn’t what we were talking about.”

I shrug and try to get out of my chair. He’s still standing too close for me to get up without having to push past him.

“I’m pretty sure the whole point of the assignment is introspection,” I point out.

“Ugh, you artists and your delusions of grandeur.” He gives an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. We’ll introspect on it later. Meet at the library tomorrow after class?”

I nod, suppressing a sigh. “Fine.”

He flaps a hand at me, dismissing me with all the authority of a beautiful, tragic king. “See you there.”

---