Chapter 11: Spearcrest Saints: Part 1 – Chapter 11

catch myself watching Theodora for signs of weakness—for any indication that she’s finding this year as difficult as I am.

But Theodora remains as impenetrable as ever.

She glides from class to class with the heavy cloak of her pale hair on her shoulders, her face set like stone, unreadable. Over the years, she’s developed a look that’s uniquely hers: raspberry lip gloss and natural make-up aside from her eyeshadow, which is always a delicate colour: mint-green, carnation-pink or periwinkle. She wears almost no jewellery apart from silver earrings, and she always uses the same bag to carry her things, a Kate Spade tote in a pale shade of pink. Her hair, she wears either down or half-up, tied with ribbons or pinned with silver clips.

In class, she carries herself with dignity and still keeps to herself most of the time. The only times she comes out of her shell is when I force her to, and it’s easy enough to do that: all I have to do is be overly critical of something without good enough reason to be or else make a statement where I present my opinion as fact.

In those instances, Theodora will cast me a look of exasperation. Sometimes, she’ll try to bite her tongue, but most of the time, she can’t.

That’s when she comes out of her shell, and that’s when she truly shines. Theodora is an excellent speaker: she doesn’t rush, she enunciates everything, she’s thoughtful and eloquent. I like her voice too: it’s quiet but clear, and it has this musical lilt to it. Her voice suits poetry and it particularly suits Shakespeare. When our English teacher picks her to read out loud, everybody listens like they’re under a spell.

Watching Theodora, though, yields no result. It’s almost impossible to tell what she’s really feeling—ever—so working out whether or not she’s struggling is impossible. She might very well be—she might feel as much panic and anxiety and exhaustion as I do.

She might be haunted by the same terror as me: the paralysing fear of slipping up, of falling behind and never being able to catch up.

But if she does fear this, she doesn’t show it.

on my way out of the library when I see a figure at a table half-hidden by a row of bookshelves. I frown—I was under the impression I was the last person in the library—and draw closer. The figure is leaning against the divider that separates the desk into semi-cubicles. On the desk in front of her are books and an open laptop with a dark screen.

I recognise Theodora by the pallor of her hair, by the pale pink bag in the chair next to hers. I draw closer, keeping close to the bookshelf, hoping the shadows will keep the secret of my presence.

Theodora doesn’t look up, not even when I finally reach her desk. I realise why as soon as I step next to her.

She’s sitting tucked against the divider, her arm folded, her hand squished between the divider and her cheek. She’s fast asleep, her face softened, her mouth a pink pout. Her hair is gathered into a bun from which wispy strands have escaped. One of those strands falls over her face, and it moves with each of her exhalations like a muslin curtain in a summer breeze.

I pull out the chair next to hers and sit on the edge so as not to crush her bag. My mouth has moved of its own volition, stretching into a smile. My chest feels strange, but not the way it did when I had that panic attack—the opposite. Instead of feeling too tight, it feels wide and expansive, like the open sky.

Theodora in sleep looks soft and delicate and sweet as a marshmallow. I could take a bite out of her—I have the incredibly childish urge to reach out and press my mouth to her cheek, just to see if she tastes as sweet as she looks.

Reaching out, I place a hand on her shoulder and squeeze. “Theodora.”

Her eyes blink open slowly, and a sigh leaves her mouth. She smiles sleepily, and her eyelids close again as if she’s sinking deeper into sleep. Then she sits bolt upright, startling both of us.

“I fell asleep!” she exclaims, tucking the loose strands of her hair behind her ears and wiping her eyes.

There’s a panicked expression on her face like she’s been caught in the middle of a crime, not a nap. I smile at her and scoot back, giving her space. “It would seem so, yes.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No, I can’t imagine you did. You didn’t exactly look comfortable.”

She’s fixing herself now, and I watch in real-time as sleepy Theodora retreats behind the façade of ice queen Theodora. She fixes her hair, straightens her tie, arranges the books in front of her into neat piles.

“I was just tired,” she says. Her posture, which is always so straight and formal, is more rigid than ever.

“I don’t blame you.”

I stand. Theodora’s mortification is obvious and painful to watch. Is she embarrassed because she feels like I’ve caught her in a moment of weakness?

She takes such great care to appear always perfect, always in control—maybe it’s her way of keeping the balance of power between us always even. Maybe this has made her feel as though the balance of power has now tipped in my favour?

She’s packing her things away, every motion rigid, but there’s a faint smear of colour on her cheeks. If she feels as if the balance has been tipped, then what if I tip it the other way?

“To be honest, I’m tired too,” I tell her with a shrug. “I’m exhausted, actually. I don’t know about you, but I feel as if I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the summer.”

She looks up, and a corner of her mouth lifts ever so slightly.

“I didn’t think you ever needed sleep.”

I laugh out loud. “Like a vampire?”

Theodora looks up at me a little slyly. “More like a shark. Like you’ll die if you stop.”

I narrow my eyes, watching her closely. Her embarrassment from earlier seems to have eased—maybe I succeeded in redressing whatever imbalance was making her uncomfortable. Her playfulness is an added bonus—an unexpected boon.

Part of me wants to play too, to rake my claws against hers. But maybe I’m tired, or maybe I’m moved from her presence. Either way, I have the urge to be sincere instead of playful for once.

“Maybe you’re right,” I tell her, my gaze locked into hers. “Sometimes, it does feel like I’ll die if I stop. But sometimes, it also feels like I’ll die if I keep going, too.” I tilt my head. “Know what I mean?”

She nods, her smile fading. “I know what you mean.”

“Well…” I offer her my hand. “Shall we go back to the dorms?”

With a nod, she takes my hand, and I pull her to her feet. She shoulders her bag and reaches for the pile of books on the desk, but I stop her, placing my arm between her and the books.

“I mean to sleep—not to study.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you going straight to sleep?”

I smile and extend my hand out between us. “I will if you will.”

She hesitates, looking down at my hand. I sense her exhaustion because it feels the same as mine. She takes my hand and shakes it. “Deal.”

We part ways outside the library.

“Goodnight, Theodora.”

“Goodnight, Zachary. Sweet dreams.”

I cast her a look of surprise, taken aback by this gentle goodbye, but she’s already turned away.

That night, I fall asleep fast, and my dreams, not daring to disobey her, are sweet indeed. I dream of Theodora half asleep and tender and dressed in nothing but moonlight, and I wake up hard and full of desperate longing.