Kingmakers, Year Two

7. Zoe

7

ZOE

D r. Cross tells me that I can stay in the infirmary as long as I like, but I leave that evening, after a long nap that helps ease the throbbing pressure in my skull.

I think I hit my head when Jasper Webb caught hold of my ankle. But that’s not the only reason for the pounding headache. It’s disappointment, too.

I don’t want to be dead. Not really. But god did I want to escape.

Now I’m back in the thick of my own life, and the weight is suffoc ating.

I’m exhausted from scratching the walls, banging my head against the locked doors. Everywhere I turn, there’s no way out.

I’ve only been back in my dorm a few minutes when I hear a gentle tap on the door.

“Zoe?” Cat calls softly.

I open the door to see my sister anxiously waiting, her dark eyes huge in her delicate face.

“There you are,” she says, pushing into my room with a sigh of relief. Then she gets a proper look at me in the lamplight and her face crumples up. “What happened?” she cries.

I touch the tape high up on my cheekbone, which I know fails to cover the beginnings of a nasty black eye.

I open my mouth to give some excuse, to downplay what happened. Instead, I find myself bursting into tears.

I never cry like this. I’ve never fallen into my sister’s arms, sobbing. I’m so much bigger than her that I almost knock her over. I’m instantly ashamed of myself, but I can’t seem to stop. My whole body is shaking and I’m making an awful, animalistic sound, a ragged howling.

I never wanted to dump this on Cat. But I can’t seem to stop. I’m crying and crying as if my insides are liquefying and pouring out through my tear ducts .

After a long time I realize that Cat has sat down on the bed, and I’m laying with my head in her lap, while she gently strokes my hair.

This is something I did for her many times when she was sick or sad. Especially after our mother died.

I’ve never been the one in this position before.

The feeling of her gentle little hand on my head is incredibly soothing. It’s hard to accept comfort when you feel that you should be the one giving it, never demanding anything in return. It’s hard to trust that it might be okay to receive solace, just this one time.

Once my body stops shaking, once I’ve relaxed, the words come pouring out of me just like the tears—without moderation or control. I tell Cat everything Rocco has done to me, everything he’s said, from the moment I met him in the garden of our villa. Up to what happened this morning on the ramparts.

Cat listens silently, absorbing it all. I can feel her legs getting more and more rigid under my cheek, but she doesn’t interrupt.

When I sit up to look at her, her lips are so pale that I can barely see them against her skin.

“What can we do?” she asks me .

“Nothing. There’s nothing we can do.”

“There has to be something!”

“Cat,” I say gently. “Where would I go? Where would I hide? And with what money? Besides . . . I could never leave you with them.”

By “them” I don’t just mean our father and stepmother. I mean my father’s soldiers, and the Princes and their soldiers, and the professors at school, and the other students, and the whole wide underworld that could be used to hunt me down, or to punish my sister for my escape.

“I could go with you,” Cat says.

I shake my head. I would never risk what might happen to her if we tried to run away.

Cat was not made for a life of fear and uncertainty.

What I hope is that she’ll marry someone reasonable. A strong man who can protect her. Who will appreciate that Cat is beautiful and kind and will be a good wife to him and an excellent mother to his children. Then she’ll be safe.

Not all mafia men are bad. She could end up with a Leo instead of a Rocco. There’s still hope f or her.

As for me . . . well, I can’t think about that.

Looking at Cat makes me realize I’m not the only one battered and bruised.

“What happened to your face?”

“Combat class.” Cat shakes her head ruefully. “I’m not getting any better.”

“You will,” I assure her. “I could practice with you in the gym, outside of class hours. I’m not the best at fighting, but I’ve learned a few things. Chay’s better—I bet she’d help.”

“Alright.” Cat looks more nervous than pleased at this prospect. Then, returning to the subject topmost on her mind she says, “When you tried to jump off the wall . . . Jasper Webb grabbed you?”

“Yes. Jasper and Miles Griffin.”

“But Miles wasn’t part of it—he came along in the middle of it?”

“That’s right.” I nod.

“Why do you think Jasper helped you?”

“I don’t know. Out of instinct. Or to keep me from getting away from Rocco. Or because he was worried he might get in trouble himself. It wasn’t out of sympathy for me, I can tell you that. He had no problem holding me down so Rocco could cut my fucking eye ou t of my head.”

Cat gulps, pale and nauseated, and I regret describing what happened in such graphic detail.

