Page 42 of Pink Ink

Frederick Dornmont waves his arms about as if we’re attending Sunday Mass. The flames from hundreds of candles flicker against the walls, at the end of each pew, and around the dais, with a single candelabra in the very middle. The smoke threads up to the hive-shaped ceiling—toward God.

The truth is that the men who began the Order were religious for performative purposes. The only gods they believed in were themselves.

The Order of the Hallowed Hive secretly meets in a hexagon-shaped room with a roof with more hexagons on it. A bit on the nose if you ask me.

Roland stands beside Frederick Dornmont, nodding his head along every once in a while. The two red ropes crossed over their chests that represent their status shift against their black robes as they move. The forced attire is rather pompous. Just another attempt to set us apart from the “peasants” unworthy to join our “force.”

Dornmont drones on in Latin about the “importance” of the Order and how society “relies” on us and our decisions, as if we aren’t a group of self-interested bastards.

My Latin is piss-poor on a good day, and I’m only catching every other word of what he’s saying. Over half these sad saps in the room understand even less than me. Why the Order insists on making the language a requirement of our lifetime membership is beyond me. The only time it’s ever spoken is by these old fools when they feel like being especially elitist during our monthly gatherings.

I’m sure I’d see boredom written over everyone’s faces if we weren’t all wearing pitch-black masks beneath our hooded cloaks.

And Frederick and Roland wonder why they’re ranking so poorly in the election polls. Keeping tradition “alive” means fuck all if it means needing to keep up with Duolingo.

Movement from the corner of my eye has my elbow immediately finding Spencer’s ribs. His phone nearly flies out of his hand.

We subtly glare at each other. If his general fidgeting wasn’t bad enough, this is the second time the fuckwit thought it’d be a good idea to text in the middle of the assembly.

“Chill out,” he hisses.

He’s lucky there are too many people around for me to slap him upside the head.

Attendance isn’t mandatory for all the acolytes, but it would be blasphemous if the members of the high saint’s family weren’t present. Sotextingduring it, while sitting at the very front, feels like tempting divine wrath.

We’re not just the children of the high saints. We’re a sign of power, another piece on the board to be wielded as the Order deems fit. Soldier or pawn—there is no difference.

This centuries-old society was here the year Cresswell was built. More accurately, the university was built for the Order, because what is an academic institute if not the breeding ground for the future’s brightest?

It’s how the vast majority of neophytes in this room were recruited. Each house has a dedicated person whose entire job is scouting for potential acolytes to join the organization. Once they’ve proven themselves and are initiated, they sit in the rows of their respective house.

Mother spears me with a look from my fiancée’s side, and little Miss Abigail Dornmont stiffens.

How am I expected to spend my life with a woman who quivers like a leaf whenever we’re under the same roof? It’s exhausting just looking at her.

I think I’ve made it abundantly clear that I couldn’t give two shits about what she does as long as it keeps my parents off my back. In fact, aslong as she’s playing her part, she’s under my protection. Unless her boyfriend becomes a problem, we’re staying out of each other’s way.

She’s attractive, I guess. Hazel eyes, with long brunette hair. In another life, I could have been into her. But she does nothing for me. No one does.

Except forher.

My fucking student.

The fates have an exceptional sense of humor, I’ll give them that.

Acolytes suddenly start clapping for Roland and Dornmont as they descend down the steps. I missed their closing remarks. What a shame.

Roland takes his seat beside Mother, casting me a sideways warning glare as we all fix our masks back into place. I guess he noticed Spencer’s insolence. I’ll sign him up for toilet duty once he finishes his shift as a server. Lord knows he could use humbling.

The respectful applause turns into a roar as Daniel Flores makes his way down the pews of House Sutherland’s section.

And if that isn’t a bloody beautiful sound.

I canfeelpeople’s eyes light up behind their masks. The cultish fashion choice keeps the acolytes’ anonymity from each other to avoid a lower ranked from naming names, but there’s one thing we all seem to agree with: Daniel is one charismatic chap.

Or as my father likes to call him, “a liberal socialist twat.”

Roland is absolutelyseethingin his seat. Nothing makes my day quite like it.