Jaya put a hand to the bridge of her nose and pressed, trying to take control of her anger. The only problem was, “pressing” had turned into “shoving,” until she was afraid she might accidentally deviate her septum. “I know all that. You told us. But it doesn’t matter. You saw how it was, with the news turning it into a scandal and people questioning your character and our family’s honor! Amma was completely alienated from the boards she chairs. And have you forgotten how horrible you felt, how much people whispered and pointed and laughed until you couldn’t even leave the palace grounds? You’re a Rao. You just can’t behave like that, and you can’t have those kinds of interests when you’re born into a royal family. It’s a privilege—”
“You sound just like Appa,” Isha said angrily. “I just want to be me.”
Jaya wanted to shake her. Did she think Jaya enjoyed being whisked off to a strange place for her last year of high school? Did she think Jaya liked having to always be the responsible one, the one who thought of what was best for the family, while Isha impulsively did whatever made her happy without a care for others?
Jaya took a deep breath and collected herself. “Let’s let this go for now,” she said, forcing herself to speak calmly.
Isha didn’t respond for a full minute and Jaya let her have her space. Isha had a short fuse; it burned fiery hot when she was angry, but cooled down fast too. Jaya, on the other hand, was a slow burn, content to let the embers of anger simmer for months before she took action.
Sure enough, Isha turned to her a minute later, smiling slightly. “You’re right; let’s let it go. I think I’m going to like it here. I’ve already made a ton of friends on my floor. And Raina, that girl who was talking to me in the common room? I think she has best friend potential.” She threaded her hand through Jaya’s and Jaya squeezed her fingers.
They walked in relative silence the rest of the way, inhaling the fresh, cool breeze rolling off the mountains in the distance as they huddled closer to ward off the encroaching chill. Lake Rosetta was off to their right somewhere, buried deep in the woods like a glassy jewel waiting to be discovered. This place was different in almost every way from their home. Still, with her sister by her side, Jaya didn’t feel so alone.
CHAPTER 5
Grey
Any young gentry walking by the West Wing at St. Rosetta’s International Academy would have witnessed a curious sight: a large silhouette in the window of the West Wing tower, padlocked against intrusion since nearly the inception of the school.
Grey paced the diameter of the tower’s interior, a single lantern on the floor illuminating just enough so he wasn’t completely blind in the dark. He’d been coming here since middle school, when he’d learned how to pick the ancient lock. The administration at St. Rosetta’s was oddly sentimental about old stuff and held on dearly to the way things had always been done. The lack of electronic locks on this door was one example. It had worked out well for him, obviously—not once had he ever been questioned about the tower. It always amazed Grey, how easy it was to break arbitrary rules and how human beings paid so little attention to one another.
It was nearly two a.m., but he couldn’t sleep. He just couldn’t stop thinking of Jaya Rao. Why was she here? He was gripped by a certainty that it had something to do with him, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. Was it just the fact that her family had cursed his—actually, likely him, specifically?
And that pendant?
He’d finally figured out what it was and why it had struck a chord with him—the cursed ruby. It was something constantly whispered about in the ancient manors on the Westborough estate. Although they didn’t like to speak of this shameful event, the Emerson family had once, back in the 1800s, stolen a ruby from one of the ancient temples in Mysuru, in the Indian state of Karnataka. The thievery had been orchestrated by Grey’s own great-great-grandmother, who’d had her footmen undertake the task. This was back when the British still ruled India, and although some members of the extended Emerson family tried to pooh-pooh it as some kind of centuries-old Indian vendetta, Grey believed it completely—the British were infamous for stealing all manner of precious artifacts from their colonies.
Because of the provenance of the ruby and how sacred it was, a member of the ruling Mysuru family—one of the matriarchs of the Rao family, in fact—had cursed it. There was even an actual poem, a prophecy the Rao matriarch had uttered. His father was so obsessed with it, Grey knew it by heart:
A hallowed dream stolen,
A world darkly despairs
A storm, a life, a sudden death
Heralds the end, the last heir.
As the glass rose dims,
So the hope of redemption
Eighteen years, one by one,
Until what’s left is none.
Mend that which is broken
Repair that which is severed
Or the Northcliffe name is forsaken
And shall vanish, at last, forever.
His mother had died in childbirth because a storm—apparently the worst the town had seen in a hundred years—had prevented the doctor from getting to her in time. Grey’s father was out of town on a business trip. He’d never forgiven himself, or Grey.
Grey remembered when he’d first learned what the curse really meant for him. Father had flown to St. R’s for a mandatory parent weekend the school did for kids under the age of thirteen. Grey was twelve; it would be their last mandated time together. By this time, six years after being dropped off as a kindergartner, Grey and his father had drifted apart—already, he felt more like a distant relative one equated with the holidays than the person who’d helped give Grey life.
He and Father had gone to a hot-air balloon event the school was hosting. Grey remembered wanting to float above the treetops, to feel the wind whipping his face and hair, the exquisite thrill of the experience being that high in a colorful balloon that felt like it should exist only in a dream. He couldn’t wait for his turn.
Then Father had turned to him and said, unsmiling, “Let’s talk.” He’d walked away from the lines of kids and their parents waiting, past a grove of aspens and pines, and toward Lake Rosetta. It was quieter there, with the excited chaos and laughter like a distant memory behind them.
Grey watched his shoes sink in the soft dirt on the bank of the lake; he felt the afternoon sun warm the back of his neck. He knew whatever this talk was about, it wouldn’t be good. By then he’d already distanced himself from Father, had come to think of him as a relative who sent money for clothes and books and occasionally called, when he remembered to.
Without preamble, his father, never a man of many words, said, “The curse. You know of it, of course. But I think the time has come to tell you the whole truth, Grey. I have every reason to believe that when you turn eighteen, you will die.” He gave Grey the news like a jaded oncologist might tell a cancer patient there was nothing more he could do, that medicine had done its best and still it wasn’t enough. The news was delivered briskly, without warmth, without ambiguity.
Grey stared at him in the bright sunlight, threads of silver in the duke’s hair glinting. The air, smelling of deep water and dark mud and creatures that slithered, unseen, was cloying in his nostrils. “What?”