“Never mind,” I tell her. “I was stupid to run up on that wall to avoid him. I’ll be careful not to go to any isolated places.”

Cat bites her lip. We both know that avoiding Rocco on campus is only a temporary fix at best. I won’t be able to avoid him when we live in a house together as husband and wife.

She asks, “What was Miles doing up there?”

“I don’t know.”

I can feel my face coloring. I told Cat everything, except my conversation with Miles in the infirmary. I don’t quite know how to explain it.

I never expected to experience kindness from Miles Griffin. And I definitely never expected to feel understanding. Miles and I could not be more different. And yet . . . for a brief moment as I lay back against the pillow, and he sat right next to me, not touching me, but only a foot or two of space between us . . . I felt that he could see inside me. He knew what I was feeling, and he understood.

Even more surprising, I felt the same way about him. I looked in his face and for once there was no mask of indifference. His features softened. He looked younger. Miles became a real person to me, with a range of emotions much wider than I thought him capable of feeling .

He uses humor as a shield and a weapon. I’ve never seen him show anything but ambition, cunning, and the relentless determination to satisfy his own impulses.

As he sat next to me, the walls came down. The real Miles spoke to me. I heard compassion in his voice. Concern. Even respect.

It was bizarre. Unsettling, even. I expected any second that he’d shake his head, crack some joke, and he’d be back to his usual careless self.

Instead, he wanted me to promise that I wouldn’t try to hurt myself again.

I could tell that it mattered to him. That he cared.

Why he should care, I have no idea.

I don’t think tenderness comes easy to Miles Griffin.

To me either, if I’m being honest. The only person on this planet I truly love is Cat. I never had close friends until I started school at Kingmakers. There’s a coldness in me that doesn’t melt easily. Maybe because I’ve had to be so careful, so rigid, all my life. It’s hard for me to trust. Hard to open up.

“Miles must be decent,” Cat says pensively. “He’s cousins with Leo and Anna.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” I shake my head. “After all, look who we’re related to.”

The following weeks at school are uneventful.

I never told Dr. Cross what actually happened, and he didn’t press me for answers. He’s too used to being lied to by students, and probably doesn’t want to hear it.

I don’t know whether Rocco is right, whether he’s allowed to injure me with impunity. There’s no point in reporting what happened either way. Nobody was injured, other than the cuts on my face and body, and the lump on my head. Only serious damage merits an official response.

One thing I did do: I bought trousers from Matteo Ragusa. He’s a Sophomore Accountant, and we’re about the same size. He was happy to sell me two pairs of pants from his stash of uniforms, though I could tell he was curious.

“What do you want them for?” he said, handing the trousers over freshly laundered and neatly pressed.

“I just . . . don’t want to wear skirts anymore.”

I couldn’t explain to him the shame I feel in my body sometimes. How much I hate the way it draws the eyes of people like Rocco Prince and Wade Dyer. I’m vulnerable in my school uniform. It was too easy for Rocco to slip his hand up my skirt at the breakfast table. I’m lucky all he did was pinch my thigh .

“You don’t need these?” I said to Matteo, holding up the trousers.

“Nah.” He shook his head. “I’ve got plenty. And my mom can send more in my Christmas box.”

It wiped out all my pocket money, but it hardly matters. There’s nothing to buy at Kingmakers unless I want something illegal from Miles Griffin.

I’ve been wearing the trousers since. They give me a strange sense of confidence. I feel like Katherine Hepburn or Ingrid Bergman, two women I’ve always admired. In an environment of skirts, pants are an expression of power.

Nobody has commented on it, other than Professor Graves raising one silver eyebrow the first time I walked into class flouting the usual uniform.

Maybe the pants are working, because Rocco has mostly been leaving me alone. More likely he sensed that he pushed me too far.

I’m not stupid enough to relax. I know he’s only regrouping, planning his next attack.

He wasn’t pleased with our last skirmish. He doesn’t like when things don’t go according to plan. Every interaction between him and me is supposed to satisfy some dark impulse. If I don’t feed him what he wants, he only gets hungrier .

Rocco isn’t the only one watching me. I catch Miles Griffin looking at me more than he used to. We were barely acquaintances before, both of us floating in the orbit of Leo and Anna, but rarely interacting with each other directly.

It may be my imagination, but I feel like Miles is sitting down to eat with us more often, or intercepting us in the commons to walk across the grounds together before parting ways for the next class.

Maybe he just wants to make sure I haven’t offed myself yet.

