Page 57 of Winterveil

Why did you do it? Did you feel sorry for her?

And again: Has she finally lost it?

Julian pushed open the double doors, shaking one of the laurel garlands loose. It drifted to the ground, scattering gold flakes into the air.

“Stop!”

Startled, he turned. Through the haze of gold he saw her. Klaudia, stalking toward him, the crowd parting to make a path.

Her lips were pulled back, showing her teeth. With her black hair streaming out behind her and more strands falling around her face, she looked like a vengeful fury.

Julian’s heart climbed into his throat. “Klaudia . . .”

But what was he supposed to say? I’m sorry? He had done it for her. Given up his chance at number one, at the weekend furlough, out of what? Guilt? Pity? Neither of those sentiments stirred in him. What he felt instead was the desire to take her hand, to touch her, to do something—

Klaudia stopped before him. Rage turned her eyes incandescent.

“Don’t ever,” she said, her voice both tremulous and knife-edged, “do that again.”

He hadn’t expected her to be grateful. But he hadn’t expected her to be so furious, either. And he couldn’t help but feel an answering anger rise within him, summoning up cruel words.

“Do what?” he asked lowly. “Hand you a win?”

“The DOD doesn’t give out top-level appointments to students who win on technicalities. I never asked you to surrender.”

“Asked me?” His voice shook with incredulity. “That’s beside the point. What else was I supposed to do, when you were staring at me like—”

Julian cut himself off. He was acutely aware of the crowd, watching with unblinking stares. Mikhail had his arm around Jane, clutching her to his chest. Carter’s smile was so smug it was almost blissful.

Klaudia’s gaze grew flatter. Colder. “Like what?”

“Like you needed my help.”

As soon as Julian spoke the words, he regretted them.

“I don’t need your help.” Klaudia’s tone was pure poison. “And I don’t want a trophy to someone else’s benevolence. You feel bereft of your victory? Take it.”

Klaudia stepped back, putting enough space between them that he couldn’t have reached out and touched her, even if he’d had the courage. Then she hurled the trophy at him.

It bounced off his chest and pitched to the ground, shattering instantly. Glass shards flew up. Julian felt a bite of pain on his cheek. He put a hand to his face and the pads of his fingers came away bloody.

The other students gasped and scattered. Klaudia turned and swept through the crowd. Julian watched her until she vanished down the corridor. He felt spent and hollow.

The crowd closed in around him. Blood dripped from the cut on his cheek to the collar of his shirt, spoiling the white with red. Julian shut his eyes.

Twenty-One

Spring 2037

Rural Virginia

The sky was cloudless, the sunlight sharp and white-hot. Just the very faintest breeze shook the elms lining the footpaths. There could hardly have been a better day for the exhibition—if only Nadiya hadn’t felt so ill.

For the second night in a row, she had dreamed of Giselle. Dreamed with her. And even during her waking hours, her thoughts had been plagued by red-gold hair and soft blue eyes, the sparkle of lake water under the moonlight. Worst of all was how much she had begun to think of Sutton, begun to imagine him with Giselle, holding her, touching her. It hollowed her stomach. It made her face burn.

Giselle had been right; Nadiya was avoiding her in the light of day. Only not for the reasons she had intimated. She wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with her—she was embarrassed about how she felt when she was in her presence. Both unnerved and at ease. Shaky, with a strange but not entirely unpleasant sort of adrenaline.

In a somewhat indulgent display, Nadiya had taken great pleasure in pummeling a few first years into the mats during hand-to-hand combat class. It had exorcised some of her unease. Dr. Iver would not have been pleased to learn of her lack of restraint, so she had hidden the blooming bruises across her knuckles.