Zachary
the class, Theodora packs her things and leaves the classroom like a hare that feels the hot breath of the hounds on the back of its legs.
Professor Elmahed is right; I owe Theodora an apology. My behaviour in class was rude, immature, and borderline childish. I behaved like a spurned lover who is caught in a barbed net of rejection and frustration and strikes out at the very object of his desire.
I’ve allowed myself to become the dissolute Roderigo, whose unrequited obsession with Desdemona would have him bring about her downfall rather than allow her to be happy with the man she loves.
Except that Theodora isn’t Desdemona, and Luca is no Othello. She didn’t kiss him because she fell in love with his story, his pain, his bravery. She didn’t kiss him because of love, or even, I suspect, because she wanted to.
Why did she kiss him? Because he was there and because he was the only Young King who would go near Theodora? Luca would kiss Theodora not despite the fact she’s mine but precisely because of it. Does Theodora know? Is that why she kissed him?
I’ve been turning the mystery of it in my head ever since I last saw her. My desire for Theodora is mirrored by hers for me—so why did she kiss him and not me?
The truth I seek is poetic and complex. That’s the nature of the truth in poetry, in literature, in philosophy. The truth is romanticised into something grand and fulfilling, the catharsis of revelation.
In reality, the truth is common, obvious and underwhelming.
Theodora might have kissed Luca for the mere reason that she wanted to. That she could. That he was there.
She might have kissed him for no reason at all.
Theodora has lived trapped in the cage of my heart, where she exists as rival, friend, companion, angel, lover, prize, conqueror, saint and sage.
Except that this whole time, the real Theodora has been living in the real world. She’s been living a real existence—a mysterious existence of unhappy summers, meals left untouched, kisses given to boys bold enough to take them. How can I blame her for this?
I can’t.
Logically, I must let it go. I must release the pain. And I must absolutely apologise to her for my unacceptable behaviour in class.
Except I can’t do any of those things. I can’t let it go. I can’t release the pain, which digs into me like thorns pinned into my flesh. And I definitely don’t apologise to her.
And I don’t act with maturity or honour or poise.
I do the complete opposite.
“Did you kiss Theodora?” I ask Luca that evening, interrupting him halfway through his dinner.
The dinner hall is loud around us, and Evan and Sev, who sit across from Luca, both look up in surprise.
“Who told you I did?” Luca asks without flinching.
His hair is slicked back with sweat, and his mouth is full of food, so I guess he’s just come back from fencing or archery practice. But without his fencing blades or his bows and arrows, Luca is as lean and weak as a reed stalk, and right now, I want nothing more than to snap him in half.
“She did.”
Luca shrugs and shoves another spoonful of food into his mouth. “So?”
“So, did you kiss her?”
“What do you want me to say? She’s fucking hot, why shouldn’t I kiss her? It’s not like you’ve claimed her for yourself.”
“Nobody gets to claim her. She’s a person, not a thing.”
“Exactly.” Luca pushes back a strand of bone-pale hair from his forehead and gives me a shark’s grin. “She can kiss me if she likes. She can do whatever she likes, and if she wanted to fu—”
I grip him by his collar before he can even finish his sentence, half pulling him out of his seat.
“Touch her again and I’ll make sure the rest of your life is short and painful.”
He stares at me, unsure for a moment, and then he laughs a raspy cackle.
“If you say so, Blackwood.”
I release him and walk away under the bewildered stares of our friends.
But just in case Luca doesn’t believe me, that night, I pay a visit to the Spearcrest greenhouse. There’s an oleander tree there—it’s no longer in bloom, but that doesn’t matter. I only need a single leaf to slip Luca a small dose of oleandrin.
He’s violently unwell for the following week, so unwell he has to leave campus for a while. If he draws a link between my threat and his sudden medical emergency, he never mentions it.
Afterwards, I don’t feel any guilt whatsoever. If anything, I feel like he’s quite lucky.
I only used the leaves of the oleander. If I’d used the bark, I could have poisoned Luca with rosagenin.
Which is almost as deadly as strychnine.
her Theodora, at our weekly Apostles lecture, we sit on opposite ends of the small lecture room in the Old Manor.
