Free The Deepest Night by Shana Abe

Whatever. Not only was I magical, I now had means. If I desired to disappear, no one would ever find me.
    After I was settled somewhere, I would think about— think about—rescuing Aubrey.
    If Jesse truly expected me to risk my life for a stranger, he could damned well come to me in a dream and tell me so himself.
    This is what I remember from the momentous 1915 Observance of Graduation at the Iverson School for Girls, Wessex, England:
    Westcliffe taking the stage for her welcome speech, which was about—surprise!—the virtues of modesty and faith, and how this was unquestionably one of the most promising classes of young ladies she’d ever had the pleasure to host.
    (Sophia, hiding her mouth behind her hand: “She says that every year.”)
    Malinda playing the upright piano that had been rolled into place beyond the podium; she’d recovered enough by then to destroy only a few bars of Stella and Beatrice’s treacly duet.
    My head beginning to ache.
    Chloe Pemington walking up the stairs to the stage, enveloped in a cloud of overripe perfume. She’d won some sort of award from the professors for perfect deportment.
    (Sophia, snorting.)
    Chloe accepting her engraved silver chalice with a condescending nod, floating like a sylph across the stage. Men in the audience transfixed.
    Sophia after that, reciting her book passage with a familiar crisp yet singsong elocution that had the headmistress beaming, because apparently she couldn’t tell when she was being mocked.
    My head, throbbing.
    Another speech from one of the front-row gentlemen, who mumbled so severely I couldn’t make out a single word besides wives . Although I suppose it might have been knives .
    The hot broken bits of sunlight on my arms and lap, blinding.
    Lillian, Mittie, and Caroline and their poem, entitled “An Ode to Good Old Iverson, My Home of Homes!”
    Demons with machetes inside my skull, hacking to come out.
    And then Lord Armand Louis, striding past me without a glance to take the podium, about to give the speech that would change everything.
    “I hope you will forgive the Duke of Idylling’s absence on this important day,” he began, his voice smooth and commanding, the very opposite of Mr. Mumbler. “My father sends his best wishes to each of you, and most especially to each of the young women graduating from this fine school, of which he is quite justly proud. I realize I am not so eloquent nor so fluent in public discourse as His Grace, but I shall do my best to be an adequate speaker in his stead.”
    Armand paused to flash a smile at the audience. Four of my classmates released audible, smitten sighs.
    “I believe I echo my father’s sentiments when I state that it is imperative, even in turbulent times, to celebrate the importance of learning and perseverance. Indeed, in times such as these, recognition of such achievements becomes even more significant. What else do we truly fight for? We fight for the glory of our country, of course. For our king. But also for our way of life. Our way of thinking. Of being.”
    Was this some emerging drákon skill? I’d never heard him speak like this before. He was cool and calm and mesmerizing. He had all of us, including me, leaning forward in our seats, hanging on his words.
    Armand removed his hat and let the sun illuminate him entirely. Shining dark hair, intense blue eyes. The harsh light along his white shirt and skin cast him almost aglow.
    “Iverson is an ideal illustration of who and what we are. Of what we must defend. The welfare of your daughters is dear to every fighting man out there, I promise you. They risk their lives for them, for us. Such a sacrifice is overwhelming.
    “I was reminded of this recently by a student from this very school. A tenderhearted girl who came to me with an idea, one I hope you will all embrace as fervently as I did. Miss Jones? Miss Eleanore Jones? Where are you?”
    Oh, God. I shrank back in my chair. What was he doing?
    Armand pretended to