Chapter 2: Spearcrest Saints: Part 1 – Chapter 2

to be the most important person I meet in Spearcrest.

I know it the moment I see her take a seat on the blue felt chair across from me, the moment her eyes sweep over me to watch the painting on the wall above my head. Her gaze brushes over me like starlight, like it’s almost too remote for me to feel it.

I watch her intently, sensing her importance.

She’s small and very pale, her skin almost see-through, like white fabric that’s been drenched in water. She’s wearing a blue cardigan with long sleeves, but I already know that the insides of her arms will be a map of blue veins. I don’t need to worry about seeing it—I’ll see it someday.

Her hair is light, too, the palest gold, like sunlight in the winter. It’s long and tied back from her face in neat plaits. Everything about her is delicate and fragile, like a porcelain doll. Her eyes are big and vividly blue. She’s not beautiful yet, she’s barely even pretty, but she’s going to be.

She’s going to be one of the most beautiful girls in the world.

I know all this because she’s special.

I can tell from her eyes when our gazes finally meet, and from the way her voice quivers when she tells me her name. Theodora Dorokhova. Even her name is special. I repeat it in my mind after she says it. When I’m alone later, I’m going to say it out loud, the way I do when I’m reading a book and I find a particularly satisfying sentence. Too satisfying to keep in my head, so I have to speak it, so I can taste the words and feel their weight and texture on my tongue.

We speak, and the more I speak to her, the firmer her voice becomes.

The quiver of her first sentence fades away. She speaks with perfect diction, with a smooth cadence. Her voice is far more expressive than her face. Does she know this?

Our conversation is a test.

There’s a reason I’m seeing this girl right now, a reason she wasn’t at the summer school days when I met the other students who are going to be in my year. There’s a reason we meet like this, today, when I’ve come in on a random day because my father is meeting with the other governors.

There’s a reason I’m the first person in Spearcrest to meet Theodora Dorokhova.

When our conversation transforms from a discussion into an argument, I decide it’s time to relent. I apologise for having offended her, even though I know she’s not offended.

She replies that I’ve not offended her. Her voice is hard and cold. It has the satisfying texture of icicles, sharp but smooth.

I’ve angered her, I think, but it’s hard to tell. I hope I have. I have the feeling handling Theodora Dorokhova isn’t going to be like handling other people our age. Handling her is going to be like handling an adult—like playing chess against a greater opponent, not a lesser one.

She’ll be good at concealing her true feelings, I’m guessing. She’ll wish to fight me without stepping on the battlefield, to gain her victories without appearing to be in the skirmish at all. She’ll want to compete with me without ever acknowledging me as her rival.

She’s going to be difficult and rigid and cold, like a thing of steel.

And that’s why she’s going to be the most important person here. Because I’ll never be able to become the best I possibly can without being properly tested and challenged. Heroes don’t become legends without fighting some great opposing force.

Theodora is going to become that great opposing force.

“What’s your favourite book, then?” I ask her.

I’m not smiling at her—I don’t need her to know her importance yet. Like an enemy kingdom, I’m better off making sure Theodora never sees attacks coming. I need to keep her as unprepared as possible, on the back foot. I need to make her slip up, scramble, rally. Her failures will become my victories.

“My favourite book is ,” she answers. Her voice is pleasantly sharp. I want to press it against my skin and see if it’ll draw blood. “What’s yours?”

I don’t have a favourite book. Most of the time, when I read, I’m forcing myself. Forcing myself to get through dense prose, pausing every five minutes to look up words and references. I never read books that are easy to understand—I wouldn’t respect myself if I read the novels and comics my peers are reading. Magic and teenage spies and superheroes.

I read because I am the son of Lord and Lady Blackwood, and that means I must be better than everybody else. My superiority demands superior intellect. So I read, but never for pleasure.

“My favourite book is .”

It’s only a half-lie. I liked , and the story is one I think about often. What’s not to love about the doggedness of vengeance? But it’s also an enormous book, and now Theodora Dorokhova won’t be able to look down on me for reading short books.

She smiles—a small, restrained smile, but the first I’ve seen on her face.

It’s an odd thing, her smile. It holds light but no warmth, like the cold gleam of moonlight.

“Oh,” she says, “I’ve actually—”

Then the door to Mr Ambrose’s office opens, and Theodora’s voice dies like the extinguished flame of a candle.

The smile dies with it.

A man precedes Mr Ambrose out. The man Theodora arrived with. I can only assume he’s her father, even though he looks nothing like her. Dark hair, hard eyes, and the sort of brutal, unpleasant strength of a big ugly factory.

Theodora looks up at him, her mouth still open. Her blue eyes are full of an expression I can’t read or comprehend. I would have guessed fear if it didn’t seem so unlikely to me that someone could be so afraid of their own father.

Mr Ambrose says goodbye to the man, then smiles at Theodora. “Goodbye for now, Theodora. See you on the first of September.”

She returns his smile, except it’s not really a smile. There’s no light in it, not even the cold gleam of moonlight. It’s just a dull stretch of her lips.

“Come,” the man commands without looking at her.

He walks away. Theodora stands. Her fingers are curled around the ends of her sleeves, gripping the wool tightly. She hurries after the man without a word.

“Nice to meet you, Theodora,” I say to her as she walks past me.

She turns and looks at me in surprise. Her eyes widen but she says nothing. Then her gaze slides off me, and she disappears around the corner.

“Is she very clever, Mr Ambrose?”

Mr Ambrose turns to me with a strange smile. “Very clever, Zachary. Just as clever as you are.”

I nod, his words confirming the solemnity I feel, the sense that Theodora is special.

“Is that man her father?” I ask.

Mr Ambrose nods slowly, casting one last glance down the corridor. “Yes, he is.” He gives me a sudden smile. “When she arrives in September, I’d like you to make her feel welcome, Zachary. Help her settle in, make sure she’s okay—look after her. Can you do that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“You promise?”

“I swear it, sir.”

I say it like a vow—it feels like a vow.

The weight of it settles on me like the blade on the shoulder of a knight. Mr Ambrose has just given me a sacred duty—a task too important to give anybody else. It’s an obligation and an honour, one I’ll never abandon or fail.