This month, we’re learning about aesthetics and ethics (ironic, considering my poor ethical choices recently). Mr Ambrose ends his lecture by writing out a question on the blackboard.
What makes something beautiful and why?
He turns to face us with a grave smile.
“This time, I don’t want you all to consider this question too theoretically. I don’t want vague and rambling explorations of what might make something theoretical beautiful to some theoretical someone. I want you to tell me what makes something beautiful in your eyes. I want you to give me a specific example of something you find beautiful, and I want an exploration of that. What is that thing? Why is it beautiful? How do you define beauty, and how much value do you give it?”
My eyes seek Theodora of their own volition.
She’s sitting with her chin in one palm, her eyes fixed on Mr Ambrose. But her eyelids are a little heavy. Her mouth is relaxed into a pout, slightly smushed by her palm. The heavy cloak of her hair falls over her shoulders like moonlight.
I tear my eyes away with a sigh.
In general, I’ve approached all of Mr Ambrose’s assignments with honesty and vulnerability. But there’s no chance I can possibly be truthful for this particular assessment.
Because if I was, I would need to admit that beauty for me is a quiet girl with a brilliant mind, a debate team captain with a calm voice and textbooks covered in colour-coded annotations. Beauty for me is a girl with cold skin and a faraway gaze, a girl who loves children’s books but rarely laughs. Beauty for me is sage-green silk and soft white wool and forget-me-not eyes.
My definition of beauty starts and ends with Theodora.
And as for the value I give her, it’s immeasurable. She is worth dying for, living for. Killing for, probably, or at least poisoning for. She is worth every academic failure, every restless night, all the suffering and yearning and hopelessness.
She isn’t worth everything. She is everything.
So how could I possibly stay angry at her?
off to the library for my pilgrimage of redemption when my phone starts vibrating on my bedside table. I finish pulling on the thick woollen jumper I just fished out of my wardrobe and pick up my phone to see Zaro’s name flashing up at me.
We’ve barely spoken since she arrived in Spearcrest. The most I’ve received from her have been curt half-texts that scream resentment and barely repressed anger.
I answer immediately.
“Zaro? Are you alright?”
“You need to call off your fucking dog.” Her voice trembles with fury. “Right. Now.”
I wince. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why not? Isn’t that exactly what he is? You snap your fingers and your little guard dog comes running out to snap at my ankles and keep me in check?”
Her words smart, and guilt flares through me. Guilty for both of them: Iakov, for making him into a prison guard, and Zaro, for making her into a prisoner.
“I’m sorry, Zaro. It’s not my intention to keep you in check or make you feel like I am. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on! I can’t fucking sneeze without this giant oaf acting like I’m in mortal danger!”
“Where are you?”
“It’s none of your fucking business! You’re not my fucking father, and neither is your stupid friend, and none of you can tell me what to do! Call him off—now!”
She hangs up before I can say anything.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself.
I call Iakov. He answers at the first ring.
“Hey,” he grunts.
“What’s going on? Where are you two?”
“King Lane,” Iakov says. “London.”
I frown. King Lane is one of the most exclusive clubs in London. “King Lane? How did she get in?”
“She met a guy at another club.”
“A guy? What guy?”
In the background, I can hear traffic and a female voice letting out a litany of insults. Zaro.
Iakov speaks on, unruffled and matter-of-fact.
“Says his name is Erik. Crypto-bro type.” There’s a moment of silence, Zaro speaks in the background, and then Iakov adds, “He’s invited her back to his hotel. She wants to go. I don’t think she should. Now you’re caught up.”
I’ve started pacing without realising, my stomach in knots, my heart rate twice what it was before Zaro called me. Before I can reply, I hear scrambling noises, and then Zaro’s voice replaces Iakov’s on the phone.
“None of that is any of your business. I’m not a fucking nun, Zach! If I want to go back to this guy’s hotel, I should be able to!”
“Pass the phone back to Iakov.”
“No! This conversation is about me! And you two are talking over my head like two parents discussing their child at the dinner table. Are you kidding me?”
“You’re right, Zaro, you’re not a child, so I’m not going to treat you like you’re making the mistakes of a child.” My voice is low, my throat tight with a mixture of fear and anger. “I’m going to treat you like you’re making the mistake of a complete fucking idiot because that’s what you’re doing. You’re mad at our parents, and I get that, and I actually empathise with you—but what you’re doing is not only counter-productive, it’s downright dangerous, and, frankly, embarrassing. So—”
The line goes dead. I look down at the phone. She hung up on me.
I press the call button. After a few seconds, Iakov answers.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
“Bring her back to Spearcrest.”
Iakov grunts. In the background, I hear Zaro exclaim, “Come one step closer and I’ll call the police!”
“She won’t call the police,” I say into the phone. “They’ll call our parents the moment they find out who she is. Bring her home, Kav.”
“Tak tóčno,” he says, hangs up.
to the library and wait for Iakov’s return in the sixth form boys’ common room. It’s mostly deserted, everyone either out partying, getting laid, or in their bedrooms.
I put the television on to distract me while I wait for Iakov, but the constant reports of kidnappings and murders on the news do nothing but escalate my already soaring heart rate.
Iakov returns an hour later, the plod of his heavy footsteps preceding him. He emerges into the lights of the common room, and I stifle a curse.
He looks rough as hell. His black bomber jacket and jeans are drenched with rain, there’s a purple bruise nestled in his right eye-socket where he’s soon going to have a new black eye, and a crimson hand mark imprinted on his cheek, so bright and raised it looks like it’s just been tattooed on with red ink.
“What the fuck,” I breathe out.
He shrugs and peels off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a leather armchair. Underneath it, he’s wearing a plain black T-shirt which is also wet and sticks to his skin, but he ignores this. Grabbing a bottle of beer out of a half-torn carton on a side table, he sinks into one of the big chesterfields, propping his muddy combat boots on the table.
“Did you get her home?” I ask, sitting across from him.
He nods. “Yea. Dropped her off at her dorm. Made sure she didn’t sneak back out.”
“What happened to your face?”
He takes a sip of his beer. “The crypto-bro took a crack at me. Missed my jaw but got my eye. Not a bad punch for such a soft cunt.”
“He hit you?” I say, covering my mouth. “That was brave of him. What did you do?”
“Just knocked him about a bit. Maybe cracked his skull with mine—not sure. He went down like a sack of bricks. I wanted to throw him in the Thames, but your Zaro begged me to spare him. Got shit taste in men, your sister has.”
“I know.” I sigh. “But she also probably didn’t want you to go to jail either.”
“Nah, she did.” Iakov takes another sip, rolling his head back against the headrest of the chesterfield. “Called the cops on me.”
“She fucking what?”
Iakov lets out a rough laugh. “Called them with my own phone.” He sounds genuinely amused. “She’s a real fucking handful, you know.”
“Jesus, Kav.” Unlike Iakov, I’m far from amused. If my parents find out what she’s been up to, she’s going to end up in an actual convent this time. “What did they say?”
Iakov waves a hand, and I notice his knuckles are caked with thick blood clots. “Nothing, man. As soon as they started asking her questions, she lost her cool. Said it was a prank and hung up. She apologised to them—good manners on her when she wants.”
“Did she let you bring her home, then?” I ask.
Iakov laughs again. “Did she fuck. Slapped the living shit out of me.” He points at his cheek—unnecessarily so since the handshape glows like a beacon on his face. “Had to throw her on my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and bundle her into the limo.” He scrunches his face in a wince that looks painful just looking at it. “Bit grim. Made me feel like your fucking shestyorka.”
I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but his bruises and voice tell me everything I need to know. “I’m so sorry, Kav. You don’t deserve this.”
“Nah, it’s alright.” Iakov gives a dark chuckle, wholly devoid of amusement this time. “I do.”
I have no idea what to say to that, but knowing Iakov, he doesn’t need me to say anything. Grabbing a beer from the pack, I crack it open with a sigh and clink my bottle against his.
“Thanks, Kav.”
His only response is a half-grin through his mask of bruises.
