CHAPTER EIGHT

THE PAST WEEK HAS PROGRESSED as if we never visited the Hive. Lectures have continued without incident, as has the quasi-peace among the Candidates. One could almost forget that Nari held a gun in her hands seven days ago. If she questions her standing as a Candidate, it doesn’t show.

Coinciding with the completion of our Ad Artium unit, tonight Grandmother will host an Exhibition of the Arts for the Council and Province influentials. Finca del Mar has been a hurricane of activity all week in preparation. The gala will be quite an affair, serving the dual purposes of highlighting what we’ve learned about the most poetic destiny of Nedé and allowing Grandmother to endear herself to her prominent subjects with chicha and finery.

The grounds crew have been buzzing frantically around the finca today, snipping stray leaves, scrubbing tile paths, hanging lanterns from trees, and eradicating even the tiniest of weeds from garden beds. Inside the mansion, cooks labor over exotic dishes, the savory smells daring us to keep focused on our studies this morning. The almost continuous clamor of musicians tuning instruments and rehearsing songs in the great hall made it nearly impossible.

This afternoon their never-ending practice persists through the wall of the dressing room, where Dom Tourmaline revisits the daunting task of making me look like I didn’t spend the past three hours riding Callisto, which I did. Truthfully, I’d trade most of my possessions to be with her now, rather than suffer through this déjà vu with the yellow goop.

The Dom with the statuesque skin —which today is draped with a sleek, gold dress —slathers oil on every millimeter of my bare body. I marvel as she works, simultaneously aghast that anyone would care to spend this much time primping, while also having to acknowledge the pure art she infuses into this madness.

One of the first things Old Solomon taught me about horses was how to gauge their intelligence by their eyes. Some horses, you can tell they’re taking everything in. Their eyes are sharp and eager. Others, especially poorly bred or overworked horses, have dull eyes —disinterested, unaware.

Dom Tourmaline’s eyes hint at the intelligence hiding under her statue-perfect facade. Despite the seeming pettiness of creams, powders, and hair removal, her talent must be fueled by that acuity. What a strange person she is. Not what I would call approachable, but neither is she steely, like Dom Russo or Grandmother.

She takes a solid hour to sweep my hair into a waterfall braid, which cascades into a cluster of waves over one shoulder. Next comes the darkening of eyelids, powdering of skin, slight reddening of lips, and a dozen other seemingly superfluous procedures. Finally, with a nod of satisfaction, she helps me change into a dress she removes from a satin sheath.

The bodice is strapless, made from a stiff, silken material that shimmers like sun on water. The skirt flows from it like petals —five panels of multi-layered, slightly pleated, coral-colored chiffons. It’s as if Dom Tourmaline knew my favorite flower and chose to make a fabric representation of it. If I could wear a hibiscus, it wouldn’t be any lovelier.

She leads me to a full-length mirror and spins me to face my reflection. I barely recognize the girl who meets my stare.

“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe.

Dom Tourmaline doesn’t respond, but a smile plays across her lips. She is pleased with herself, as she should be. The dress is perfect.

The resemblance to my favorite flower reminds me of the hedges of hibiscus at Bella Terra. And Treowe. And other familiar comforts that seem ages away —routines that once drained me but now prick nostalgia. And people who in that other place irritated the snot out of me but now squeeze my heart with . . . longing.

With all the simplicity and goodness of Bella Terra contrasted with the uncertainty and unease I’ve felt since watching the Gentle die in the courtyard, I continue to chew on Mother’s insistence that I remember who I am. I’m still not entirely sure what she meant, though I think I catch a glimpse as it flutters by. Bella is irrevocably part of me —the beauty and light, the love and the strength of home.

But tonight —tonight I must play a chameleon, blending in while standing out. And if I want to catch Grandmother’s attention at the Exhibition, Dom Tourmaline’s skill with brushes and fabric has become my best asset.

The great hall explodes with opulence. Brightly dressed guests mill around the space while Gentles serve hors d’oeuvres of grilled breadfruit, spiced octopus, and tender lobster cakes. They sway through the crowd, this way and that, in time with the lilting folk music. The musical ensemble —Ad Artiums in matching embroidered caftans and feathered hairpieces —play a lilting tune with flutes and stringed instruments. Several crystal-clear barrels, balancing atop waist-high, stone bases, shimmer with gold-amber chicha, made bubbly by the best of Nedé’s fruits and months of fermentation. The sight of that much chicha at a party would normally incite my nerves —you never know who is going to lose their better sense under the influence of the drink —but this is high society. They should know when to stop. Theoretically.

