Chapter 44: Spearcrest Saints: Part 4 – Chapter 44

absence haunts me with memories.

Her ghost sits at my side in literature class, her golden head catching the light of early spring, her fingers tickling the edges of the next page as she reads. Her ghost drifts in the corridors and down the tree-lined paths of Spearcrest. Her ghost lingers on the top floor of the library, typing quietly away on her laptop or stooping over her notebook or stretching her slim arms over her head like a nymph tempting a god.

I had decided to stay in Spearcrest over half-term to concentrate on my studies, but two days in, I change my mind and go home.

If I hoped home would be easier, less haunted, I was woefully wrong. Memories of Theodora linger there too, each more heartrending than the last.

Memories of Theodora sitting in my mother’s breakfast nook, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Memories of Theodora on the couch in the Blue Lounge, her head on the armrest, Zaro’s pirate book resting on her belly as she read. Memories of Theodora walking through the gardens with Zaro at her side, their arms linked together, the pretty contrast of Zaro’s tumbling black curls and Theodora’s silken gold tresses.

Memories of Theodora in my arms and in my bed, stifling cries of pleasure into my pillows, her body spread under mine, her starlit skin, the sensuous wetness of her.

Each memory is more torturous than the last. Most nights, I end up giving up on sleep and going downstairs to sit at the dinner table with a cup of coffee, distracting myself with research and essays and work, always more work.

Every day, I pull out my phone and call Theodora, to no avail.

Wherever she is, whatever’s happened, she’s turned off her phone or changed her number. Maybe she doesn’t have a phone at all. She might not wish to talk to anybody—or the choice to do so might have been taken from her.

The not knowing is the worst thing.

Zaro comes downstairs one night, wrapped in a bathrobe and slippers, blinking sleepily in the light of the single lamp I’ve turned on. She pulls out the chair next to me and sits down, hugging a leg to her body.

“Hey, are you alright? Has something happened? You don’t seem your usual self.”

I had intended not to say anything, to keep my suffering to myself. But being home reminded me of the time Zaro and Theodora spent together, the easy friendship between them, the sisterly bonding, as though they were already sisters-in-law.

“Theodora’s gone.”

Zaro frowns, her whole face scrunching into her frown. “What do you mean she’s gone? Gone where?”

“I have no idea. Russia, maybe. Her father came to get her right before the end of half-term. Removed her from the school.”

“

” Zaro’s dismay is soothing in the way it gives voice to mine. “What do you mean, her? Maybe they’re just having a family emergency and—”

“No, removed her, as in, from the school. Out of education. He told Mr Ambrose she’s not going to university, that she’s moving to Russia to live with him.”

“What? Can he do that? But it’s not even the end of the school year yet—what about the A-level exams?”

“I don’t think he cares. And yes, he can do that. He can do whatever he pleases, it sounds like.”

Zaro is silent for a moment, and then she voices the thought on her mind in a whisper, “Kind of like our father?”

I cast my mind back to the first time I met Theodora, the tall, dark man she was accompanied with, how little he resembled her, the way he commanded her to follow him without casting her so much as a glance.

“No, not like our father at all.” I shake my head with a sigh. “Our father might be harsh, it’s true, and he’s not always kind—especially not to you. But he would never take your education away from you, he would never choose your future for you.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“Father wants what’s best for us, in his own rigid way. He might not approve of our choices, but he would never rob us of them.”

“Maybe Theodora’s father wants what’s best for her too,” Zaro says, and the sadness in her voice tells me she believes this about as much as I do.

“Or maybe he just wants what’s best for .”

Zaro leans forward to wrap a hand around my shoulder, pulling me towards her in a half-hug.

“Zach. It’s normal to fear the worst. But if you keep telling yourself she’s unhappy, you’re going to drive yourself mad.”

“I she’s unhappy, Zaro.”

“How could you possibly know?”

“Because she told me herself.” I bury my face in my hands. “I think she was trying to tell me all along, in that secret, subtle, silent way of hers, that something was wrong. I just never picked up the clues she was leaving me. I think I’m so clever, Zaro, I think I’m so fucking clever but this whole time, I’ve been blind, and now, I’m more blind than ever. Everything is ruined, she’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do to find her, to help her—to save her. What if I was supposed to save her, Zaro?”

“Maybe Theodora needs to save herself,” Zaro says. “Maybe sometimes broken people have to fix themselves.”

“But they don’t have to do it alone. She doesn’t have to do it alone.”

“She knows this,” Zaro says, grabbing my hand. “She knows this, Zach. She’s smart—she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met—far smarter than you, in fact. If anybody can figure it out, it’s going to be her. You just have to trust her.”

“It’s not her I don’t trust.” I fix Zaro with a grim look. “It’s that father of hers.”

“He’s her father,” Zaro says. “He won’t hurt her.”

“Fathers hurt their daughters all the time.” I squeeze her fingers, which are still wrapped around mine. “Whether or not they mean to. I think you know this.”

She stares at me but says nothing.

There’s nothing to say.

I’m on my way to the study when a commotion somewhere in the house stops me in my tracks. I freeze to listen. Voices, running footsteps, and then one voice, loud and hard and booming, rising above the rest.

I hasten down to the corridor and towards the main staircase, in the direction of the commotion, which seems to be happening in the atrium. The voices become clearer when I reach the staircase, a chaotic jumble.

“Sir—please, follow me to—”

“Damien, you need to go get Lord Blackwood, hurry.”

“Sir, you need to—”

And above all, the hard, harsh voice.

“Where is my daughter? I know she’s here. Bring her to me. Bring her to me .”

