Chapter 50: Spearcrest Saints: Part 4 – Chapter 50

knock at Inessa’s bedroom door, I don’t let her ignore me, and I don’t go away after a few knocks. I stay until she has no choice but to open the door and look me in the eyes.

She looks thinner since I’ve last seen her, the shine of her hair a little dulled, her eyes rimmed with pink. Her eyes meet mine, and all the air seeps out of her.

“I’m sorry, Dora.

.”

I push past her into her room and let her close the door behind me. Her bedroom, where we spent so much time sitting on her bed and chatting, where we shared her desk while I helped her with her essays, now seems cold and unfamiliar.

I feel the opposite of cold.

At first, in the moment of realisation, I felt icy all over, frozen in the shock of understanding. But now, there’s no ice to keep me numb. Emotions burn inside me, anger and hurt and resentment, a searing pain in my chest.

“I don’t understand.” In the end, my voice isn’t strong and determined—it’s weak and wavering. “You told him? Why would you tell him?”

“My father works for yours, and he offered to pay for my education, for everything—but Dora, he told me he only wanted me to make sure you were alright, that you wouldn’t be in any trouble, and—”

“You’ve been…” I brush my hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. “You’ve been on me? For my father? All these years?”

“Not spying, just—just making sure you were alright, that nothing bad would happen to you—Dora, you are like my sister here, and your father has such great plans for you, I only wanted to do the right thing and help.”

“This whole time.” All the anger drains from me. I feel so weak I could fall. I step back, gripping the door handle for support. “You’ve been on me. You’ve been—” My eyes fill with tears, so fast that Inessa’s image becomes a distorted blur. “And you told him about Zachary and me. You’re the reason he came.”

“I only told him because I was worried.” Inessa steps forward, holding up her hands. “And I never thought in a million years he would be so angry, I never thought any of this would ever happen, I swear it to you, Dora, I swear it on my life, in front of God.”

I watch her through my tears and say nothing at all.

I nothing at all.

The truth is that I believe her. Inessa loves me—she loves me too much, too openly, too completely for it to be a lie. And my father and hers probably had much time to fill her head with lies, to convince her whatever she was doing was for my own good.

My logical, sensible mind can understand all of those things. My logical, sensible eyes can see Inessa, the state she’s in, how devastated she is.

But my heart, which I protected so well all these years, which I trusted her with above everybody else—my heart feels nothing but pain.

Deep, dark, ugly pain.

A pain I don’t know I can ever heal from.

“He promised me he wouldn’t tell you,” she sniffles. “He promised you wouldn’t find out.”

I wipe the tears from my eyes and straighten myself. “My father isn’t a good person, Inessa.”

“Not him—your Zachary. He told me he wouldn’t tell you.”

“He didn’t.”

“Then how do you know?” Her voice breaks into a wail.

“You were the only person who knew. The only person I told. The only person I trusted.”

And then, since there is nothing more I have to say to her, I turn my back and leave her bedroom.

part of my plan, but in the end, it was the closure I needed. I cry myself to sleep that night, but the next morning, I wake up feeling strangely new. Refreshed. Reborn.

I look at myself in the mirror: my short hair, so light now, catching the early morning sunlight in golden gleams, the slight flush in my cheeks, my eyes, which seem so much less empty.

I don’t just look different, I different. Lighter, freer, but older too.

For the first time, I feel wholly, completely .

The real Theodora.

And, as it turns out, the real Theodora is strong and resilient and smart and hard-working.

I catch up on the Apostles assignments and the missed content from my classes. In my exams, my mind is crystal clear, all the knowledge within me appearing to me with perfect clarity.

Most classes have broken up now exams have started, and the Apostles seminars have been suspended. The last week of exams also comes with the deadline for the final Apostles assignment.

Mr Ambrose gives us no word limit for this particular essay. I think it’s his way of testing us, of seeing how much we’ve learned and how capable we are now of expressing ourselves. I draft a six-page essay on the subject; I’ve had a lot of time to think on the nature of good and evil, knowledge and ignorance.

But I’ve also not spoken to Zachary yet. I don’t know why. I keep telling myself it’s because I’m too busy with exams—we both are. That’s part of the truth, but not all of it.

