Note: I love you so much and I hate how stressful life has been. I'm here and I don't take for granted how lucky I am to have you reading this book. Thank you, and know I'm always trying to make you something exciting with lots of plot twists.
PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: Carstan's here. He's the new member? That's a change!!
EMERAY
For lack of extensive history, most classes in my school became studies on the customs and cultures of our two neighboring nations, Notness and Betnedoor. One of my least favorite lessons of all was the one on prisonsââon the huge, gaping penitentiaries the other countries had. The punishments lurking behind their cement walls used to make my skin crawl.
In Notness, the undisputed intelligence-capital of the world, torture is turned into a science. A criminal, upon sentence, is to become the newest case-study, and is thus made into a point of reference, a grasp at understanding the darker shades of a human being. And to really capture those shades, well, the tests aren't always the most humane. I've heard horror stories of burning, faulty surgeries, and purposeful drowning over lectures my fellow students blinked through with lackadaisical focus. The way they could become so desensitized to the terrors in their notebooks never ceased to astonish me.
But despite the eeriness Notness supplied, conditions were by far the cruelest in Betnedoor: Crammed living accommodations, infrequent meals, and a time stamp for execution on everyone, regardless of their crime. It could be murder. It could be theft. Either way, a date was always made, and the sentenced would have to live out their few moments left in those quarters knowing exactly what was going to come next. That was how they kept the peace in a nation so massiveââthrough indescribable fear.
Eldae, unlike the others, is a place with very few structured systems at all, much less a real jail. But that was no matter. Perhaps it wasn't on a scale quite as grand as theirs, but for a long time I dreaded those lessons for the way they made me feel like I was trapped in my own sort of prison. Like those in Notness, I knew of burns, and cuts, and drowning. Like those in Betnedoor, I knew of unfair punishment. And like any convict, I knew of the endless dream of unreachable thingsââthe dream of a second chance, a new life, a fairy godmother from an old nursery rhyme swooping in to save me from everything. And while I was busy dreading these classes whenever they came up, I knew more than a few people who relished in themââwho treated the teacher's lengthy presentations like they were hearing a coach give pointers before a big game.
Those people, of course, were who they always were:
Carstan, Felix, and their gang of friends.
And the big game, of course, was what it always was:
Torturing me.
And so, after years and years and years of my life being detained by Carstan van Horne, I would be lying if I didn't say that when I first joined the Famoux it felt, in some ways, like escaping one of those high lock-down prisons. For the first time in my life, the dream was real, and it was happening.
I had a second chance.
I had a new life.
Norax Geddes had come around, and she'd saved me from her son.
But how was I supposed to know that sometimes inmates aren't freedââthat sometimes they just get moved somewhere else? And how was I supposed to know that the one person who imprisoned me my whole lifeââthe one person I'd been saved fromââwould someday willingly join my sentence?
"I believe you've all met my son Carstan once before," Norax says. She reaches out to him, patting his shoulder with a smile. "At Bree's gala."
And before then, I think. And before then.
From my seat a few yards away from them, I can pinpoint a thousand things I want to do in this very moment. First, I want to scream. Then, I want to stand up, to push back my chair so roughly that it breaks in its descent to the floor. And then I want to grab the nearest object and hurl it at his headââto yell and throw and finally cause some damage for all of the damage he's caused me.
I want to do all of these things, but I can't move. Legs crossed with no sign of movement, I can't bring myself to respond in any way past paralysis. The only feeling I can remotely register is Chapter's hand gripping mine.
Luckily, I'm not the only one who can't quite figure out how to respond. The other members, though generally unaware of the lengths of Carstan's association with me, don't jump up and start cheering at this news. They, like me are silent, because if they had it our way, they likely wouldn't pick another member at all. Given how it turned out with me and my sudden rise to the top, why would they ever take a chance at welcoming in another new kid? And considering the way they've only regarded him as a passing joke since meeting him at the gala, no one here would really pick Carstan as their first choice for a new member.
