Page 6 of Wicked Salvation

And for what?

I stumble to the bathroom, trying my best to practice my deep breathing exercises. A chime from my phone startles me just as I plop myself on the toilet.

Silas:

How are you feeling today, love?

I sigh.Every day it’s the same message. Every day it’s been the same response.

The same. Think I’ll be spending the day in, again.

I’m washingmy hands and about to start brushing my teeth when his response comes.

Silas:

Alright. Let’s meet this afternoon. I’ve missed you.

I readthe text preview and set the phone down. Silas feels too much to handle right now—like the rest of the world. I have to be a certain way around him, and I don’t feel like beingthatway, right now. I’d rather be alone. I look up, and the girl staring back at me shocks me so much my toothbrush falls into the sink.

There are dark circles under my eyes. I haven’t been paying much attention to securing my satin bonnet, so the hair by my temples is fuzzy and tangled. My face is ashy, boogers in the corners of my eyes and my lips are white.

I look like my mother’s worst nightmare.

Even though I don’t want to, I force myself to take a shower, wash and detangle my hair, and change into clean clothes. I do my skincare routine for the first time in a week, and finally put petroleum jelly on the corners of my mouth, my elbows, knees and ankles. I choose the fluffiest robe and slippers, hoping they’ll make me feel a bit better.

It’s three in the afternoon when I’m finally finished.

There’s a knock at the door—I usually get my meals around this time.

But when I open the door, I’m not greeted by the brown-haired girl that Silas normally has deliver my lunch. Instead I’m face-to-boob with a girl I’ve only glimpsed a handful of times on campus.

She’s tall, maybe five-foot-eleven, if I had to guess. Super thin with a non-existent waist. Her hair is bleach-blonde and bone straight, long enough to brush her hips. This flax-colored girl—her eyes are a frigid, unnerving shade of blue.

“Hello, Eden Lockhart.” Her voice is tinged with a Russian accent. “I’m Grand Duchess Anastazya Volkovna, your new roommate.”

My heart drops; my eyebrow arches.

“I wasn’t informed that I would be getting a new roommate.” I look her up and down. What even is aGrand Duchess? Didn’t Russia get a provisional government in the 1900s? I go to close the door, but she blocks it with her foot.

“You may check with the Administrative office,” she says matter-of-factly, forcing her way into the room. She brings with her two trunks and a suitcase. “It is quite nice to meet you.”

I’m left standing at the doorway, looking at her.

The Administrative office?

What is she supposed to be, Vivienne’s replacement?

The thought makes my heart hurt, and I close my eyes to steady myself. I want to scream and shout, to tell this ‘Grand Duchess’ to get out of my room, to collapse in Vivienne’s bed and cry until the tears have dried up and the hole in my heart is cauterized.

But apparently I’m not even allowed to grieve in peace.

Anastazya is standing with her hands in front of her, looking at me as if she’s expecting something. Her uniform is immaculate, her nails properly manicured, there isn’t a stray hair out of place, diamonds glisten in her ears and by her throat and yet?—

“Aren’t you going to curtsy?”

My mouth falls open. Is that why she’s been standing there?

“For what reason, Anastazya?”