Zachary
are long and full of exhausting social events.
First, there’s the Christmas Eve party, where all the guests wear couture and dance awkwardly to Christmas music, and everyone drinks too much champagne.
There’s always a tipping point at some point in the evening, usually a little after midnight, where the mood shifts from jovial to feral, a sudden edge hanging in the air like an invisible guillotine.
This is usually the moment I make a discreet exit, and this year is no exception.
Catching Theodora’s waist with one arm and Zaro’s shoulders with the other, I usher us out of the ballroom. Theodora has a little flush in her cheeks but seems mostly sober; she goes with me without protest. Zaro’s eyes are glassy, and she complains the whole way.
“The Duke of Bridehall was inviting me to spend a weekend on his yacht,” she whines at me as I drag her down the corridor. “I didn’t even have the time to say yes.”
“You’re not spending any weekend on Bridehall’s yacht,” I say, not missing the little frown Theodora gives Zaro.
“Isn’t the Duke of Bridehall in his fifties?” Theodora asks.
“Yeah.” Zaro giggles. “Hot, right?”
Theodora laughs, sounding more surprised than amused. “I wouldn’t say hot, no.”
“Nor would I.” I glare at Zaro. “I would even go as far as to say that’s repulsive.”
“It’s a little sinister,” Theodora says with more kindness. “Zahara, you’re young, smart, extraordinarily beautiful. Don’t you know how much better you can do?”
“If I could do better,” Zaro mumbles, “don’t you think I would already have?”
I frown at her. “You’re sixteen, Zaro—what’s the rush? You’ve all the time in the world.”
She sighs and slumps against me with her head on my shoulder, almost knocking me into Theodora. “But I’m lonely now.”
Theodora and I exchange a look, neither of us knowing what to say.
It never occurred to me that Zaro might be lonely. Social media tells me she has a small army of friends she spends her time with—even in Spearcrest, despite having been there for only a term. And Zaro’s never struggled to make friends.
Not that friendships are a guaranteed shield against loneliness.
We walk Zaro to her bedroom, and I watch from the doorway as Theodora helps her into bed. Taking off her heels, opening her blankets for her, even wiping the make-up off her face before letting her head rest on the pillows.
Once Zaro is tucked into bed, Theodora kisses her cheek and straightens herself, but before she can walk away, Zaro grabs her wrist.
“Don’t go,” she mumbles. “Stay. Read me a story.”
Theodora looks at me, eyes wide in a silent plea for help as Zaro pulls her down, and I cover my mouth to stifle my laughter.
Theodora narrows her eyes and then says to Zaro, “Don’t worry, we’ll stay. Zach is going to read us both a story.”
She gives me a look like slapping a glove in my face. Since Theodora has never offered me a challenge I’ve not declined or embraced, I push off the doorway where I’ve been leaning and close the door behind me. Zaro’s got a small set of bookshelves near her desk, so I take a quick look at her books, pushing aside the delicate garlands of her string of hearts plants.
“My god, Zaro.” I wince at her books, searching for a single title that doesn’t sound outrageous. “You have the literary palate of a horny spinster.”
“Stop judging people for what they read,” Theodora interjects immediately from where she’s settled herself at the foot of Zaro’s bed.
Her head is propped on one of Zaro’s decorative cushions, the strands of hair escaping from her elegant updo glittering like pale gold in the soft lights of Zaro’s pink lamps. Her legs are draped over Zaro’s legs. Her silver heels lie abandoned on the floor by the bed; her toenails are painted the same dusty blue shade as her fingernails.
It’s a rare occurrence to see Theodora so off her guard and relaxed, and I can’t find it within myself to be annoyed with her.
“Fine,” I tell her, “how about you help me choose, Theo, since you’re so open-minded? Would you prefer”—I pull out one of the books on Zaro’s shelves—“The Pirate Lord’s Captive Bride or”—I pull out a second book at random—“One Night with the Ruthless Sultan?”
“The Pirate Lord’s Captive Bride,” Theodora says without a second of hesitation.
“That’s a good one as well,” Zaro mumbles approvingly from her pillow.
I glare at Theodora then down at the cover of the book, which depicts a woman with long blonde hair and scarlet cheeks melting in the muscular embrace of a mostly shirtless pirate.
Too late, I remember Theodora’s proclivity for villainous pirates.
“Let’s go with the ruthless sultan,” I say quickly.
“No!” Zaro cries out.
“Absolutely not,” Theo adds.
With the hopeless sigh of a doomed man, I slump down into the chair at Zaro’s bedside, open The Pirate Lord’s Captive Bride, and do my best to ignore Theodora’s dreamy sighs as I read.
Christmas Day itself.