It feels like more than that. It feels like he’s listening to my conversations with Anna, taking in every word that comes out of my mouth, even while Leo’s chatting away in his other ear.

While he’s watching me, I’m watching him.

Miles is much more clever than I realized. I knew his grades were shit and he barely tried in class, basically doing the bare minimum to prevent being expelled. He slacks off in the Quartum Bellum . His team was first eliminated last year and he hardly seemed to care. He might even have disappeared for half the match.

But when he’s talking about a subject on which he’s genuinely passionate, he seems to know everything in the world.

For instance, this morning he’s discussing Bitcoin with Ozzy. He’s so engrossed in the conversation that his whole face lights up, and he looks much more like Leo, instead of his usual sardonic stare.

“It was the cartels that started Bitcoin in the first place!” he says to Ozzy, gesturing with his long, flexible fingers. “It’s the perfect basket for obscuring transactions. I keep expecting the government to regulate it, to refuse transferal to American dollars, but they ignore it.”

“They don’t understand it,” Ozzy says. “Politicians aren’t programmers.”

We’ve got a break between classes, and we’re sitting on the raised platform amongst the orange trees, enjoying the last truly warm sunshine before the autumn weather begins.

This is the first time I’ve been over here since my altercation with Rocco up on that wall. The very wall I’m sitting against at this moment, the stone sun-warmed and pleasant against my back.

I can’t help glancing upward to the empty ramparts. Miles catches me, and our eyes meet in one swift jolt of understanding, before Ozzy draws his attention again.

We’re sprawled out with our bags and books scattered everywhere: Leo and Anna, Chay, Cat and me, Miles and Ozzy, then Ares and Hedeon.

Ares is Leo’s roommate. He’s a gentle giant—an inch taller even than Leo, with deeply-tanned skin and that particular shade of blue-green eye that you sometimes see in Greeks. He’s quiet and studious, so I’ve always liked him and found him a good study partner.

Hedeon lives on the same floor of the Octagon Tower, with all the male Heirs of our year. I can’t say I enjoy his company quite as much as Ares’ because Hedeon is touchy and prone to angry outbursts. He’d be good-looking if he weren’t so sulky all the time—he’s dark-haired, clean-shaven, well-groomed. The only thing marring his handsome face is the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, as if it were broken in the past and never properly healed.

He’s improved since our Freshman year. I think Leo and Ares are a good influence on him, because neither of them can hold a bad mood for long.

But right now Hedeon is in as foul a temper as I’ve ever seen him. He and his brother Silas got into a fistfight at breakfast over the last blueberry muffin in the basket.

I don’t know how the fuck Hedeon dares fight with Silas. Silas is a walking leviathan. He looks carved out of stone, and he’s about equally as emotive. I’ve never seen him smile, unless he just finished beating the shit out of someone in Combat class.

Yet they clash with each other constantly, with real fury, over the most petty provocations .

Anna thinks Silas is bitter because their parents appointed Hedeon as Heir. If that’s true, I’m not sure what Hedeon is so angry about.

Hedeon gets the worst of it in their fights, but he never backs down. It’s like a scab he can’t stop picking.

“Gimme some of that water,” he demands of Anna. She has a flask full of the lovely, cold, mineral-tinged water that you can pump up from the well next to the dining hall.

“No,” Anna says, taking a swig herself. “You already drank half of it, and you should have brought your own.”

Hedeon tries to snatch it from her, but Anna pulls it back out of reach. Her dancer’s reflexes are as fast as any of the boys. Except maybe Leo.

“Don’t know why you’re sunbathing,” he says to Anna. “I’ve never seen you catch a tan darker than chalk.”

Leo frowns and opens his mouth to tell Hedeon off, but Anna forestalls him.

“Quit barking at all of us because Silas slapped you silly. It’s not our fault your brother’s an ass.”

Hedeon gives Anna a stare of such furious heat that even Anna looks slightly abashed.

“He’s not my brother,” Hedeon hisses. “There’s not a drop of shared blood in our veins. ”

An awkward silence falls over the group as we all remember that Hedeon was adopted by the Grays, and so was Silas. They were raised together, but it obviously engendered no affection.

Quietly, Chay asks, “Do you know who your biological parents were?”

Hedeon’s lips are pressed tight together, his jaw rigid with anger. I don’t think he’s going to answer her.

Then he says, “No.”

It’s a twisted, tortured syllable, as if it pains him to let it out.

