Zachary
almost speechless. When she replies, it’s in that stiff, formal, almost matronly voice she uses in debates when she needs to appear self-assured and authoritative.
“I’ve told you I’m not allowed—I can’t date.” There’s a visible flutter in her throat as if her heartbeat is too powerful for the slim column of her neck. “We’ll never be together.”
All I hear is that she’s not telling me she doesn’t love me or that she doesn’t want me to love her. When she gives me the reason I shouldn’t love her, all I hear is that if it wasn’t for that reason, then we would be together.
“I know,” I tell her in a reassuring tone. “I don’t expect us to be together, Theo, but that doesn’t mean I can stop feeling the way I feel. Remember the poem? The parallel lines can never meet, but they can never stray from one another.”
She watches me for a moment, an expression of incredulity on her face. And then she gets to her feet and stands in front of me. I can smell that delicate perfume of hers, roses and peaches. I gaze down at her, now almost a head shorter than me, to see her face turned up to mine like a flower.
Her expression is nothing like a flower, though.
“Is this enough, Zachary?” she hisses as if there’s barely enough air in her lungs to speak. “Is it really enough to have me right here, at arm’s reach, even though you can never have me?”
“Of course, it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.”
I smile at her and raise my hands, my palms brushing up her arms and shoulders on their way to her face. I cup her cheeks through the silk strands of her hair. Her face feels delicate as porcelain in my hands.
“I could have you in my arms and in my bed every day and every night, Theodora, and it would still never be enough. Having you this close and this far all the time is a constant torment. But my pain is soothed by the fact you’ll be suffering too.”
“Suffering? How?”
“Because while it burns me to have you so close when we can never be together, deep down, you’re burning too.”
“Burning?” She laughs coldly, but she doesn’t move her face out of my hands. Our bodies are locked in each other’s gravity fields, in the warmth and perfume of each other’s bodies, in that trembling heat haze of tension between us. “Are you sure of that?”
“Certain beyond doubt.”
“How?”
I sigh and tilt her face up, and she lets me, her pink lips gleaming as they part.
“Because I know you, Theodora. I know you better than I know my own soul. I know every expression on your face like they are the lines of my favourite poems. Everything you think you keep hidden from the world, you can never quite hide from me. The beautiful things—your determination, your strength, your gentle soul—but the ugly things, too. Your ambition, your pain, your fear. Your desire. They’re naked to my eyes.”
She says nothing for a long time. Her eyes are wide, thrown blue jewels in a blue ocean. Her lips tremble for a moment, forming the shape of words. The silence between us speaks a thousand words. Truthful words, painful words, words of denial, words of want.
Words she doesn’t have the courage to say aloud.
With a defeated sigh, she steps away, freeing her face from the cradle of my hands, freeing her body from the heat of mine, freeing herself from the burden of truth.
“Fine.” Her voice is low and defeated. “I’ll tell Mr Ambrose I made a mistake. I’ll join the programme—if it matters so much to you.”
I smile. “Oh, it matters. And you’ll find me to be generous in my gratitude. I’ll even reward you with a gift.”
She narrows her eyes in suspicion. “What gift?”
My gaze sinks into hers. I lower my voice. I speak low and tender, not like a secret, but like an intimate promise—a sacred vow.
“I’ll give you something you’ve always wanted but never dared to ask for. Something you dream about at night, alone in the dark, alone in your bed.”
She retreats in a hasty back step. I let her. Her fingers clutch the long hem of her soft green sleeves.
“What would that be?” she asks, her voice quivering but defiant.
I tilt my head. “Your first kiss.”
She scoffs. “Or maybe I’ll take yours.”
I laugh. “Please do, Theodora. I’ll offer it up freely. I’ll even give you my second and my third, and all the ones after that—every kiss, if you want. I’d give you anything you’d ask for. If your love demanded my prostration, I’d get on my knees for you, I’d kiss the ground at your feet. I’d do everything you’ve ever thought about in those secret midnight moments and everything you’ve never even dared to imagine. I’d melt all that ice in your skin, Theodora Dorokhova, and replace it with flames. All you need do is ask.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she hisses, eyes wide with panic, cheeks flooded with colour. “You need to stop.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying, and I mean every word of it.” I tilt my head. “Would you like me to prove it to you? Do you want to claim your gift right now?”
“I’ve not spoken to Mr Ambrose yet,” she says, backing away in quick steps.
“Mm.” I grin at her. “You’re right. Better do that first and claim your prize second.”
“I’ll go speak to him now. As for your gift, you can keep it to yourself.”
