“Oh god, I just left him there on the floor, Layla.” I look at the door to the hallway.
“Go to sleep, November,” she says in a harsh tone. “If they find us here talking about a dead body, you can bet anything they will throw us in the dungeon.”
“Dungeon?” My voice rises sharply and I immediately pull it back down. “Shouldn’t we at least—”
“There is absolutely nothing we can do about it right now that won’t further complicate the situation,” she practically spits at me. Her eyes turn fiery and her graceful fingers clench into fists. “You left the room, you took the risk, and now you’ve pulled me into this mess with you.”
I take a step backward, her burst of emotion sobering me up. “Ash—”
“Ash nothing. I don’t want to hear that name right now. And I don’t need all your teary words, either. You didn’t even know Stefano!” She turns on her heel and disappears inside her bedroom before I can react.
I stare after her, my heart beating steady, heavy thumps, my palms slick. Stefano’s bloody chest flashes in my mind, his hair sticking to his face, his lifeless skin. My stomach wrenches and I run for the bathroom.
MY EYES SNAP open at the sound of my bedroom door creaking. I sit up so fast that Pippa looks startled as she enters my room. Her hair is tucked under her bonnet and she carries pressed clothes on hangers.
“Good morning,” she says cheerfully.
“Hi,” I say with a voice so rough from crying that it makes that simple word feel wrong and foreign. I’m sweating even though it’s chilly and I’m not sure that I slept for more than a few disturbed minutes at a time.
Layla bustles into my room and when she sees me she laughs. “Trouble sleeping again? You look terrible. Don’t worry; you’ll adjust to the bed soon enough.”
I blink at her. Who is this friendly creature who took over Layla’s body?
“You can put the clothes anywhere you like, Pippa,” Layla says with an implied “and then you can leave” after it.
Pippa lays the fresh outfit over the trunk and looks at me like I’m a puzzle that needs solving. She barely takes notice of Layla. “Breakfast is laid out in your sitting room. The word is that they’re cleaning the dining hall. But if you ask me—”
“Lovely. Thank you,” Layla says before she can continue.
Disappointment shows on Pippa’s face when Layla doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. Normally I would give her a big “Thank you” and tell her how much I appreciate everything, but I have no enthusiasm to offer this morning. All I can think about is Stefano’s cold neck below my fingers and his blood-covered chest. Pippa does a quick curtsy and leaves.
The moment our suite door closes, the friendly expression drops from Layla’s face. “You might as well walk around with a guilty sign on your back if you’re going to act this emotional. Did you imagine that they weren’t going to question our maids about our behavior?” Disgust flashes in her eyes and she walks out of my bedroom.
I throw back my covers and follow her to the table near the window in the common room, which is laid out with cloth napkins and fragile-looking china. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“I don’t care what you were expecting,” she says, and sits down, placing a napkin on her lap. “There is already a bull’s-eye on both our backs.”
I sit down, too, trying to reconcile the horrifying reality that I found a dead body last night with Layla’s expectation that I act like nothing happened. “If we’re supposed to be acting normal, then why did you say I look terrible in front of Pippa?”
Layla looks up from her cheesy eggs and frowns. “Because by calling it out, I instantly normalized it. I made her read your demeanor as nothing more than a bad night’s sleep on a lumpy mattress. And by smiling, I sent the impression that I approve of you. Pippa knows that I’m discerning, that I wouldn’t accept you if you weren’t trustworthy.” She pauses and levels a look at me. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you? This is first-year deception.” Her upset and anger from last night have been replaced with her usual cool demeanor.
I poke at the potatoes on my plate, trying to muster an appetite. I have no idea how to process the events of the past few days. Saying I’m freaked out doesn’t even begin to cover it.
All night long I’ve been replaying the moment when Ash told me to take that hallway. And I can’t ignore the fact that Stefano had a knife sticking out of his chest when Aarya and Ash had just talked about a missing knife at lunch. She even accused him of stealing it. Not that I would put it past Aarya to lie about the knife for exactly this reason.
“The dining room is being cleaned—” I say.
“They don’t want to give us an opportunity to talk in a group. They’re probably trying to see who searches out who,” Layla says, and spears a roasted potato wedge.
My stomach twists. “Is that why they didn’t question us last night after that guard saw me?”
“I don’t know,” she says, and I can see stress in her expression. “There is a tactic here, I’m just not sure what it is yet.”
I put down my fork. I wish I could erase this whole event from my memory. “Okay, tell me. What do I do if they question me? I haven’t taken deception classes for years like you have. I don’t know what you know.”
Layla makes eye contact with me and pauses. “Exactly.”
“What?”
“Play the ‘I don’t know what’s going on here’ approach. You’ve been using it well so far. At least it will be consistent.” She doesn’t offer any more information.
If I can’t manage to lie to Layla and Ash, then I can’t lie to Blackwood, or whoever is doing the interrogation. They’ll know immediately. But I can’t exactly tell them I found a dead body, either. “Do I say anything about what I saw?”
“If that’s a joke, it’s not funny,” she says, and a bit of anger creeps back into her tone.