Grandmother reclines in a high-backed chair draped with silk on a platform facing the stage. Several Senators sip from delicate glasses while conversing with her, including one familiar face: Aunt Julissa, Mother’s only sibling. Though her expression is slightly less dour than her mother’s, she has the same high eyebrows, which have the look of always appraising. Even amidst this glut of grandeur, she, like the other Senators, has abstained from flashy jewelry or fancy clothes and so appears particularly drab next to the Matriarch’s sparkling sheath dress topped with her colorful robe.

I recall my lessons with Dom Bakshi about the five core Virtues of Nedé: diversity, harmony, simplicity, ingenuity, and self-restraint. Those tenets made Nedé great, Dom Bakshi would say, and they remain essential to our well-being. Most share these sensibilities, and I imagine there will be discontented whispers tomorrow —Did you see the Matriarch, shining like her electric-powered bulbs? The opulence! Tristan Pierce would roll in her grave. Perhaps they’re right to question Grandmother’s legacy of pushing against the confines of simplicity. I wonder what Aunt Julissa thinks. Perhaps she pardons her mother’s taste for finery because she has double the passion of most.

Suddenly insecure about my perfectly tailored dress and the makeup darkening my features, I scan the room for the other Candidates, hoping they’ve shined up for the evening too. Brishalynn chats with another woman I recognize as a Politikós from Amal. Even from this distance, I notice a difference in Bri. She must respect whoever that is, because I don’t detect an ounce of bravado or sharp sarcasm. She carries herself like a proper Dom, making her selection as a Candidate somewhat easier to understand. And, to my relief, she has taken pains to dress up. In fact, she looks stunning in a floor-length, black sheath dress.

Jamara and Nari speak with leaders from their respective Provinces too. It must be nice to see people they know. Something familiar to steady them. Not that Jamara needs steadying, but I’m glad for Nari.

I’m trying to spot Yasmine when I catch a dark figure storm through the arched doorway instead. Her black leather boots and tangled tattoos strike an unsettling chord amidst all the silk and updos of the hall. She holds the hilt of her dagger with one palm as she strides toward the Matriarch, leaning close to address her privately.

I’m near enough to hear Grandmother answer, “Very well. Keep to the back.”

Adoni leaves the room and returns with half a dozen Alexia, who file in along the furthest wall from the stage. Snug, sleeveless black shirts show off their muscular arms, a few of which display intricate ink like Adoni’s. Their unconventional hairstyles —some bald, others with shaved patterns or Fulani braids, rows of two-strand twists or Mohawk fades —couldn’t be more out of place.

A hushed murmur ripples through the guests like a rock displacing water in a pond, starting at one end of the room and finishing abruptly against the other. Each successive wave of guests undoubtedly asks themselves the question dogging my own mind: Why are they here?

A chorus of instruments promptly strikes a festive tune, returning our attention to the gaiety of the evening. Dom Russo directs me and the other four Candidates to a row of chairs arranged on either side of the Matriarch. As I take my seat, I notice Grandmother appraising me. She offers a slight nod, though the affirmation could be directed at me or at Dom Tourmaline’s superior skills. Either way, I sit a little lighter as my body finds the chair, and I focus my attention on the stage.

The music builds in a rush, then drops to a melancholy dirge. A woman with rich skin and unnaturally blonde hair in a flowing red dress commands our attention. I recognize the tune as one of the old songs. Her voice rides the haunting, fluid melody as surely as I ride Callisto. Behind her, an eight-woman ensemble echoes each line with a repeating refrain:

Sorrow follows me where’er I go,

Take me away, I must get away;

Can’t trust a Brute far as I can throw’m,

Take me away, I must get away;

Don’t make me do it, already did,

Take me away, I must get away;

No way to hide what cannot be hid,

Take me away, I must get away;

If I live through this I’ll see the day,

Take me away, I must get away;

I’ll do what I must to make you all pay,

Take me away, I must get away,

I’m going away, I just can’t stay.