I’ve seen Hedeon hit the heavy bag in the gym, over and over and over again, until his knuckles are bloody and his shirt is soaked through with sweat. Those white t-shirts become transparent when wet. Hedeon’s back is a topographical map of scars, raised and crisscrossed, newer scars lain over older. They run down the backs of his arms, too, and up the base of his neck.

I think about those scars, and the slightly crooked nose.

I wonder when that happened. Before he was adopted? Or after.

The silence is thick, as most of us want to say something to Hedeon, but don’t know what. His expression seems to indicate that he’ll bite the head off the first person who tries .

To my shock, it’s Cat who pipes up.

“My roommate beat the shit out of me in Combat class again. But I almost think it’s cathartic for us. Really seems to ease the tension in our room afterward.”

Chay can’t help laughing. “What the hell? Who would want to beat you up?”

“Rakel really seems to enjoy it,” Cat says, mystified. “I am learning how to get my hands up. And I knocked her over once today, so that’s progress.”

Sure enough, Cat’s sporting a fresh fat lip to go along with the bruise under her eye from a previous sparring session. It only highlights the innocence of her big, round eyes and her delicate face.

Hedeon looks at her with a bemused expression. He’s still radiating anger, but at a less radioactive degree. More asbestos than Chernobyl.

The tension broken, Miles and Ozzy return to their conversation.

“It doesn’t do any good to stay right below the ten-thousand-dollar mark for deposits,” Ozzy is saying. “They’ve got algorithms to track that. You put in ninety-four hundred every three days, and they’re still gonna pop you. You gotta write your own algorithm to keep it truly random. ”

“Can you do that?” Cat asks eagerly.

“Sure,” Ozzy says, surprised that she’s taking an interest. “Easily.”

“Cat’s got a knack for computers,” I tell Ozzy.

“Ozzy’s a fucking genius on a keyboard,” Miles says. “Cat couldn’t learn from anybody better.”

Once again I find our eyes locking, and it feels like so much more intention is flowing between us than the simple words of that sentence.

“Nice outfit, by the way,” Miles says, that slow, lazy grin quirking up the right side of his mouth, showing white teeth against his tan skin.

“Thanks,” I say, blushing a little. I’ve got on Matteo’s trousers and a pair of suspenders borrowed from Chay, over a white dress shirt, with a pair of flat brown oxfords. I look like a newsie, but Miles seems to genuinely like it. He’s a sharp dresser himself, always combining unusual pairings of the uniform pieces with his extensive collection of space-age sneakers.

It’s the simplest of compliments. Yet I feel warm all the way down to my toes, and not just from the sunshine .

Ares checks his watch. “I was gonna go finish that paper on Organizational Structure before next period. You want to come, Zoe?”

He knows I’m always down for a trip to the library. It’s probably my favorite place in all of Kingmakers. I like to go there just to breathe the scent of all that ancient paper and ink.

“Sure.” I scoop up my bookbag.

I raise my hand in a wave, planning to say goodbye to Miles and everybody else. But Miles isn’t looking at me anymore—he’s staring at Ares with a wholly unexpected expression. Scowling like Hedeon when Silas is mentioned. He looks like Ares just stole his blueberry muffin.

I blink, and the bizarre moment passes. Miles turns his gaze on his expensive sneakers instead.

When I say, “See you later,” he responds with a quick jerk of his head.

Ares and I head west along the wall, toward the pointing finger of the Library Tower.

Ares has a calming presence. He’s one of those people you can sit with in silence without ever feeling uncomfortable. When I do speak to him, he always answers with a smile. Still, I sometimes get the feeling he’s not actually very happy .

“How are you doing?” he asks me gently.

Cat is the only person I spoke to about what happened on the wall. I’m guessing Miles told Leo, and Leo told Ares. That, or Ares is just perceptive. Quiet people see a lot. And it’s not that subtle that I’m all kinds of fucked up.

My automatic impulse is to say, “I’m fine,” like I always do.

But there’s a strange thing about making friends. It doesn’t feel good to lie to them.

I’ve always kept my feelings locked away. Bit by bit, Anna, Chay, Leo, and Miles are bringing me back to honesty. I’ve even been more open with Cat.

So I don’t force a smile for Ares.

I say, “I’m pretty fucking tired. Of school, of family shit, and this fucking unsolvable problem always hanging around my neck.”

Ares’ jaw tightens. His forearms look strangely rigid where his hands are stuffed in his pockets.

“I understand.”

