As a way to repair our friendship, it’s an effective one. Putting together the pieces of an important mystery together, clarifying details and suggesting ideas… or maybe it isn’t repairing anything, it’s just helping us ignore the gaping holes.

Regardless, I try to focus on it and ignore the growing sense of loss.

“Mysterious lost brother,” Edward says, as much to himself as to me. “Did she give any indication of – “

“No,” I repeat for what must be at least the fifth time. “But I can’t imagine it would have been amicable. She didn’t sound as if she particularly cared what he was doing now.”

“This is Electra we’re talking about,” he points out. “For all we know, she cries herself to sleep every night when no-one’s there to see.”

“Do you think that’s likely?” I ask. It’s an absurd image: a grown woman in black pyjamas, hugging a pillow with throwing-knives stuffed into it and sobbing desperately.

“No,” he admits. “But you see my point?”

I do: we can’t use my judgement about her emotions as reliable evidence.

“For that matter,” he goes on, “how do we know this isn’t all a pack of lies?”

I shrug. “What would be the point? And besides, she’s never lied to us. Concealed information, yes, but…”

“The point? To give an untrue picture of her intentions. To build trust – revealing secrets tends to do that. And the most valuable thing any liar can have is to be seen as someone who doesn’t lie.”

I grimace. He raises some good points, but my instinct says she’s telling the truth. And I trust my instinct, for some mad reason. “Is there some way we could verify her story?”

“Service records of the mala sia taskforce are public,” Edward says. “I could probably check that much within a few days. I still can’t understand this whole curse thing, though. She would have died anyway, most likely, if she’d stayed with them long enough. Being cursed might well have saved her life.”

“What if,” I say, an idea occurring to me, “that was the intention?”

“Cursing someone to save their life? That… it’s not impossible, but who – “

“The brother,” I say, inspiration striking once more. “It would have to be someone who cared about her but couldn’t talk her out of risking her life, who was sufficiently desperate. And it would explain why she cut him out of her life.” Because even if it was to save her life, taking away her agency was unforgiveable to Electra.

“I could see that,” Edward replies. “You’re making a lot of assumptions to get there, though.”

I am. There could be all sorts of things Electra’s not telling me that make it impossible to get to the truth. It fits together, though.

We keep trying ideas for a while longer, but there are no new realisations. Eventually we drift into a silence more awkward than I’m used to.

“She’ll be furious with me,” Edward says. “For skipping her lesson.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Me too. I… may or may not have stormed out because I was scared of her manipulating me.”

“…and that’s different from normal because…?”

She advised me not to tell Edward just yet, because it would make him trust me less. I don’t feel particularly inclined to listen to her advice right now. “She manipulated us into becoming friends.”

Edward blinks. “Of course she did,” he says flatly. And then again: “Of course she did. How did I not realise?”

I laugh. “At a guess? You’d just survived a traumatic experience, and your teacher was threatening you with literal knives.”

“Which is exactly when I need to be most alert to that sort of thing.”

I stop laughing. “Edward. You can’t reasonably expect – “

“I know. I don’t get to confine myself to reasonable expectations, Tallulah.”

He doesn’t even sound bitter about it. That’s just a fact of life for him. And what can I do against that?

“It shouldn’t be that way,” I say half-heartedly.

“But it is. So I have to deal with it.”

“Well,” I say, “I’m glad you didn’t notice what Electra was doing.” Because if he had, he would have never trusted me. Because then we would never have become friends. I don’t realise until I say it how badly I need him to say that he is, too.

“So am I,” he says, but only after hesitating.

By unspoken mutual agreement, we part ways after that. I end up reading a few more pages of A History of the Kings of Rasin. Well, it was supposed to be a few pages. In the end I make it through another hundred years of history, and only Robin poking her head through my curtains before sleeping saves me from accidentally staying up until midnight again.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The next day is that of the election. It seems like it’s been a long time coming. I come down for breakfast at the usual way-too-early time to find the main stairway a hive of activity: the Academy is being used as a polling station, and there is a lot of setup work to be done.

Various of the teachers and researchers have been conscripted to deal with making sure the necessary wards are in place to keep the stream of Inner City residents coming to vote and the Academy’s population as separate as reasonably possible. I pass several of them muttering under their breath about the election officers’ lack of understanding of the basic principles and woeful disorganisation.

I’m dismayed to find the cafeteria has also been taken over; breakfast is being served to everyone who’s working. I feel a little bad about it – they need to eat, after all – but this familiar room being filled with strangers is unpleasant. A pair of them have even taken our usual seats.

I shuffle through the queue, collect my usual bowl of porridge, and look around in vain for company. Elsie is gone, though, and Elizabeth and Robin are sensible enough to still be in bed. And Edward just… isn’t here.

He probably knew about this, decided he didn’t want to deal with this roomful of strangers, and ordered breakfast to be sent to his room. And he didn’t tell me about it. I guess he probably had a lot on his mind yesterday, and so did I. It still hurts a little.

I resign myself to eating breakfast alone and as quickly as possible and set off for the emptiest corner I can find.