I have no idea how I’m going to get through this day or the possible questioning without making myself look guilty. I want to cry every time I think about Stefano lying there in the dark. I push my plate away.
Layla watches me. “I suggest eating. You’ll need energy for whatever is coming next.”
* * *
I walk behind Layla as two lines of silent students in black cloaks file through the vine doorway and into the courtyard where the archery class was held. I can’t help but think that it looks like we’re going to a funeral.
“Professor Messer,” Layla whispers to me like a warning.
I immediately translate Messer as German for “knife,” triggering the image of Stefano’s bloody chest to flash through my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and when I open them again the teacher is looking straight at me.
Professor Messer is a short muscular woman with lots of small scars on her hands.
“I’ve been told you’re skilled with knives and will be able to keep up,” Messer says, and takes a good look at me. She speaks with a German accent. “I have no intention of spending part of my class reviewing things already learned by the elemental students.”
Everyone looks at me and it’s obvious from the disdain on their faces that not being able to keep up here is humiliating.
“I’ll keep up,” I say, and my voice sounds weak. Layla shoots me a disapproving look.
I drop a small knife toward my foot and try to kick it back up in the air with my toe, but it arcs out and away from me before I can grab it.
Dad watches me from the porch and laughs. “What in the world are you doing?”
I hold the knife in the air above my foot. “I learned this thing in soccer today and I thought maybe I could do it with my knife.”
He shakes his head and smiles. “Well, no one can accuse you of not having an imagination.”
I manage to kick the knife up, but it’s a little too far away for me to
catch it. “Imagination, shmagination,” I say. “This is going to be so cool.”
I hang my cloak next to Layla’s on the vine-covered wall. She leans in. “Unless you want to explain why you didn’t report a dead body last night and go to the dungeon, you need to stop wearing your emotions all over your face.” Her voice is fierce even in a whisper.
I take a deep breath and we join the nine other students. Of course the first day I’m expected to perform in class would be the morning after I stumbled upon a dead body. And to make things more interesting, Nyx, Brendan, and Charles are here, and so are Aarya and Ines. I find it strange that none of them have made a snide remark or thrown me any pointed looks, which they all have made a habit of these past few days. The change in behavior makes me wonder if they already know about Stefano. I glance at the arched doorway; I keep expecting one of the guards to come pluck me from class and shackle me.
Messer holds a rolled-up piece of leather and taps it against her other hand. “In Persia in 522 BCE, a pretender stole the throne. The rightful ruler, King Cambyses the Second, gathered an army to march against him. But he never succeeded. And why was that?” She pauses. “Because he accidentally stabbed himself with his own knife and died from the wound.”
There are a couple of amused scoffs.
Messer smiles. “While this story may sound absurd, it elegantly illustrates the diabolical nature of knives. They can be your best friend—they’re easy to conceal and easy to maneuver. But with one tiny mistake they can be your death. They are a weapon that requires complete confidence and perfect timing. There’s no room for error. What do I mean by that?”
Brendan cracks his knuckles and takes a step forward even though it’s not necessary. I’ve seen him only a handful of times, and already it’s obvious that he likes to take up space. “If you throw a knife at the proper time, you can deliver a death blow or incapacitate your opponent without having to engage in a fight. But if your timing or aim is off by even a fraction, you’ll wind up giving your weapon away,” he says.
“Very true,” Messer says. “And while learning precision in a relaxed environment is cozy, it won’t prepare you for a stressful one. You have to learn to be so focused that the walls could be crumbling down around you and you’d still hit your mark.” Messer inclines her head toward Brendan. “Step forward and take the first shot.”
Brendan approaches Messer and rolls back his toned shoulders. Out in the field I spy three staggered targets similar to the archery targets, with a series of tiny Xs on them instead of the usual bull’s-eye. The first target is an easy distance, but the last is a serious challenge at what looks like more than thirty-five feet.
“Charles, you too,” Messer says, and it’s clear the two of them are her go-tos when she’s making a point. Charles smirks; I can tell he likes being lumped in with Brendan. He even takes a quick look back at the class to make sure we all notice. Charles rolls his sleeves up, exposing his ivy tattoo, which appears to move as his muscles flex.
Messer hands them each three knives.
Brendan immediately pulls back with no hesitation and throws his first knife, wedging it perfectly in an X on the closest target. He smiles and stretches his arms over his head. As they come down, he pulls back and throws again, so fast that I can hear the knife slicing through the air. He hits an X on the second target as neatly as the first.
Making a show of it, he licks his finger and tests the wind. He throws at the farthest target, but his knife strikes a couple of inches off. He’s skilled, but given Messer’s favoritism, I expected more.
Charles steps up next and hits the first two targets as cleanly as Brendan. His form is good, but almost too good—like he needs it to be perfect. I wonder if he could do as well if he were hanging upside down from a tree branch.
Charles looks over and smiles at Nyx before he readjusts to throw his third knife, and her eyes smile back so subtly that if I weren’t watching her closely, I would have missed it. Emily gives Ben that look all the time when she’s trying to keep a smile off her face in front of a teacher. Which makes me wonder if Charles and Nyx are a couple. Then Charles releases his knife and it zips through the air with a crisp buzzing sound, like a loud fly. It lands in the farthest target an inch away from the X.