This time, the tone is subdued, the pace slower. There is a morning service at the local chapel, which is attended by almost all my parents’ guests, presumably to atone for the fact that they missed midnight mass to get shit-faced and make advances on teenagers.
Having no religious inclination myself and little to atone for aside from the sin of reading poorly written pirate romance to my sister and the love of my life, I skip the service in favour of having breakfast with Theodora. She wears a pair of soft, faded jeans and a sweater top in pale violet. Her hair is tied in a simple ponytail, and she wears no ornament aside from silver-shaped earrings. The sweetheart neckline of her top exposes the creamy expanse of her throat, where I long to scatter a necklace of kisses.
Although the kitchen is already bustling with chefs and catering staff, Theo and I sit tucked in the little breakfast nook my mother had built, an alcove circled by windows that overlook the herb garden and the belt of trees leading to the lake. The morning is cold and frosty, leaves and grass ghostly apparitions underneath their icy shrouds.
Theo sits with a large mug of green tea, and we share a pile of banana pancakes and fresh fruit.
“Is Zaro still asleep?” Theo asks when I sit down next to her with a cup of black coffee.
I nod. “Given the state she was in last night, she’s going to wake up with a killer headache and the hangover to end all hangovers.”
Theo winces. “I imagine she will, yes.” She hesitates. “Is she… alright?”
“That’s a complicated question.” I gaze out of the window at the pale blue of the distant sky. “In perfect sincerity, I’m not quite sure.”
“She wasn’t joking about the duke’s yacht, was she? At first, I thought she might be, but…” Theodora’s gaze follows mine out the window. “But you seemed genuinely concerned, and I’ve noticed some… I suppose coldness between her and your parents. At first, I thought I’d imagined it, but I’m not so sure now.”
“You didn’t imagine it.” I sigh and turn back to her. “They’re not very happy with her as of late. Although I suppose you could say that, strictly speaking, they’ve never really been happy with either of us, ever. But more recently, well, Zaro was at a private girls’ school in France, and she was caught getting involved with a teacher.” I curl my fingers around my cup, squeezing the hot ceramic with a grimace. “That’s the reason she was taken out of her school and sent to Spearcrest—you know, under my supervision. And that’s the reason for the ‘coldness’ you sensed. I don’t think my parents have quite forgiven her for what happened.”
“Forgiven her?” Theo’s tone is appalled. “Forgiven her for what, getting groomed by a member of staff at her school?” She shakes her head. “That man should be in jail. I really hope your parents pressed charges.”
“Pressing charges would make everything too public. I honestly believe my parents would rather die than have it plastered all over the news that their daughter was involved in such a scandal.” I sigh and shake my head. “And honestly, in that respect, I agree with my parents, though not for the same reasons. Zahara’s life would be over if what happened was made public. Victim or nymphet—regardless of how the media chose to portray her—her life would be as good as theirs. She’d be eaten alive, chewed up and spat out by magazines, newspapers and websites, torn apart by every tabloid reader and gossip blogger, crushed under scrutiny for years to come, probably decades. She’d never be allowed to forget what happened, never get to move on from it. It would kill me if that happened to her.”
“I’m so sorry this happened, Zach.” Theo places her hand on mine. Her fingers, normally so cold, are warm from cradling her mug of tea.
I turn my hand under hers so we are palm to palm and lace my fingers through hers. “I’m sorry too. I wish I could have protected Zahara better. I still wish I could do more to protect her. I even tried to get Iakov to keep an eye on her, but that just made her angry at me.”
Theodora picks up her mug with her free hand, leaving the other in my hold. “She might have felt as if you were spying on her, or worse, trying to control her.”
“That’s exactly what she felt, she told me herself. She’s quite frank when it comes to giving her opinion—as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” I sip my coffee and then shake my head. “She can’t have been that angry at Iakov spying on her, though, since she decided to go ahead and invite him to spend Christmas over.”
“She did?”
“Yes. I think she and her friends use him as a bodyguard when they go clubbing.”
“I can see that.” Theo laughs from behind her tea. “I can imagine Iakov is the perfect guy to have around if you want other guys to leave you alone.”
“Oh?” I lean into Theodora and cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you and Zaro need to start some sort of Iakov fan club.”
“No need,” Theodora answers in the sweetest of tones. “He already has one.”
I pull back. “He does?”
“Of course. It’s called the female population of Spearcrest. Wait, no.” Theodora interrupts herself. “Who am I kidding? It’s not just the girls. Let’s just call it most of the population of Spearcrest.”
“Are we talking about the same Iakov? Big, burly—barely speaks full sentences?”
“Tall, strong, silent?” Theodora shrugs. “What’s not to like?”