I look at him curiously. “Do you?”

He meets my gaze for just a moment, his dark, untidy shock of hair falling over his eyes. Then he looks away again .

“I think so,” he mumbles. “You’re smart, Zoe. Disciplined. Loyal. It seems like it has to work out for you in the end.”

“Does it always work out for the people who deserve it? Or is it all just random and fucking awful sometimes?”

He bites his lip, really considering this.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “But I’m gonna act like there’s some kind of destiny, or karma, or whatever you want to call it. ‘Cause otherwise, what’s the point of anything? We might as well give up now.”

“And you don’t want to give up?”

Sometimes I want to give up.

“No.” Ares shakes his head vehemently. “I never want that.”

We’re quiet for a moment, Ares looking uncomfortable, as he always does when he says more than twenty words in a row.

He and I have spent a fair bit of time alone together, but I don’t know that much about him. Only that he’s from a tiny island in Greece. That the Cirillos were one of the ten founding families of Kingmakers, but they’re hardly mafia at all anymore. He grew up on a farm. He’s the oldest of four, and his younger siblings miss him desperately—he’s always writing letters to them, picking up their responses from the little post office in the village .

I know what everyone else wants to do after we graduate: Anna will take over the Polish Braterstwo and Leo will become the Italian Don. Together they’ll rule the lion’s share of Chicago.

By rights, Miles could take over the Irish territory, but he intends to go to Los Angeles instead, to make his own way in the world.

Chay is the Heir of the Berlin Nightwolves, and she already knows exactly how she’ll expand their network of tattoo shops, nightclubs, concert venues, motorcycle shops, and racing teams.

Even Hedeon has been named Heir of the Gray’s London-based empire, with his brother Silas ordained to act as his top lieutenant. How they’ll manage that when they can’t eat breakfast without trying to kill each other is beyond me, but the plan is in place.

Only Ares abstains from talking about the future.

“What will you do?” I ask him. “After we graduate?”

“Take over my father’s business,” he says at once.

“Really? That surprises me.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re so good at everything here. You’ve got some of the best marks in the practical classes as well as the academic ones. It’s true!” I say, as Ares shakes his head modestly. “Don’t think nobody notices just because you’re standing next to Leo all the time. Do you really want to be a farmer?”

Ares looks at me, smiling his gentle smile.

“You’re kind, Zoe,” he says. “Don’t worry about me. I like growing things.”

“Alright,” I shrug. “I’d never tell you there’s no joy in a peaceful life. I’d take that deal in a second.”

We’ve reached the Library Tower. I already feel a swoop of happiness as Ares cracks open the heavy, iron-strapped door. The scent of parchment and leather hits us like a cool, dry wind. Mixed with that, a light, exotic note that just might be Miss Robin’s perfume. Her apartments are directly above the library, in the attic of its pointed roof.

We climb the spiraling stone steps to the first level. The whole library is one enormous spiral, like the inside of a conch shell. The bookshelves are curved to fit against the wall, and the floor slopes upward like one long, continuous ramp. Wedge-shaped platforms prop up the tables so our pencils don’t roll away while we’re working. It’s a bizarre design that makes the library seem infinite and endless. The thick oriental rugs and book-stuffed walls muffle the sound so you never know who might be on the levels above you .

As we ascend, my shoelace slaps against the stone steps and I stoop to tie my oxfords so I don’t trip myself. Ares continues on, not noticing that I’ve fallen behind.

Shoelace tied, I hurry to catch up with him. I hear Miss Robin’s cheerful greeting of, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” She pauses as I rush up next to Ares, then says, “Zoe too! I should have guessed. I don’t think anyone spends more time in here than you two.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Ares reminds her. “Everyone gets a free period in the morning block.”

“Wednesday!” she cries, shaking her head. “Next you’ll be telling me it’s October.”

I smile to myself, certain Miss Robin is aware that we’re well into October.

When I first met the librarian I thought she was shy and a bit standoffish. She rarely eats in the dining hall, even though plenty of other professors do, and I haven’t seen her at any school events.

The more I talk to her, the more I realize she’s actually quite warm and charming. She’s just wrapped up in her thesis on medieval monasteries. She’s never idle when I come in here, always busy scouring old maps and documents.

Even now, I can see traces of ink on her fingertips and a smudge on her cheek. Her dark red hair escapes from her bun in wil d, frizzy strands. Her thick grandma glasses have slipped down to the tip of her nose. Because it’s perpetually chilly in the library, she’s wearing three or four knitted jumpers layered over each other, so she looks plump though I suspect she’s actually rather slim under it all.