When my gaze returns to Messer, I’m startled to find her watching me.
“By the look on your face, you think you can do better,” she says like it’s a statement of fact and not a question.
My eyes momentarily widen. I can practically feel Layla radiating tension next to me about my inability to act normal.
“Well?” Messer says.
I clear my throat. “Better than their third shots? Yeah, definitely,” I say, and the whole class turns to look at me.
Aarya smirks. “I would love to see this,” she says, then covers her comment with a cough as Messer gives her a stern look.
Charles locks me in his gaze. “We welcome the challenge,” he says. He reminds me of this hipster I dated for a split second last year before I realized he was never going to like me more than he liked his hair.
By the way Charles and Brendan look at me, I can tell they don’t welcome the challenge one bit.
Messer is holding out three knives, but Brendan doesn’t move and I have to step awkwardly around him to take them. Maybe there’s a fine line between sadness and anger, or maybe I just don’t like bullies, but suddenly all my emotions from the past twenty-four hours are directed at beating these two.
I make eye contact with Brendan. “Well, I was going to go easy on you to make you feel better. But now I think I won’t,” I say.
I glance at Layla, who looks like she can’t decide if she’s horrified by my comment or relieved that I’m not weepy.
Charles scoffs and I turn toward the target. I hold my first knife up, pull back, and let it soar. It knocks Brendan’s knife right off the target.
“Oops,” I say. “Let’s try that again. Maybe I’m just stiff.”
I bounce on my toes and shake out my body. I pull back my arm and send the next knife flying. This one knocks Charles’s knife clean off the second target. There are a few whispered comments behind me, but they’re too quiet to make out the words.
“I don’t know why I’m missing so much today. I must be—” I stop, like I’ve just realized something. “I know what it is.” I shake my head and flash Brendan and Charles a rueful smile. “I’m not left-handed.”
There are a couple of uncomfortable-sounding snickers from the students that stop the moment Messer looks at them.
I take the last knife in my right hand and throw it in one fast and fluid motion at the farthest target. My knife not only splits an X directly down the middle, but it splits the same X that they both missed.
Brendan’s fist clenches near his side and Charles’s jaw is tight; they both look decidedly put out. Aarya, on the other hand, laughs, and when I look over, there’s even a hint of amusement on Layla’s face.
Messer’s expression remains stony and unimpressed. “Well, well. Let’s see how you do when the stakes are real.” She scans the students. “Ines, go stand in front of the farthest target.”
I swallow and Aarya abruptly stops laughing. Charles and Brendan now seem to be the ones who are amused.
Messer waits while Ines walks across the field. “Hit the X an inch above Ines’s head,” she says. “With the way you’ve been showing off, that should be no problem for you.”
All the bravado I had fifteen seconds ago disappears and is replaced with a stomach-twisting panic. I glance at Ines, who stands calmly in front of the target, and I can’t meet her eyes. This is crappy on so many levels. God forbid I miss. On top of the horror I would feel, I’m pretty sure Aarya would skin me alive here and now.
“You look like you’re about to faint,” Charles says, and makes an exaggerated frown.
Brendan chuckles. “Maybe she’s only comfortable fighting inanimate objects.”
I look at them. “You think this is funny? If my shot is one inch off the way both of yours were, I could kill her.”
“Yet they’re right,” Messer says, and holds out a knife. “Under pressure, you can’t perform. Are you refusing to take the shot?”
Shit. I’ve backed myself into a corner here. “I’m not taking the shot,” I say.
“Very well, then. Brendan?” Messer says, and my eyes widen. She’s asking Brendan to throw? He’s even worse than Charles.
“Obviously,” he says, and flashes me his confident smile.
I snatch the knife from Messer’s hand, and there are a couple of surprised gasps behind me. I throw quickly, before Messer can object, and the knife lodges a good six inches above Ines’s head. She never even flinches.
“You missed,” Messer says, and by the tone of her voice I can tell that the class I was really looking forward to has just become a nightmare.
AFTER A LONG morning of dreading I might be escorted out of each of my classes by guards, I take a seat next to Layla in the dining hall. The tables have been removed except for the one on the raised platform where the teachers eat, and the high-backed wooden chairs have been arranged in rows. With the large chandeliers fully lit above our heads, the ornate arched ceilings, and the decorative stonework on the walls, it looks like we’re about to meet some sort of dignitary. But from what I can tell, the entire school has been assembled, and I would bet anything we’re not here for entertainment.
Three rows ahead of us, Brendan looks at me like he knows something I don’t and takes a seat next to Nyx and Charles.
“About what I did in knife throwing—” I whisper to Layla.
“Not now, November,” she says, and her tone is harsh. She doesn’t look in my direction.
Headmaster Blackwood stands on the platform in front of the teachers’ dining table, watching us all like a bird of prey. She clears her throat even though the room is already silent and doesn’t remotely resemble the mob scene that ensues every time we get called to the auditorium in my school at home. My stomach does a quick flip.
Killing November Page 11