“Excuse me?” a voice says. I ignore it and keep walking, hoping it’s not talking to me. “Excuse me, are you Tallulah Roberts?”

Oh. No such luck, then. I consider denying it, but there’s no point really. “Yes. I just want – “

“The Tallulah Roberts? The girl who…”

I don’t want to deal with this. Not now. Not ever. Just get breakfast and get out of here. That’s all I have to do. But there’s suddenly a crowd of curious people staring in my direction, and the woman who spoke first is blocking my path. “Yes,” I snap, and weave around her to the nearest chair.

They don’t leave me alone, even though it’s pretty obvious from the way I’m ignoring them and furiously shovelling porridge that I don’t want to talk to anyone. Two of them sit down on either side of me. “Tallulah, forgive me for imposing, but I have to ask…”

No. You don’t have to. You’re curious, and you see me as a story rather than a person. Go away. Please.

“What has the Black Raven done to you?”

“Is his son mala sia?”

“Does Lord Blackthorn approve of your relationship with his son?”

“What are the Blackthorns like in person?”

I lose track of the questions after the first few. I don’t acknowledge any of them. I feel as if I should be making some grand speech persuading them that Edward is a good person and by no means a monster, and that while I can’t say the same for his father he’s at least not as evil as some of the rumours make out. Or just telling them to shut up and leave me alone.

Instead I just keep eating porridge, shutting out everything else. After a while even the food begins to take on a distant quality: I barely taste it, it’s not quite real.

Ah. Charles First-King. Edwin the Just. Simon the Drunkard. Thankfully the questions have mostly ceased now people have realised I’m not going to answer them, but they’ve been replaced with snide comments that they must think are subtle.

Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them. Thomas the Defender. Eleanor the Bold. Keep scooping porridge. Keep breathing. It’s working, at least I think it is, and then suddenly I’m scraping round the edge of the bowl for the last morsels.

I swallow the last spoonful mechanically and stand to leave.

“You think you’re better than us, don’t you?” a man asks.

“I – what?” I’m startled and confused enough that I forget to ignore him.

“Acting all high and mighty, not bothering to acknowledge that people are trying to talk to you – “

It feels like he’s punched me in the face. If you throw away the context and have no knowledge of what I’m thinking, he’s not wrong. But that was never my intention. I don’t want – I can’t –

Timothy the Peacemaker. Maria the Seafarer.

“See – you’re doing it again – I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything more of a girl who consorts with the starry Blackthorns – “

If he doesn’t shut up I’m going to punch him in the face. That, or have an active episode. “I just want – “

“Good morning, sir. Is there something we can help you with?” Stars, I’ve never been more relieved to hear Electra’s voice. “Because I’m sure you’re quite busy making preparations for polls to open in only one and a half hours, and I would hate for anything to delay them. Wouldn’t you?”

“I – what are you implying?” the man stutters.

Electra graces him with another of her smiles. “Nothing at all. I’m sure we all just want to finish eating and go about our days, don’t we?”

It’s refreshing to see her Electra-ness directed at someone who (probably) deserves it for once. I find myself almost jealous of how easily she makes the man wilt and everyone around him shuffle several steps backwards.

He doesn’t give in that easily, though: “What business is it of yours, anyway? Miss Roberts and I were just having a conversation.”

Electra raises her eyebrows. “Oh? It seems I have misinterpreted the situation. As I saw it, you accosted her and insulted her as she was trying to leave. But that was obviously wrong, in hindsight, because surely you are not so immensely foolish as to anger a girl with such powerful connections as she has.”

That is sufficient to finish off whatever courage he has; he stammers something incoherent and slinks away, leaving me alone with Electra.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome. We’re a few minutes early for this morning’s lessons yet, but I think some privacy may benefit you?”

I nod shakily. It takes me until we’re halfway up the stairs to realise that I wasn’t sure I was ready to go back to learning from Electra after yesterday’s revelations. That I’m still terrified that she’s trying to use me somehow. But right now she feels like a much better option than the room I just left.

We barricade ourselves in her office, shutting out the world. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“Did you have an episode just now? It was hard to tell.”

“Passive,” I say. “It might have turned into active if you hadn’t shown up. Thanks again.”

“You needed help,” she says simply.

I grimace. She dealt with the problem so effortlessly, as if she does that sort of thing every day. And what did I do? I sat there hoping it would go away and trying not to have an active episode. “I shouldn’t have,” I say bitterly.

“Tallulah. It isn’t reasonable to expect yourself to – “

“That doesn’t matter,” I say. Her words seem familiar, and then I remember: I’ve told Edward similar things before. No-one should have to deal with that sort of thing. I realise now that was useless advice. Because a problem being unfair isn’t going to make it go away. I just have to learn to deal with it.

“Tallulah – “

“This isn’t the last time something like this will happen, is it?”

Electra sighs and shakes her head. “I imagine it will be less often after a few months, once the riot fades from public consciousness – unless you find some new way to make yourself widely known.”

I very much do not want to find that new way, but the last few months have taught me that it’s quite likely to happen regardless. “Then next time, I need to be prepared for it.”