The soloist bows demurely to a round of applause, and another woman takes her place under the dazzling, sparkling glass lamps overhead.

When the first note passes over her pale-pink lips, a flood of surreal delight courses through me. Music —it’s magic. How else could it bring every sense alive, pull emotions from thin air and make them mine?

She sings “Tristan’s Song” like I’ve never heard it before:

Come, you weary, restless women,

You’re much stronger than you know;

I will lend my strength to guide you,

Lead you to your haven home.

I close my eyes and drink in the bewitching melody. Like water searching over rocks, the music dances and bubbles, gracefully smooth. As the stream builds, a chorus of voices joins her. They tell the story of a woman who finds strength she didn’t know she had to help others who were in need —to create a home where diversity, harmony, simplicity, ingenuity, and self-restraint could rule rather than fear and danger. It was written in honor of Tristan Pierce, our first Matriarch, the brave woman who overcame so many obstacles to found Nedé.

The next act incorporates three core performing arts: music, dance, and theatre. Dom Russo ensured we were properly educated in the historical and modern expressions of art before today’s Exhibition. I’m grateful for the instruction. Knowing the rigorous training and long-standing tradition of Ad Artium heightens my present enjoyment.

The lyrical drama tells a story about our first Matriarch —played by a graceful dancer in a flowing dark costume —outsmarting the brutish males who found pleasure in their unspeakable crimes against women. The Brutes are portrayed by pairs of dancers, one on the other’s shoulders and covered by a cloak, creating large, fierce foes. Tristan leaps and ducks around the stage, narrowly escaping capture by one Brute, then hitting another over the head with a pole. Her dancing continues what the soloists began: I am swept away by every rise and fall of her skilled body, captivated by her strength and fluidity.

The music crescendos as she reaches a prison door where a group of women huddle together in a slow, mournful dance. As their heroine opens the bars, the women flood out, their dingy costumes magically transformed into radiant robes of lime green and brightest orange. They circle around Tristan, then collectively raise her above their heads in a new, jubilant dance.

The liberated women follow their new leader around the stage. As the Brutes continue the chase, they suddenly grip their chests, convulsing as they melt to the floor, overcome by the Great Sickness. Tristan blows a glittery powder over each crumpled form, and in their places “Gentles” arise, bowing to Tristan and joining the trailing company of dancers.

The lights, costumes, music, and choreography leave me breathless, but it’s the story —one woman whose bravery changed everything —that lifts my heart like a feather in a sea breeze. I might not fully understand who I am yet, but now I know who I want to become.

When the final curtain drops, my head still swims with wonder. I understand now why Nedé places such a high value on Ad Artium, giving it a place among what might be considered more essential destinies. The arts have a way of acknowledging life’s horrific events while simultaneously glossing them with hope.

I head to one of the tables piled high with the delicacies I spent most of the day dreaming about; to my delight, they appear as mouthwatering as they smelled. I select a two-toned chocolate pastry drizzled with frosting and am just about to enjoy the object of my desire, when Bri’s testy voice foils my pending nirvana.

“Nice dress, Rei.”

I pretend not to hear her, but she’s hard to ignore when she snatches my pastry, sinking her own teeth into it. If there weren’t a whole platter of them nearby, I’d smack her. Her cheek stuffed with chocolaty phyllo, she mumbles, “Don’t look now, but I think it’s Yasmine’s turn in the Matriarch’s hot seat.”

Of course I do look, as discreetly as I can, toward Grandmother. She converses alone with the timid Candidate, her mouth very close to Yasmine’s ear, in the same fashion she spoke to Nari last week. Then the Matriarch pulls away, returning to a cluster of women nearby, ever stately and collected.

Tucked within a swirling mass of guests, Yasmine stands completely still, trying to decide what to do, or in shock, or both. Her face gradually drains of color, and she presses her hands against her stomach. Then, in a flush, she rushes from the hall, nearly bumping into an Alexia standing guard at the door.

“A hundred gold coins says she just got tested,” Bri wagers. “Double that says she failed.”

“Poor Yasmine,” I whisper, watching the empty doorway, wishing she’d reappear, knowing she won’t.

“I told her she should have kept her mouth shut.”

“Don’t you ever quit?”

“Why should I?”