I descend the steps, a spike of adrenaline making my skin bristle with invisible thorns, raising every hair on my body.

A man stands in the middle of the atrium. Tall, imposing, with the unpleasant, ugly strength of a Brutalist factory. He’s dressed all in black, and there’s grey streaking his dark hair, but he looks exactly as I remember him.

“

.” His eyes turn to me, two dark bullets boring into me with deadly intent. “The filthy dog who defiled my daughter.”

Everything falls into place then.

Theodora, in Year 9, declining my invitation to the Summer Ball and telling me she wasn’t allowed to date.

Iakov, in Year 12, mentioning in his deadpan tone that Theodora’s father had a bounty on anyone who touched her. At the time, I had assumed he was just joking, maybe as a way to keep the idea of Theodora being off-bounds when it came to the bet.

Theodora, after we slept together, making me vow I would never tell a soul. Theodora, telling me she was as free to make her own choices as a prisoner. Theodora, always so pale and sad and broken, and that terrible fear in her face when Mr Clarke came to take her to Mr Ambrose’s office.

“Is this it?” I ask, meeting Mr Dorokhov’s gaze head-on, refusing to look away. “You would sacrifice Theodora’s education—why? Because she didn’t obey some archaic, misogynistic rule you set her?”

Mr Dorokhov steps forward sharply, and I notice the staff that surround him suddenly step back, fear flashing on their faces. Blackwood staff, in the heart of the Blackwood house, should have nothing to fear from this man—and yet they do.

I remember telling Theodora that she couldn’t be a prisoner because there were no walls, or locks, or guards keeping her imprisoned. Shame bubbles through me, thick like tar. How cold and insensitive I must have sounded to her.

How despicably little I understood what she was trying to tell me.

“My daughter,” Mr Dorokhov hisses, “is mine to do with as I please. And you, boy, have made her into little more than a whore.”

I descend the rest of the steps in a surge of anger like I’ve never felt before. I stand in front of Mr Dorokhov, and I push back the wave of my fury. I turn myself to ice, just as Theodora was forced to do all these years.

“You will not speak of her like this in front of me again,” I say, my voice low and deathly calm.

“I’ll speak of her however I please,” Mr Dorokhov hisses. “I am her father. Who do you think you are?”

“I’m the man who loves her. The man who’s going to spend his life making sure she’s safe from harm—safe from you. And one day, Mr Dorokhov, I’ll be the man who marries her.”

He lets out an ugly laugh. “I’ll be cold in my grave before I let that happen.”

“That can be arranged,” I reply.

He raises his hand to me, but violence is stupid and predictable. I catch his arm, stopping his blow, and look him in the eyes.

“Theodora deserves better than to have for a father.”

Mr Dorokhov snatches his arm from me, letting out a vile string of curses.

A booming, steady voice interrupts him.

“There is no need for such language in my house.” I turn to see my father appearing from a doorway. He’s slowly lowering his rolled-up sleeves and buttoning them up. “Good morning. Mr Dorokhov, is it?”

Mr Dorokhov turns to my father and spits out, “You know exactly who I am.”

“Then let introduce myself. I am Lord Blackwood, and you, sir, stand in my house. You will show respect to me, my family and my staff, or else be escorted off the premises.”

“

What respect do I owe the people who have stolen my daughter from me? What respect do I owe the boy who debauched her?” Mr Dorokhov turns back to me. “What respect did you show my daughter when you used her like a whore?”

“Mr Dorokhov, that’s enough.” My father’s voice is the deep, calm rumble of distant thunder. It brokers no denial. “I have expressed my expectations to you—you are incapable of meeting them. I will now ask you to remove yourself from my house.”

“I’m not leaving without my daughter!” Mr Dorokhov bellows.

My father and I exchange a split-second glance. Mr Dorokhov thinks Theodora is here. My father doesn’t know whether or not she’s here—she could be. But I know she’s not here. And she’s not with her father either.

So where is she?

Mr Dorokhov shouts in the direction of the stairs. “Theodora! I know you’re here!” He turns back to my father, pointing an accusing finger. “I know she’s here, and you have no right to keep her from me. Bring her to me now, Blackwood, or I will—”

My father raises a hand, effortlessly interrupting Mr Dorokhov. My guts clench with terror. Is he going to tell Mr Dorokhov the truth?

“You will do nothing at all, Mr Dorokhov. You will turn around and leave this house. Outside my door, you will find several private security agents who will escort you from the premises and to whatever private airport you arrived from. You will leave the United Kingdom immediately, and ensure you do not return. Threatening a lord in his own home was most unwise, and I assure you that your return to this country would be considered a matter of national security.” My father steps forward, and Mr Dorokhov steps back. “And now, Mr Dorokhov, on a more personal note. Should you go anywhere near myself or one of mine—be it my own children or my future daughter-in-law—I will personally see to it that your presence is permanently removed from our lives.” A sudden smile brightens my father’s face. “Is that understood?”

For a moment, Mr Dorokhov says nothing. A black rage seethes from him, and his hand twitches near the lapel of his coat. I’m strangely calm, given how obvious it is that Mr Dorokhov carries a weapon on him.

Behind him, the door opens. My father’s private security agents wait outside the door, silent black shadows.

Mr Dorokhov turns brusquely and stomps to the door. Once he reaches the doorway, he stops, turns, and tells my father.

“Set foot in Russia, Blackwood, and you’ll be dead before you can blink.”

My father tilts his head. His smile broadens. “I see we understand one another. Goodbye, Mr Dorokhov.”