Chapter 3: Spearcrest Saints: Part 1 – Chapter 3

until we’re in the car.

We sit at the back, side by side, and my entire body is tense with anxiety. The partition that separates us from the driver is closed, leaving us isolated in the dull silence of the car. The engine is barely a hum, a low murmur around us, emphasising the silence. Outside the blacked-out windows, the landscape is drained of colours, the blue of the sky dulled to a dim grey.

I sit and stare out of the window, forcing myself not to fidget. My father would notice immediately—he’d take it as a sign of weakness, a sign of inferiority.

“Do you know why I’m sending you to Spearcrest Academy?” he asks.

His voice is deep and harsh. Like me, my father was educated in England, but he still has a thick northern Russian accent from living and working in St Petersburg and Moscow.

I don’t answer. My father doesn’t ask questions he wants answers to. In English class, I learned that the term for this is a rhetorical question.

My father’s questions, like his presence, only ever require silent obedience from me.

“I’m sending you there because I wish you to receive the best education possible. I wish you to be clever, well-spoken, sophisticated. You are my daughter—you bear my name. What the world sees when they look at you is an extension of me. Like my cars or my houses. I buy my cars from the best manufacturers, and I have my houses designed by the best architects. It is the same as sending you to the best school.”

, I want to tell him.

I couldn’t say so if I wished. I’m sitting stiff and straight, little more than an object at his side.

“Now let me tell you some reasons I do not have for sending you to this school.”

There is a darkness in his voice like the heavy black clouds before thunder splits the sky. He pauses because he is about to arrive at the point he wants to make, and it’s important I pay attention to it.

“I am not sending you to this school so that you may grow up to be a whore.”

He spits the word as if it’s venom in his mouth.

“I am not sending you to this school so that you may sit and preen for the attention of boys and men. You are Theodora Dorokhova—your reputation is mine. I would not have it said that I am a whore anymore than I would have it said that you are one. Do you know what a whore is?”

My voice is so hard and heavy in my throat I can’t even swallow. I curl my fingers around the sleeves of my cardigan, holding on tight, hoping I’m not about to suffocate. There’s a burning in my eyes like I’m going to cry, but I know I can’t allow it to happen.

I’ve already drawn my father’s anger—my tears would only tip him into fury.

I shake my head no.

“A whore is a woman who gives herself to men. There are many ways to be a whore, Theodora, but only one way to be pure. You must never let a man touch you, not in any way, not until you are married. Do you understand?”

This time, I nod. My nod says the things I can’t.

My father turns his head to look at me. I don’t want to look at him; meeting his gaze is a painful act, like touching fire. But if I don’t, his anger will grow.

So I look up at him; I pray to all the saints in all the cathedrals to help me keep my tears locked away safe and tight inside my chest.

I endure my father’s gaze for as long as he needs me to.

“That boy you were speaking to,” he says. “He might be the son of a nobleman or a billionaire—it does not matter. Like you, he will marry when he comes of age. He will do his duty for his family, for his name. But before this, he might wish to taste freedom, to learn what he likes. Him—and all the boys here. They are all like you, but you are not like them. Men have more freedom in this world—it is not fair, and if you had been lucky enough to be born a boy, you would not have to endure this injustice. If you were born a boy, I would not have needed to speak of this with you. Because boys—men—cannot be ruined in the way women can. Do you understand?”

I nod. I have a vague idea of what my father is saying. He’s spoken of it before—as has my mother.

They are speaking of pregnancy. At eleven years old, I can barely imagine such a concept. At eleven years old, it’s not a fear that would have ever occurred to me.

But it’s a fear that’s very real in my parents’ minds.

“You will be in this school until you are a woman grown,” my father announces with finality. “In that time, Theodora, you will remain the good girl you have always been. You will not throw your attention on everybody that seeks it. You will not date, as others in your classes might do. You will not kiss or touch boys or give yourself to them in any way. You must promise me, Theodora. Promise me you will do what is right, even if it’s difficult. It is the only thing I ask of you.”

I try to swallow, but the marble egg in my throat is so big that I can only swallow with a big, loud gulp. The noise is almost too loud. My father’s eyes narrow.

“Promise me. Now.”

, I try to say. The words remain stuck. I look at him in panic.

I know he wants me to speak, but I can’t. I wish I could. I would make him his promise, and I would tell him the other things stuck in my throat.