Ugh. She drives me crazy. But I’m too preoccupied with a new question to walk away just yet.

“Do you think she’ll test all of us?”

“Probably,” Bri replies, with the indifference of predicting the dinner course. I don’t know how she can stay so calm about it. I envy her detachedness sometimes. This is the nature of our relationship: one moment I hate Bri, the next I can’t help but admire her pluck. The scale swings from disgust to wonder and back again, often by the hour.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” she continues, taking a glass of chicha from a passing servant’s tray. “I know with you around I don’t have a chance of winning, but that won’t stop me from taking you down with me.” She smiles menacingly over the rim of her glass, then toasts the air before tossing it back.

This is also the nature of our relationship: more often than not loathing tips the scales.

I don’t excuse myself or offer any niceties. I just walk away, biting my lip so I don’t say something I’ll regret.

Darkness covers the gardens like an inky blanket, illuminated only by glowing paper lanterns that hang from trees and line the paths like tethered stars. I find Yasmine at the end of the bougainvillea tunnel, where I had dinner with Grandmother my first night at Finca del Mar. I felt like I should look for her. She strikes me as a kind, fragile soul, like one of the baby lambs birthed at Bella Terra each spring. Naive and gentle, they’d be eaten before nightfall if our farmhands didn’t watch over them so diligently. Now, as I watch Yasmine with her arms folded around her middle, her body trembling from rage or fright, the similarity saddens me.

“Are you okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away. The seconds tick past, and I’m starting to think she’s not going to. Just as I turn to leave, her trembling voice, roughened by the croak of many tears, disrupts the still, balmy night air.

“No. I’m not okay.” A fresh sob shakes her shoulders.

I wait, but she doesn’t offer more. Brilliant idea, Reina. What did you think you were going to accomplish when you found her? Ease her pain with your presence?

“I’m sorry,” I fumble, “I’ll let you —”

In a rush Yasmine blurts, “Matriarch Teera asked me to offer . . . special favors to a Senator of Lapé Province. She said it is the duty of every Matriarch to ensure her most loyal allies remain loyal.” She adds, practically spitting the words out of her mouth, “Whatever the cost.”

I don’t entirely know what Grandmother meant by “special favors,” but apparently Yasmine does, and the implications I can figure out turn my stomach: whatever Grandmother meant, she must have wanted Yasmine to engage in some act of “crude gratification” —to violate Article V. For the Matriarch to abuse one of Nedé’s highest Virtues —an act worthy of imprisonment —she’d have to be crazy.

Perhaps it shouldn’t shock me so violently. Grandmother’s reverence for our laws —particularly when they get in her way —has already proved questionable. But to sink to this level . . . What happened to the Mother of Nedé who supposedly embodies our ideals? Without self-restraint, we’re no better than the Brutes of old.

Another bout of tears draws the attention of several Exhibition guests meandering the fragrant garden by lantern and moonlight. I shift uncomfortably under their stares, wishing Yasmine would pull it together, feeling bad for thinking so.

“What are you going to do?”

The incredulous shock on her face shames me. “What do you mean, ‘What are you going to do?’ I will not disgrace my Province or myself, even if it costs me the Matriarchy.”

A paradoxical fire burns in her eyes. Meek, gentle Yasmine has a limit to her compliance, and good for her. But the repercussions she’ll face for her refusal . . . well, I can see she’s already guessed what they might entail.

“You’re braver than I realized,” I say, and before I think better of it, I give her a light hug. Maybe it will comfort her the way Tre’s hug reassured me in my moment of shock and grief not far from this very spot.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Don’t be foolish,” Yasmine whispers, the blaze extinguished as quickly as it was lit. “It is I who should be sorry for you, Reina Pierce. I will return to my people when this cursed Succession is over. But you —how do you escape danger when the viper lives in your own nest?”

She’s concerned for me, pities me, and that unnerves me most of all. It implies I should be afraid. And maybe she’s right. I’ve always been a little wary of Grandmother, intimidated by her stern presence even as a child, but this Succession has revealed in her a disregard for the Virtues —a wickedness, even —I didn’t know existed.

As Yasmine flees to deeper, invisible corners of the garden, my chest tightens with worry of my own: Will our common blood save me from becoming Grandmother’s next prey?