Page 81 of The Bargain

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Gossip blogs don’t count.”

“It was in The Times.”

Oh god. I’ve been so focused on the first round of mock exams, and on my head girl duties—and on avoiding Elias and thinking about him all the time and dreaming about St Dominic House Observatory, adds a hateful little voice in my head—that I’ve not even had time to catch up with the news.

“Gotta say, sis,” Austen says with an appreciative nod, “you don’t get a single detention in your life and then you go and piss off the future prime minister.”

“That’s why I like Elias,” William presses on, with an equally enthusiastic nod. “He’s a good influence on you.”

“Well, not good,” Austen corrects him. The two exchange a look. “He’s good for you is what we mean.”

“He brings out the cool edge that⁠—”

“I’m sorry.” I cut him off coldly. “I don’t recall ever asking your opinion.”

“God, we’re just saying that we approve⁠—”

“What makes you think I need your approval?”

William’s expression is a mix between a frown and a glare. “When you two get married, don’t you think⁠—”

There’s an unpleasant lurch in my stomach.

Time to put an end to this.

“I happen to know that you both have an English exam tomorrow,” I hiss, cutting them both off as I physically start herding them away from the door. “And I have a detention to supervise, so I suggest you both turn around, and make sure you know The Merchant of Venice like the back of your hands.” I glare at them. “And don’t forget to check in on your sister.”

Alarm registers on William’s face, his eyes widening to comical proportions. “The exam is on The Merchant of Venice?”

My expression must have given away my ire, because Austen hastily steps back, grabbing his brother’s arm. “Of course it is, we knew that,” he says quickly. “We were actually on our way to the library, Dess, swear to god, and we’re gonna check on Ophelia straight after.” He waves and begins turning away. “Have fun with detention or whatever. See you next week at the Blackwoods!”

It’s not until they’re almost at the end of the corridor, and certain that I’m too far to throw something at them or respond without having to yell, that William turns around to call out his final words like a grenade tossed over his shoulder.

“We’ll just tell Dad you’re bringing Elias, then!”

The night of the gala, at St Dominic House, after Elias had pulled the straps of my dress gently back onto my shoulders and I’d finished straightening up my skirt, we’d both slumped back into our original seats, chests still heaving as we both tried to catch our breath.

“It’s stopped raining,” Elias had said, looking up in wonderment.

Above us, through the crack in the dome, the clouds, blown away by the wind we could hear howling outside, made way for a sky strewn with stars, tiny electric pinpricks.

“How many of those stars do you think are already dead?” I asked in a breath.

Elias let out a soft laugh, turned his head and looked at me.

“I think this is what it’ll feel like, you know, when all of this is said and done,” he’d said, low and soft. “The memory of you will be like the light of a star, shining bright, even after the moment itself is long dead.”

A lump had risen in my throat, and I’d tried hard to swallow it back, but failed. I’d turned to meet his gaze, finding it earnest, and I’d parried his words as best I could.

“You really just said that with a straight face?”

He’d let out another laugh and gazed at me. Instead of being annoyed or stung, there had been an expression of such impossible affection in his eyes that it had taken my breath away.

I’d remembered, all of a sudden, what Elias had once told me about love, about not deserving it. About how we’re all born worthless and unworthy of love. I’d never felt more worthless and hoped more desperately that he’d been right.

“Don’t forget rule five,” I’d murmured, throat thick, heart heating hard and fast, my entire body still hot and wet and sore from him. “You’re the one who insisted on it, remember?”

He’d nodded, completely serious, licked his bottom lip slowly, and bitten into it in a gesture that betrayed anxiety more than he realised, I think. Then he’d said, low and earnest and hoarse: