CHAPTER SEVEN

It is time to leave. Leave the moment, return to the past, the previous state of blind obedience in a world that will never care for me: who I am, what I want. Am I selfish? I don’t know, and it makes no difference. I must return to my other life, but I can never be that other Oriana again.

Dorian’s hand is warm in my own. His touch is that of a half-blood. But it is the most wholesome contact I have ever shared with a person. And that means more than his blood ever will.

We’ve been silent for a while. It has been too long already; we allowed ourselves more time than the crime permitted. Now I feel the anxiety return, pulling at me harder than Dorian can compensate for. I stand, the movement taking every bit of will.

“Dorian, I have to leave, I have to go back.” I avoid his eyes. Nothing is farther from what I want at this moment. How can I explain what I am feeling? However much I own this anxiety, this regret, it is he who causes it. My choices are to stay and be caught or return and be safe yet miserable. Maybe it is the fear—the fear they bred in me at birth—that forces me to obey and return to the University.

Dorian doesn’t respond with words. He faces me, staring into my eyes and telling me everything he can’t speak. Standing close, I realize his height is perfect, and I fit myself inside his arms, my head reaching just below his chin. If I don’t speak, we will be stuck like this forever.

“Dorian?”

“Yes?”

“How will I get back inside? I’ll be caught.”

He pulls away to hold me by the shoulders. I know by the look in his eyes that my words have ruined the moment. “I know how. I’ll bring you back.” He speaks with a sigh, and yet his jaw is tight.

He stares at me for a minute longer. His eyes flicker from my eyes to my mouth, and he bites his own lower lip. If we embrace in such a way, there would be no escape for me. He seems to realize this and turns away, his arms dropping helplessly at his sides like limp ropes. As a noose, his hand tightens around my wrist. He does not look behind as he sluggishly leads me out of the garden and back into that other night, different from the night inside these walls of foliage.

He takes one stubborn step after another, restraining the urge to boil over. I can feel his rage simmering beneath the surface.

We reach the side of the building and crouch in the bushes, motionless, in the exact spot where we met last night.

The sun is already rising and the sky turns a sullen gray that brightens to a bleached blue on the eastern horizon. We remain inside the bushes, listening to each other breathe.

“Now what?” I whisper through clenched teeth.

“Now we get inside,” he says, still cross over bringing me back. He gets up from behind the bushes and leaves our hiding place to stand in the open daylight. He reaches into a fold of his clothing and slides out a thin piece of slate. I hold my breath as he approaches the door slowly.

I imagine the door waiting for him to release it from silence and allow its screeching voice to carry throughout the walls. I presume the door will enjoy its moment of recognition; it doesn’t happen often. It stands expectantly, awaiting salvation.

Dorian slowly slips the slate into the upper part of a gap on the side of the door. He slides it downward, head tilted intently. I hear a click and release my breath.

He reaches for the handle, and the door glides open soundlessly. Dorian motions for me to approach, and I warily leave the cover to join him in the doorway. His foot keeps the door open while his hand holds the slate against the frame. He must be pushing back a small mechanism that otherwise would have tripped the alarm.

There is a moment, while we both regard each other, when we share a spot between two worlds.

“The guards have switched patrols by now,” Dorian whispers directly into my ear. “Just listen for his approach and count the first three steps. Then run straight to your room.” His free hand comes to the side of my neck. He roughly kisses me before guiding me through the door. I look back at him briefly and catch one glimpse of him in the growing daylight. Then he has closed the door and is away. The good-bye was fleeting, but I don’t waste time wishing it were longer.

I listen for steps, nothing, and then one, two, three …

I run to my room, through the door, and to bed, falling into a sleep forced by exhaustion.