I reel with a sudden surge of betrayal. Not from Theodora, but from Iakov, who has spent all these years passing for my vodka-drinking, fist-fighting friend and is suddenly revealing himself to be so much more complex, layered, and, clearly, admired.
“He’s going to Paris with Zahara in two days,” I tell Theodora, narrowing my eyes at her. “So don’t get any ideas, and stick to your dark, well-spoken pirates.”
I finally release her hand to pick up my knife and fork and take a bite of banana pancake. Theodora watches me with a sly smile.
“Seems you’ve also developed quite a fondness for James Hook yourself,” she says in a tone of innocence. “Based on your interesting annotations of the book.”
“My—”
I stop and narrow my eyes. Theodora’s pretty blue eyes shine with amusement—a rare expression on her earnest face. Her pink lips quirk as she tries to keep her smile innocent.
“The desk in the library,” I say in realisation. “You saw my book?”
She nods. “I took it.”
I stare at her. She shrugs and adds, “It was a first edition of my favourite book, annotated by my favourite academic. How could I not?”
“Little thief.” As we talk, I cut small morsels of banana pancakes and strawberries and feed them to Theo, who bites them obediently off the tip of my fork. “Give it back.”
“Let me keep it. Please. It can be my Christmas present.”
“If that was your Christmas present, what would mine be?”
“What’s your favourite book? Something pretentious and onerous, no doubt—Tolstoy or Proust, or, no—Joyce. Finnegans Wake. I’ll find you a first edition Finnegans Wake and annotate it.”
“I don’t want Finnegans Wake—I don’t even like James Joyce. I’m hurt, Theo. I would have thought you would at least know that about me.”
She shrugs. “It was natural of me to assume you would since you don’t enjoy happy, whimsical books.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
“Alright.” Wrapping both her hands around her mug of tea, now almost empty, Theodora leans forward across the table. It’s a small, round table, and we’re not quite across from each other, so now we are face to face, almost nose to nose. “What’s your favourite book, then?”
“I don’t want a copy of my favourite book for my Christmas present.”
“What do you want?” She glances down at my lips and looks back up to glare into my eyes. “Don’t say a kiss.”
“Because I can get one for free?”
“Because one can’t wrap a kiss and put a pretty bow on it.”
“I didn’t wrap my stolen copy of Peter Pan, nor put a bow on it.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
“I don’t want a kiss anyway. I want something you can wrap.”
She covers her mouth with her hand in an expression of shock. “You don’t want a kiss?”
“I want to kiss you, of course—how could I not want to kiss those raspberry lips of yours when they look so delectably kissable?—but not for my Christmas present.”
“Fine.” There’s a slight flush in her cheeks now, but she doesn’t move away from me. “What is it?”
“I want your first book.”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“You said you dream of being a writer, no?”
“Yes—I said dream, not that I was one. I’ve not written any books.”
“That’s fine—whenever you write it, then I want that book.”
“I can’t give you a Christmas present that doesn’t yet exist.”
“I’m happy to wait.”
“Fine—what do you mean, you want the book? You mean a copy of the book? First edition, like Peter Pan?”
“No. I want the book. I don’t want a copy of it, I want the copy of it. I want to own it.”
“You want to steal my intellectual property?”
“I want you to gift me your intellectual property, yes.”
“And what if my first book is just a single page that reads ‘Zachary Blackwood is a thief’ over and over again?”
“Then I’ll be its proud owner.”
She finally moves away, sitting back into the cushioned window seat. “I wouldn’t do that—it would feed your ego too much to have a whole book written about you—even if it was only a page long.”
“By all means, then write something else.”
She purses her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll write a book just like The Pirate Lord’s Captive Bride. Something like…The Buccaneer Captain’s Stolen Fiancée.”
“You’re too mature and sophisticated to be so obsessed with pirates.”
“You’re too mature and sophisticated to be so jealous of a fictional character.”
“Jealousy? The green-eyed monster that mocks the meat it feeds on? Not I, no.”
“Very well. You are far more mature and sophisticated than I gave you credit for.” Theodora stops for a second to eat the forkful of pancake and blueberry I point at her mouth, then carries on. “Then it’s decided. Your Christmas present shall be my first book, The Buccaneer Captain’s Stolen Fiancée.” She taps her fingertip on her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe the stolen bride will have blue eyes and long hair, and maybe the Buccaneer Captain will be tall and sullen with shorn hair and tattoos.”
“I cannot wait to read it,” I lie in my most courteous tone.
Later, when Theodora goes for a walk with Zahara and I sit in the Blue Parlour with Iakov while he silently chugs eggnog and plays video games, I spend the whole time fighting the childish urge to hit him on the back of his head.