She gathers her stuff hastily, piling her laptop and books and throwing them into her bag. I watch her, leaning on the wooden desk separator, not bothering to hide the idle smirk of satisfaction on my face.
When she’s all packed up, she shoulders her bag and throws me an imperious glare. “You know you’ve messed up, right?”
“How so?”
“Because you’ll never get your victory now.”
I laugh. “You’re certain of that?”
It’s her turn to smirk. “Certain beyond doubt.”
the nature of the programme. By the end of September, I find myself forever climbing a pile of work that only ever seems to grow however hard I work.
There is reading for my A-level classes, practice papers and essays and research assignments, and then there is the Apostles work. The first assignment Mr Ambrose gives us is a research project asking us to write a detailed explanation, history and comparison of Plato’s Akademia and Aristotle’s Lyceum, with our essays exploring a mix of both our opinions and references from notable scholars.
It’s an enormous project which takes me upwards of fifteen overall hours to complete. The night before the deadline, I’m in the library—on the top floor, but not in Theodora’s territory. I know she’s there—I can almost sense her presence—but I don’t want to be accused of trying to distract her for fear of sullying my eventual victory.
I’m proofreading my assignment, headphones on and reeling off my proofreading playlist, which consists mostly of Satie and Debussy, when a pale form appears from the shadowy corridor of an aisle. I look up with a slight start and immediately relax.
Theodora’s hair is gathered in a twisted bun at the top of her head, loose strands framing her face, almost silvery in the low late-night lights of the library. She’s out of her uniform and dressed plainly in high-waisted jeans and a white silk top. She looks more like an air-borne nymph than a student crumbling under the pressure of too many assignments.
She looks perfectly beautiful.
I take my headphones off and smile up at her.
“What an unexpected pleasure, Theo.” I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve not come to claim your prize, have you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Believe it or not, it’s not a priority right now.”
She stops near me and peers at my laptop screen. Her perfume wraps around me as she leans on my shoulder, eyes across the document displayed on my laptop. I fight the urge to place a kiss on the ivory column of her neck.
My mind trails off after that thought, imagining all the places I would love to kiss and taste.
“You’re working on the Plato-Aristotle project?” Theodora asks, bringing me back to reality.
“Mm-hm,” I answer her, my eyes still on her throat. “I’ve just finished. I’m proofreading.”
“Perfect—me too.” She hesitates, pursing her lips a little. “How would you feel about proofreading each other’s work? I’m so tired, and I’ve re-drafted and re-read mine so many times it feels like I’m trying to read a palimpsest.”
“That’s surprisingly trusting of you,” I say, genuinely a little surprised. “You don’t fear sabotage?”
“Not for a second.”
“No?”
She shakes her head and lifts a corner of her mouth in a half-smirk. “If you sabotage me and win, then you’ll know your victory wasn’t truly earned. If you sabotage me and still lose, then you’ll probably hate yourself for the rest of your life. So no, I’m not worried.”
“You know me so well, huh?”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Have I ever said no to you, my revered nemesis?”
“I’m not your nemesis.”
“Bring your essay over. My adored adversary.”
“Just say Theodora.”
“Yes, my sublime Theodora.”
expected her to, Theodora does claim her prize in the end.
There’s a Young Kings party in the study hall—a small one, with champagne and pizza and games, where we’ve only invited an elite group of guests.
Theodora comes late, dragged in by Camille and Rose, who hold her arms tightly in theirs. She’s wearing a short dress in blue satin and strappy white heels. Her hair is tied in a high ponytail, and she’s got a faraway look in her eyes. If I had to guess, she would rather be in the library than at this party, and I can’t blame her—so would I.
As I watch her from afar, a huge body throws itself against the side of mine, almost toppling us both into a nearby table. The study hall, a cavernous chamber underneath a vaulted ceiling, is dark, lit dimly by a few lamps and the green glow of the emergency signs.
In those hazy lights, Iakov’s face appears. He curls one arm around my shoulders, and I wince as his thick biceps squeeze my neck. Iakov’s eyes are glazed over, which tells me he’s already inebriated. I wouldn’t put it past him to choke me in a drunken underestimation of his own strength.
“Thorny thing, your Zaro,” Iakov slurs in my ear.
“Yeah?” I laugh. “Are you rethinking your idea of teaching her how to fight?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I wanna teach her, but she doesn’t wanna learn.”
“Blackwoods aren’t big fans of physical violence.”
Iakov rasps out a dark cackle. “No, but big fans of verbal abuse.”
“Not verbal abuse. More… fighting with the sharpness of one’s wit.”