Again, the empty space in front of me feels potentââthe place meant for Foster. The other members watch wordlessly as Norax pulls up another chair, right in that spot, gesturing for her beloved son to take a seat.
"You can go right here," she tells him.
No one says a word. Not even Carstan. The formidable atmosphere around where he sits rises and falls at once.
If he tries to meet my gaze, it's glued to the table. I suddenly long for the metal surface to double in lengthââto put more distance between me and the boy whose way of breathing is enough to make me feel in danger all over again. To my chagrin, the table doesn't grow, no matter how hard I concentrate. I can't ignore the view of his hands in my eyeshot.
Norax starts saying something more, something about how, We've been coming up with plans . . . but I can't hear any of it. My head is pounding. My heart is pounding. Again, I get the urge to get up and scream, but my limbs feel like they're another part of the table, another piece of immovable metal. Why can't I get up? Why can't I be Emerayââthe girl that Carstan has never had the upper hand with? Why can't Iââ
"Emeray?"
I recognize the voice to be Norax's, but I can't bring myself to look at her. That would mean having to face what's right in front of me. When I snap my head up, I turn it to my left, assuring that the first face I see is Chapter's. I keep my eyes on him while I answer.
"I'm sorry," I say. I don't want to apologize, but it's the first thing I can think of, and the only thing I can get out. Speaking is harder than I expected: I suddenly become aware of how hard I'm shaking, and how prevalent it shows up in my voice.
"You're fine, dear," says Norax. Again, her voice is cheery. Too cheery. "I was afraid you were daydreaming."
I wish I was. But instead of saying this, I just shake my head.
"Good," she says. "Because I would like all of your undivided attentions here. A new memberââwell, as you know, is a very big deal. I know you are going to expect an explanation for why I made this choice, and what plans we have for the future. Like always, there is a very good reason behind my decisions, and I promise you that you're going to adore the changes we're making."
There's a pause. She smiles wider, then continues.
"I want you to think of Carstan as the member of a new age. Aââ"
"What's wrong with the old age?"
This comes from Race. I'm not surprised to hear him speak up so soon; back when I joined, he was one of the only people who showed and expressed his uncertainty. This is the kind of person he is: Cautious, protective, vocal about it. Norax should know that more than anyone, yet she frowns at him like this is something uncharacteristic.
She takes a deep breath. "There's nothing wrong with the old ageââ"
"Actually."
With this one word, all eyes dart to the other side of the tableââmine included, despite my best judgement. As the initial feeling of looking directly at him singes through me, I steady my posture and force myself to stay composed, to stay calm. I remind myself that somehow, even though there are high-stakes contracts against it, Chapter's hand is still in mine in this moment. Being next to someone I loveââthat alone is a drastic difference from how it used to be when I faced Carstan van Horne. And if anything, that's a good place to start.
"What was that, Carstan?" Norax asks.
His voice is crisp and cool. I can almost feel Clarus Creek againââthe water, the ice. I have to breathe in deep to remind myself I'm not drowning.
"If you don't mind," he says, "I would like to explain things for myself."
There's a strange formality to their correspondence. Though mother and son, everything about they way they communicate feels strictly business, not personal. From her watchful stance, Norax has her hands folded in front of her in the fashion of a boss observing an employee's progress. Thinking about it now, that isn't all that far from the truth.
"Of course you can," she tells him. Then, to emulate a democracy, she asks us, "Would you mind if Carstan explained in his own words?"
Her question is met with shrugs. Carstan takes it as a yes, clearing his throat. Just as he opens his mouth, I can feel my pulse rise to tantalizing heightsââthe same heights I used to feel at the end of every school day back in my old life, in my old prison.
And then, with that same level voice he once used when ordering Felix to nearly drown me, Carstan van Horne begins to tell us why he is our newest Famoux member.
xxx
Read on. It's a double update kind of day.
Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but haters make you famoux. Stay classy, stay classix.