Page 62 of Spearcrest Saints

“Well, you can’t give me that,” I tell him. “Someone beat you to it. But you can give me my second… no, my third… well—” I laugh. “You can give me a kiss, anyhow.”

Pain and anger flash across Zachary’s expression, too quick and raw for him to conceal.

“Busy summer, Dorokhova?” he asks, a sharp edge beneath his ostentatious amiability.

“My summer was awful, as you well know, Blackwood,” I answer, matching his false courtesy, “but parties are always so rife with temptation, don’t you agree?”

“I thought you were too strong to give in to temptation,” Zachary sneers. “That armour of yours must be made of glass to shatter so easily.”

“Plenty of ways to kiss with armour on,” I say with a smile.

“And was it everything you could dream of?” he asks suddenly, almost interrupting me. “Was your chosen purveyor worthy of you?”

“I think so. Someone worthy of being your friend should be worthy of my kisses, no?”

He laughs, sharp and unamused. “My friends would never dream of kissing you. They’d never dare.”

“Luca would,” I say, thinking of Luca’s feral laughter earlier, his repulsive offer.

Zachary’s entire body goes stiff. “Luca kissed you?”

“I never said that,” I answer.

Pinning my lie on Luca is a perfect solution. One, because whatever code of honour the Young Kings have between them, Luca doesn’t seem to care. Two, because Luca would probably go along with my lie out of nothing but sadistic amusement. And finally, most importantly, because Zachary hurt me, and I want to hurt him back.

“So much for this prize, then,” I say, filling the silence left by Zachary, who stands frozen and jaw clenched in front of me. “Maybe next time offer me something you can actually give me.”

With the same satisfied smirk he gave me earlier, I turn and leave.

Outside the study hall, the silence is almost deafening. I’m far drunker than I’ve ever been before, and the darkened corridor sways around me as I walk. At the end of the corridor, a face appears in the gloom, startling me.

I draw closer and let out a breathy laugh of surprise.

A marble bust of Apollo on a plinth—the god of music, poetry and archery. I draw closer until I’m standing right in front of him. I stare into the empty eyes and trace with my fingertips the curls of his hair, the folds of the cloak he wears thrown over one shoulder.

He’s handsome and beardless, with an earnest expression—almost a frown—and the slight pout of his pillowy lips is rendered in loving details by the sculptor.

I lean forward, close my eyes, and press my lips to Apollo’s.

The marble is cold under my lips—a metaphor for the coldness inside my heart. I lied to Zachary for pride, and I hurt him for vengeance, but I feel no satisfaction, no triumph.

I don’t feel anything at all.

MarcusAureliuswroteinhisMeditations, “How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it”. Easy to say when you lean towards the philosophy of Stoicism, which values logic over everything else.

Letting logic rule your actions is a noble goal, but how does it work when alcohol takes over and suddenly you’re acting out of pure, petty impulse?

And does that mean that the natural impulse of humankind is towards emotion and that logic is, therefore, unnatural?

I don’t know. I used to think there was an answer to everything, so long as I worked hard enough to find it. Now, I’m two months into my last year of college, two months into the Apostles programme, and all I know for certain is that I know nothing at all.

Well, no, I know something for certain.

That my actions during the study hall party have consequences. I realise this first in literature class, my first time seeing Zachary after the party.

We sit next to each other, of course, since every English teacher in Spearcrest seems to be under the impression that the only way for us to achieve top marks is if we are helping each other, not realising that the only thing driving us is competition, not cooperation.

Zachary is there first, already sitting down when I enter the classroom. I considered not turning up at all, but I’ve been doing exceptionally well in literature and can’t bring myself to give Zachary a potential advantage over me by missing a class. I slink into the room, clutching my bag, and sit down quickly, taking out my books and letting my hair fall like a curtain between Zachary and me.

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