“Like you do with your Theodora?” Iakov asks with an enthusiastic nod.
I’d been searching her face in the dark room, but Iakov’s words bring my attention straight back to him.
“We don’t fight. We debate, like fighting but without violence.”
“You don’t debate, you argue, like fucking but without touching.”
“You’re drunk, Kav.” I grab the bottle out of his hand. “What’re you drinking that’s got you spouting such obscure shit?” I peer at the label and give Iakov an appreciative nod. “Cognac? Very classy of you.”
He shrugs. “It’s Sev’s. I ran out of vodka.”
“Of course you did.”
more than one sip of Sev’s expensive cognac while Iakov updates me on Zahara, and soon, the ground starts wavering under my feet.
Unlike Evan, who just had to run out of the room to throw up, I know my limits, so I pass Iakov his bottle back with a wince. Iakov doesn’t know his limit, but only because he probably doesn’t have one at all.
We’re both startled when a slim body barges past Iakov to stand in front of me. I’m surprised to find Theodora glaring up at me. Her hair is impeccable in its ponytail, but her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes have the same glaze as Iakov’s.
My heartbeat stutters in surprise. She’s drunk.
Theodora never gets drunk.
But then again, I rarely do. Maybe the pressure of this year is crushing her just as much as it’s crushing me, and she’s seeking the same reprieve I came here to seek.
“Are you too lofty to say hello?” she asks in a withering tone.
The music is louder now. Earlier, everyone was still sober enough to worry about getting caught. Now, though, everyone is too far gone to care. If the party gets discovered and broken up, I don’t even think I’d be terribly heartbroken. I’m so tired lately I could fall asleep standing.
Not too tired to respond, with verve, to Theodora’s blatant attack on me.
“I’ve been standing here for the past hour,” I say with a wave of my hand I hope comes across as nonchalant. “You could have come up at any point.”
“You saw me come in. You could’ve come up to me.”
“I’ve come here to let loose and relax after a rough week of deadlines, not to pay tribute to you like some sycophant in your royal court.”
“So much for all that talk about getting on your knees if I asked you to,” she says in a mocking tone.
“You weren’t asking me about getting on my knees. I’ll get on my knees for you anytime, Theo. I’ll do it right now, if you like, right here in front of everybody.”
She bristles. “I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you for some common courtesy.”
“Common courtesy is not screaming at your friends at a party.”
“I’m not screaming, and we’re not friends.”
“Don’t lie.” I step closer to her. “Where’s all this anger coming from, Theodora?”
“I’m not angry.”
“Then what’s the problem? You wanted me to say hello, well, here. Hello, my lovely Theodora, how do you do?” I give a flourish. “There. Have I satisfactorily soothed your bruised ego, goddess of wrath?”
“I’m not your Theodora or a goddess of wrath, and rich of you to mention my ego, Lord Blackwood.”
“Why are you starting an argument with me?” I ask, drawing closer to her.
As I speak, I’m suddenly reminded of Iakov’s line about fucking without touching.
I turn my head and realise Iakov is long gone. Smart of him, I suppose. He probably didn’t want to risk getting caught in the crossfire.
“Are you feeling worked up, Theo?” I ask, turning back to her and pressing closer to speak in her ear. “Are you feeling… frustrated? Like there’s an itch deep inside you that you can’t quite scratch, and maybe fighting me will soothe the itch?”
She flinches back. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the strange, irresistible urge you felt to find me and draw all my attention to you with the flimsiest excuse imaginable. Look deep inside yourself, Theodora, and you’ll see what I mean. It can’t be that hard—everyone except you can see it.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. You’re just spewing off nonsense sentences, as usual. Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. I suppose it’s how one ends up when one is raised by politicians.”
“Oh, you love a good deflection, Theodora, don’t you? You never have the guts to fight back, but you’re too scared to take a hit, so all you ever do is deflect. That’s why we always draw, that’s why it’s forever a stalemate with you.”
“You’re drunk,” she says with an angry burst of laughter. “You’re making no sense whatsoever.”
“And you’re drunk too.”
“I’m not drunk,” she lies. “I came here to claim my prize. Or have you already forgotten?”
She’s definitely drunk.
A stone-cold sober Theodora would never claim a kiss from me. A stone-cold sober Theodora would never let me draw her into such a ridiculous argument. A stone-cold sober Theodora would never lose control like this and let me pluck the harp strings of her emotion to make such intoxicating music.
“I’ve not forgotten,” I say, too elated to repress a grin of triumph. “Claim it.”