I’m not a whore. I’m just a girl. I was doing nothing wrong. I only spoke of books with Zachary Blackwood. I did nothing wrong. He spoke to me first. I’m not a whore, and I never will be.

“

” he bites out.

His arm shoots out, gripping my arm so tightly that a noise of pain squeezes its way out of my throat. I force my voice out after it. “I promise, Papa.”

My voice is barely above a whisper. But it’s enough for my father. He lets me go, shoving me away from him like a disgusting thing.

“Good. Break this promise, Theodora, and I will punish you for it for the rest of your life.”

at Spearcrest, I stand with the other Year 7 students outside the assembly hall, waiting for the induction assembly. I don’t look at the other students; I stand still and straight, waiting for the teachers to tell us to go inside.

My braids are so tight that my head hurts. My uniform is like stiff armour around my body, my brand-new shoes pinching my feet.

The teachers open the doors, and we file into the assembly hall. The floorboards shine underneath our feet, and the navy-blue seats face an enormous stage. Over it stands a carved arch covered with portraits that looks just like the iconostases in Russian cathedrals.

Mr Ambrose opens the assembly. He welcomes us to Spearcrest with a speech about academic excellence, about the importance of education and scholarly pursuits. He talks about knowledge being not only the food of the brain but the food of the soul.

When he speaks, I feel as though he’s talking only to me.

After the assembly, we are given our campus maps and timetables. Outside, teachers help students, pointing them in the direction of different buildings and paths.

The sun is bright in the deep blue sky—it still feels like summer even though it’s the start of autumn.

Students form little groups. I hear them talk.

“Oh, are you also in Miss Bailey’s form? Let’s go together.”

“We’re going to the main building, are you going the same way?”

“My form room is in the art building too, I’ll go with you.”

I look down at the papers in my hand. I’m in Professor Mecardo’s form in the main building. I open my campus map, looking at the tiny illustrated buildings and paths. They all look so small on the map, but in reality, Spearcrest is enormous, almost a small city of its own.

“Hello, Theodora.”

I look up, although I already recognise the voice that spoke to me. Not the voice, but the tone of the voice.

Well-spoken, intense, a little bleak.

Zachary’s school uniform is impeccable, his face as serious as it was the last time I saw him. Instead of holding his timetable and map in his hands like the other students, he carries them in a smart brown folder.

“Would you like me to help you find your way around?” he asks.

I recoil from him as if I’ve been hit, taking two quick steps back. My stomach churns. My father left for Russia more than a week ago. There’s no way he could be in Spearcrest—he’s not even in England.

And yet I feel as if he’s standing right behind me, watching me with his stormy face. Waiting to see what I’ll do.

Waiting to see if I’m a whore.

Every part of me turns to ice. So does my voice when I answer Zachary.

“I don’t need your help, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He tilts his head. “You look lost, and I was here in the summer, so I can—”

“I’m fine.” My voice is firm and hard. Why couldn’t it be that way when I was in the car with my father? “I know where I’m going.”

“Alright.” He gives a small, courteous smile. “Well, I hope you are settling in okay. Would you like me to walk you to your form?”

There’s a panic inside me I can’t describe. Terror and anger and anxiety and regret and a horrible, sickening fear.

“I would like you to leave me alone.” I look straight into his eyes. “Thank you.”

For a moment, we just watch each other. I’d forgotten how nice the colour of his eyes is: a deep, rich brown, several shades darker than the brown of his skin. His eyes are the warmest part of him, but there isn’t enough warmth in them to melt the ice in my words.

To melt the ice I’ve filled myself with.

He straightens himself like a soldier regaining his composure.

“I’m sorry for bothering you.” His tone is stiff and formal.

He turns around and walks away, and I hasten in the opposite direction. I still have no idea where I’m going, and I end up getting to form late.

I don’t speak to Zachary for the rest of Year 7.

It’s not an easy year. I struggle to make friends, and the work is harder now we’re in secondary school. I spend a lot of time studying, trying to keep up, and making sure I do well enough to stay in the top classes for every subject.

Sometimes, I see Zachary in the corridors, in classes or during assembly. He always looks the same: his uniform impeccable, his curly hair short and tidy, his expression intense and earnest. When we cross paths, he looks at me but never speaks to me.

I always look away first.

At the end of Year 7, the summer exam results are displayed in the main corridor of the Old Manor, in great glass cases. I don’t bother searching the lists; I just look at the top, where I know my name will be.

For every subject, the top line reads the same.