Queen of France. Whether in the terrible inferno of the Ascension, or at the vengeful hands of revolutionaries, she had always been doomed to die; with the first breath he’d taken inside her body, the Corrupter had known his time was already running out—and he’d known that, once again, his own destiny would be deferred. A pity. What a life it could have been.

Next time. The Corrupter made a promise to himself as the blade dropped, crashing down with terrible speed.

Next time.

12

After the announcement of Mr. Strauss’s death, the rest of the day passes without my noticing it. I’m too shaken to focus on anything other than my memory of last night, of the sword he thrust at me before Daphne could intervene. I can’t stop thinking about all the times he praised and encouraged me. You should give some thought to a four-year art and design school. When he said that, he’d already been planning my death.

I keep telling myself not to cry, and then I cry anyway. The art room has been my oasis for years, and aside from Adriana and Hope, Mr. Strauss was the only person at this school I ever looked forward to seeing. He taught at FHH for a year and a half. Was he watching me that whole time? Sharpening his swords and waiting for me to start sketching mob scenes and bodies burning alive so he’d know it was time to finish me?

The worst part is, I’m also sad because I miss him. How messed up is that?

They don’t let us leave early, and when I go to the office to say I don’t think I’m handling the news very well, all they do is make an appointment for me to see the school psychologist—at the end of the day when classes are over.

So I white-knuckle it through the afternoon, and then an additional hour with Dr. Janovsky—in which I lie, sweatily and creatively, since he is absolutely not ready to hear about either the Corrupter or how I am 99 percent sure that Mr. Strauss tried to murder me—and then I’m finally free to go. The door to the art room stands between me and the exit, and I pass it at a sprint, ready to dive headfirst into the meltdown I’ve been resisting.

It isn’t until I’m outside, the chilly air snapping its fingers in my face, that I remember: I didn’t ride my bike today, because it’s still in the mall parking lot, and the late bus won’t come for another thirty minutes. I whirl around to catch the door before it shuts and locks again, and yelp out loud when I see who’s standing there, leaning against the wall beneath the overhang—again.