Miss Robin is pretty, even without makeup, even with her awful orthopedic shoes. She has a low, husky voice. I like to hear her talk—though she never does for long, always heading right back to her own projects.

“I just made tea,” she says. “Do you two want some?”

“No,” Ares says, being polite.

“Yes please,” I say, because I’m not as polite, and if Miss Robin wants to sit with us, I’ll take her up on the offer.

She makes the long walk up the spiral to the topmost floor, where I hear a faint creak and thump as she pulls down the ladder that leads to her loft. By the time Ares and I have spread out our books and papers, she’s brought down two more delicate china cups and retrieved the steaming pot of tea from her desk.

“I don’t have sugar,” she says, apologetically. “I drink it plain.”

“That’s perfect.”

She pours the rich, brown, heavily-steeped tea into our cups. It smells of cinnamon and cloves. The spices blend perfectly with the ancient air of the library.

Miss Robin lifts her own cup to her lips and takes a sip.

“How’s the thesis going?” I ask her.

“Terrible,” she says glumly. “I was so excited when I arrived here—the archives contain documents and schematics you wouldn’t find anywhere else in the world. And yet they’re uncategorized, unlabeled, unorganized. The sheer volume of materials is precisely what’s preventing me from finding the information I actually need. None of it is computerized. And quite frankly, much of it has been damaged by mold and mice.”

“The previous librarian was old, wasn’t she?” I say apologetically, as if the mess is my fault.

“Ancient—but it’s not her fault. The library has never been a high priority for those running Kingmakers. Why would it be? For most of its life, this school has been more of a military barracks than a proper university.”

“Is that how the current Chancellor runs it?” I ask curiously.

“I suppose not,” Miss Robin says. “After all, he hired me.”

“You’re his niece though , aren’t you?”

“Twice removed, or something like that,” Miss Robin laughs. “But yes, there’s nepotism at play. He’s very kind to me—other than the vague job description. It was a surprise to show up here and realize that . . . well, that some of my relatives most likely weren’t import-exporters after all.” She shakes her head ruefully.

That’s another reason Miss Robin might not be friendly with the other staff. Most of them have a violent history that would horrify a normal civilian. Professor Bruce was a mercenary, Professor Penmark a debt collector known for his brutality. Professor Lyons was called the Arsenic Witch for her skill at subtle poisoning when she used to take on contract kills for the Saudis. That’s just the stories everyone knows—I can hardly imagine what the professors chat about when they sit in their favorite corner of the dining hall.

Still, Miss Robin must be lonely up here.

“Do you spend much time with the Chancellor?”

“A little,” Miss Robin says. “He’s not always here, you know—he goes to Dubrovnik sometimes.”

“How does he do that?” Ares asks.

“I shouldn’t tell you,” Miss Robin says, with a mischievous smile. “I think they want everyone to believe that the only way on and off the island is the big barquantine that brought you, or the supply ship that goes back and forth every month. ”

“What about the fishing boats?” I say.

She shakes her head. “They can’t make the crossing.”

“What then?” Ares asks, his expression keen.

“He’s got a custom-built cruiser. Beautiful thing—I can’t imagine what it cost him. Luther’s rich as Solomon, though. The Hugos have always been wealthy. They don’t have a golden skull as their crest for nothing.”

“Not the Robins, though?” I tease.

She laughs. “God, no. If we ever had a family crest, which we don’t, it would be a robin pecking a breadcrumb.”

Ares doesn’t seem interested in any of that, returning to the point that piqued his curiosity.

“How do you know the Chancellor has a cruiser? I’ve never seen one.”

“I’m sure you haven’t. Because that’s how he likes it.” Miss Robin finishes the last of her tea. “Take your time,” she says, nodding toward our cups. “You can bring those to me later.”

As Miss Robin heads back to her desk, I say to Ares, “Can you imagine being that rich that you could just buy yachts or jets or anythi ng you like?”

I’ve never had control over any substantial amount of money, and I know Ares’ family is one of the least-wealthy at the whole school.

“Money attracts trouble.” Ares turns back to his books. Then, after a moment, perhaps thinking that his comment was unnecessarily repressive, he gives me a small smile and admits, “I would like to see that cruiser, though. Bet it’s fast as fuck.”

I grin back at him. “If I were Hugo’s niece, I’d ask to borrow the keys.”