The truth is that I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to undo everything that’s been done or fix everything that’s been broken.

I don’t know how to make everything alright, but I do know the one thing Zachary wants above all things. I know he deserves it, too.

So on the day of the final Apostles assignment deadline, I make my submission.

But it’s not my six-page essay.

It’s, in its own way, my apology to Zachary—and a love declaration.

the final literature exam buoyed by a strange sense of serenity.

Having retrieved my bag from the little hallway outside the exam hall, I emerge into the warm sunlight and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the fragrance of fresh-cut grass and honeysuckle.

Although I amble away from the building, I linger amongst the trees, careful not to crush the bluebells at my feet. Students come drifting one by one or in pairs from the dark portal of the exam hall entrance, and I wait until I spot Zachary.

He steps outside and stops.

His satchel is strung across his chest, which is now the broad chest of a young man. His dark curls gleam in the sunlight, and he turns his face up towards the sky, taking a deep breath the way I did.

A smile blossoms from my mouth, unbidden, and I brace myself to take a step in his direction.

And then Evan Knight, beaming and golden and as excited as a puppy, comes bounding out of the hall and throws himself at Zachary, wrapping his arms around Zachary’s neck and squeezing tight.

I almost laugh when Zachary shoves him off with a wince and straightens his uniform with the dignity of a monk. They talk for a moment, and then Evan’s head whips around to stare at Sophie Sutton, who’s just emerged from the exam hall.

The three of them stand and talk for a little while. Sophie and Zachary are their usual selves, both standing prim and straight and proper, but there’s a smile on Evan’s face that could rival the glow of the sun as he stares at Sophie.

It’s something I’ll never understand—the love between them and the way it lives in the black castle of hatred they’ve built for themselves over the years. But Evan’s love for Sophie is unmistakable.

It makes my heart hurt to watch—not because I want what they have, but because I could have had it—all along.

Eventually, the group breaks up, Sophie walking away first, then Evan and Zachary ambling off in the opposite direction. I watch them leave with a sigh, seized with sudden melancholy.

Whatever sense of relief I was hoping to feel now the exams are over is yet to come, and I know I won’t get it until I speak to Zachary.

the first time since I arrived in Spearcrest, no work to do, and since I’m not in the mood for being around others, I end up making my way aimlessly around campus, bidding a private, secret goodbye to the place I’ve called home for so long.

I go past the peace garden, with its flowers now in full bloom and the gazebo standing in the middle like a marble crown. I pass the arboretum, with its evergreens and carpet of pine needles, and past the old botanical garden, with its curtain of ivy and long, dusty windows. Then I make my way around the back of the campus, past the staff car park, the cobblestone path up to the clock tower, then back to the main campus.

Finally, I head into the library. It’s quiet this time of year, almost completely deserted.

Sunlight falls in thick, heavy ribbons through the glass cupola, dust sparkling like magic powder as it spins in slow motion. I make my way up floor by floor, hand gliding up the smooth surface of the bronze railings, past the reading nooks with their big chesterfields, past the monsteras and the book trolley, past the polished bookshelves with their amassed treasures of knowledge.

On the top floor, I turn left and take trailing steps, as though mesmerised, to my little spot, my old haunt. The place where Zachary and I spent years navigating the strange battlefield of our relationship.

“Good afternoon, my beautiful nemesis.”

His voice is low and gentle and sensuous, and at first, I’m convinced it’s an echo from the past, half-ghost, half-memory, rising from the old books and golden lights.

And then my eyes fall to my desk—the desk where I’ve read so many books and written so many essays.

The old wooden chair is angled away from the desk, and Zachary Blackwood sits upon it, his body relaxed, his long legs crossed at the ankles. One elegant hand supports his face, the other dangles with careless grace off one armrest.

There’s an easy smile on his handsome face, and a beam of warm sunlight, refracting off the bronze railings of a nearby shelf, makes his eyes glow like amber.

It’s a gorgeous smile, warm as a caress. I pull out the chair near to his—the chair where he would sit for so many hours, his arm pressed against mine as he worked at my side—and sit down facing him.

“Good afternoon,” I answer. “My august adversary.”