Theodora
a creeping, gaping darkness that fills the space around him.
Mr Ambrose’s office, a place where I’ve spent so much time, a place where I’ve sat and learned and grown, a place I’ve always felt so safe in—is completely transformed by my father’s presence, by his palpable ire.
When I enter the room, Mr Ambrose stands, and his eyes and voice are warm as he greets me.
“Ah, good morning, Theodora—take a seat, please.”
My father doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on Mr Ambrose. He’s angry at him, too, I can tell.
But I also know that my father is a calculated man who never aims a bullet of anger into a target he cannot hit.
Mr Ambrose might as well be wrapped in Kevlar, and me, a doe with broken legs lying at my father’s feet.
I’m so afraid my knees can barely hold the weight of my trembling body. I half-collapse into the seat at my father’s side, not daring to look at him.
“Thank you for joining us, Theodora,” Mr Ambrose says, settling himself into his seat. “Your father has come to discuss some…” He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his gaze moving from my face to my father’s. “Some concerns. Some of those are of a private nature and nothing I can do anything about; however, I was hoping we could discuss our options in the light of—”
“No options,” my father snaps. “Theodora is coming home. Today.”
My heart stutters in my chest, and my stomach churns in a wave of nausea that almost sends the food in my stomach crawling up my throat. I normally skip breakfast, but Zachary gave me half his clementine earlier and a triangle of toast.
I wish I hadn’t eaten them.
“I’ve explained to your father that A-level exams are coming up,” Mr Ambrose says in a reassuring voice. “But—”
“She won’t do the exams,” my father interrupts. “I’m removing her from Spearcrest Academy.”
“Mr Dorokhov,” Mr Ambrose says, “I urge you to reconsider this decision. Removing Theodora from Spearcrest Academy will have serious consequences for her future, and I cannot understate how strongly I would advise you against making this decision.”
I stare at Mr Ambrose: this tall, strong, intelligent man who’s always been a figure of undeniable authority during my time in Spearcrest. He doesn’t realise it yet, but this is a debate Mr Ambrose won’t be winning.
In a room with anybody else, Mr Ambrose would hold seniority. Seniority of age, of experience, of education.
In a room with my father, Mr Ambrose is little more than staff.
Still, he tries. “You might not be aware of this, but Theodora is currently attending the Spearcrest Apostles programme, which selects only the very best student in the year group. The work she has submitted for the programme has been of outstanding quality—some of her writing is good enough for publication, even. And I shouldn’t be saying this at this juncture, but if it should encourage you to reconsider your position, Mr Dorokhov, then it is worth saying. Theodora is a front-runner of the programme and likely to be the candidate who will receive a full scholarship to Oxford University to study under the tutelage of—”
“Theodora is not going to Oxford University,” my father cuts in, deadly ice in his voice. “She’s not going to university at all. She is moving to Russia to live with me.”
Mr Ambrose is silent for a moment.
His eyes move from my father to me, his gaze settling on mine. His silence is a confirmation of my fate—I know right there and then that there’s nothing he can do to help me. All the power Mr Ambrose wields means nothing in the face of my father’s will.
“Mr Dorokhov,” Mr Ambrose says carefully, “I understand your wish to have Theodora close—she is your daughter, and after being educated in the UK for all these years, I understand your wishes to be reunited with her. But Theodora is one of the most academically gifted students I’ve ever had the honour to teach, and I know that pursuing higher education is something she dearly wishes to—”
“You’re not going to university,” my father says, finally turning to me. “You know this.”
I nod. I’m an eleven-year-old little girl again, my voice a hard egg in my throat, choking on it while I swallow down tears. I don’t dare say a word, I don’t dare even move. I sit still as a puppet, my hands clasped in my lap.
My entire existence is one big black blot of terror.
My father interprets my silence however he wishes. Most of the time, he takes it for obedience. Today, he takes it for rebellion.
“Or did you not tell your school? Did you lie to them, Theodora, like you lied to me?”
I never lied to you, I want to say. I never lied to them. I hid the truth to protect myself, to protect your plans.
“Theodora was encouraged by the school to apply to university, Mr Dorokhov,” Mr Ambrose interjects. “We encourage all our students to apply, even those who are unsure, as oftentimes students’ circumstances or goals may change after results’ day.”
“You encouraged her to apply to university?” My father sneers, looking straight at me. My eyes are trained on my feet because I don’t dare look into the chasm of his eyes, but I feel his weight like a grip around my throat, making it difficult to breathe. “Did you encourage her to be a whore, also?”
I go numb all over, my mind a screaming blank.
He knows. But how does he know?
How could he possibly know?
Because someone must have told him.
The only person I told was Inessa—and Inessa swore on her cross she would never tell anyone.
Zachary, too, swore he would never tell anyone. But Zachary didn’t swear an oath—he didn’t need to, I trusted him too well. Zachary didn’t swear an oath, but would he ever betray me?
And then I remember the Young King’s stupid bet, that repulsive list they keep of girls in the year group they’ve slept with. If I check that list, will my name be on it?
And if it is, then what does that mean?
Does it matter?
My betrayal could only have come at Zachary’s hands—whether accidental or not. Does that matter?
Does any of it matter anymore?
Mr Ambrose is speaking, his voice harder than usual. He’s asking my father to remain respectful and refrain from using such language. My father doesn’t care. I don’t care either. I want to tell Mr Ambrose to give up, to let it go, that this is nothing compared to what my father will do once we leave Spearcrest.
Nothing compared to the lifetime of punishment my father has in store for me.
“Theodora,” Mr Ambrose says to me. “Are you alright?”
I look at him and smile. “Thank you for everything, Mr Ambrose.”
He frowns in confusion, but my father stands before he can say anything else.
“I’ll have my people pick up her things,” he says coldly. “We’re leaving now.” He throws me a look full of hatred and disgust. “Come.”
He ignores Mr Ambrose’s handshake and strides out of the office.
“Theodora,” Mr Ambrose says, so quietly I barely hear him, “you’re not alone.”
I give him a surprised look but hurry after my father, who’s already striding down the hall.
We leave Spearcrest in silence.
As I walk through the corridors, I see the faces of the students, the same pictures I admired the first time I came here. My head girl portrait stares back at me, a stranger’s face because I’m not her, not really.
How is it possible that I came here a little girl of eleven, scared and voiceless, and that I’m leaving now, a young woman of eighteen, just as scared and voiceless?
Because I have no choice. Because I’m trapped, and I’ll never be free from my father, from the fear that blots my heart when he’s around.
We descend the steps out of the Old Manor, and I halt to a stop, blinking in shock.
The sky is cloudless, a deep blue—siniy blue. The rays of the sun are not hot yet, but they are warm and bright. Dapples of light glimmer through the burgeoning leaves of the trees lining the paths. It’s springtime, and the air smells of rain and sunlight and grass.
A prisoner cannot escape her cell because there are walls and gates and locks and guards. Zachary’s voice is gentle in my mind, his arrogant laughter ringing in his words. What’s stopping you, Theodora Dorokhova?
I never answered his question, but I give myself the task of answering it. Of searching deep inside myself, of gathering the information I hold and synthesising it into a fresh new set of ideas. A thesis or a solution.
What’s stopping you, Theodora Dorokhova?
I set it to myself like an essay question—the last assignment in my academic career.
