Splinters cut into my palm, but my mind is elsewhere. Better my palm than my cheek. The rancid stench of wet hay and manure cut with cocoa butter and tobacco assaults my nose in the heat of the decrepit shed. The odor is so repulsive, it’s the easiest thing to focus on. I use it to block out what’s happening around me, to me. If I fixate on it, I can almost pretend I’m alone.
A wicked groan and sharp pain in my hip cuts through my meditation.
I wince away from his sharp fingers on my raw skin; the scar there is still fresh.
“Don’t piss around too long, Arden. They’ll be looking for you.” The same words, every time. And every time I think the same thing: someday, I’m going to kill him.
Sharp light and fresher air blind me; the ricochet of the cockeyed door follows. I take a moment, breathe as deep as I dare, and then push up from the workbench. My underpants are torn, so I just lower my wrinkled skirt instead.
My fingers shake as I use them to comb my stubborn brown curls, pinning them in place as I remove errant bits of debris. The fabric under my bust is torn where he grabbed me. I’ll probably be punished for that later.
The sun is still high when I leave, amplifying the briny fishiness blowing in from the docks. It’s busier than usual, people rushing home from the port to hear the Announcement of Candidates. Excitement hums that a hometown girl might be chosen. I couldn’t care less. It’s not my home.
I pick up the onions CJ knocked over and right my wicker cart. Then I trudge up the red dirt path to the main house, dragging the cart behind me. The Laarsworth property is huge, the biggest in our county, the perimeter dotted with old-growth weeping willows. They dance in the sickly citrus breeze floating in off the orchard at the back of the estate.
People pass by, saying nothing. They know better. An older girl approaches with a basket of wet laundry and sidesteps me for the clotheslines. She’s one of the leftovers, the Unchosen.
Conrad is known for being one of the most successful benefactors in the region, but he hasn’t had a girl accepted to the National Women’s Institute in four years. Tatiana was the top choice for our class—until she got pregnant. He’d been feeling pretty smug about her until her gowns didn’t fit. Then, furious, he’d sent her away. Never mind that the father was his own son’s best friend.
So now it’s Neve. She’s pretty, and her olive complexion is softer, her hands more tender from working in the laundry and kitchens. Conrad was irritated, having to start over after investing so much in Tatiana’s education and appearance, but if he didn’t put up someone, it would have been five years wasted. Neve will be fine. Of the three of us, she’s the smartest. And if she’s afraid of becoming Unchosen, she doesn’t show it.
The basement door is ajar, emitting a confusing haze of powder-fresh steam and onions. I pull my cart through the narrow hallway between the laundry and the kitchen. Gaia throws up her arms when she sees me.
“The hell’ve you been, Arden?” she squeals, her chubby chin bouncing off her plump, sweaty breasts. She’s a large, round woman who attributes her size to tasting the rich meals she prepares for a house full of men.
“Sorry, got held up,” I say. She squints her beady black eyes and scans my body, hovering over the tear in my dress. A stubborn pout presses into her lips.
“It’s all right. It’s all right. Put the onions in the locker, and do it fast. And fix that dress before anyone upstairs sees. Now get!” She jerks her head back toward the once white enamel gas stove and I obey, ducking into the laundry across the tiny hall. I look around the empty, bleach-scented room for a needle, but can’t find thread to match the dress’s blue. Rather than grab something that won’t match, I leave and take the back staircase to the tiny dorm I share with Neve.
Our room is small, narrow enough that if I stretched out, horizontal from side to side, I wouldn’t quite touch both walls, but I’d be close. Our simple metal beds sit against opposing walls, leaving a space between them just wide enough for the bench Neve uses as her makeup table. Yellowed wallpaper curls off the walls, its tiny pink rosebuds recoiling from the harsh afternoon sun. Our beds are covered in simple cream coverlets. Between them, opposite the door, is a window just wide enough to get a good glimpse of the road to town, but not big enough to actually let in any air.
Neve’s dressed, sitting on her bed in a floor-length, emerald-green gown, hunched over the mirror as she applies gold eyeshadow to her deep-set lids. Her rich, golden-brown hair is pinned back into a loose, elegant bun, with brass combs shaped like stars. The whole ensemble would have looked flawless on fair, porcelain Tatiana, but it casts a sickly, tarnished pallor over Neve’s olive skin. Same goes for Tatiana’s inherited makeup kit, a square wooden box with a pop-up mirror and all the wrong shades for Neve’s complexion. It’s on the bench next to her.
“You know it’s just gonna be fried catfish again,” I say, quickly putting on a pair of clean cotton underwear while she’s focused on her blending technique.
“I’m dining with the men tonight,” she says stiffly. “You go right there and then if you’re selected. I want to make sure I’m ready.”
“Well, you look positively royal,” I say, plopping down on my bed. The spartan metal frame creaks, and the springs dig into my back through the thin mattress. I reach under the bed for my toiletry kit and retrieve my tweezers. Tiny slivers of workbench are embedded in my palm, visible evidence that something just happened. Time to be rid of them before someone else notices.
The pinch of the tweezers cuts into my skin, gripping onto the hairline bit of wood. I pull, and the intruder releases. The soothing warmth of relief rushes in, a balm to numb the sting. If only it worked as well upon my dress. And lasted longer than a fleeting moment. I’ll have new aches to catalog when the adrenaline fades.
“Aren’t you going to change?” Neve asks, crinkling her nose in the mirror.
“Into what?” I say, honing in on one of the smaller splinters in the fleshy part of my palm. I just want to fix my hand, to focus my attention on something so little, so precise—something I can fix. I catch the tiny sliver and move on to a bigger one.
“Something without holes?” she says, raising an eyebrow. I catch the big splinter and look up. “You need to fix that before Conrad sees. And your shoes.”
“I know, I know,” I say. My shoes are a mess. My dress needs thread, but my shoes I can fix. I grab a cloth from the stack on her bed and rub it against the worn leather before she can object. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Four o’clock,” she says, pinching her cheeks. I keep at the shoes, clean off the dirt, make them okay again. Make me okay again.
“You know they won’t announce it for another two hours.”
“I know, but it’s better to be prepared and wait than to miss your chance.”
“You hear that from a fortune teller?” I lay back on the bed, lifting one foot at a time to admire my now dirt-free shoes.
“You going to sit there and judge me for caring?” she asks, glaring at me through her mirror.
“No,” I say, dropping the towel on the floor at the end of my bed. “I’m laying here judging you.”
“It’s all just so funny when you don’t care about anything, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, well, easier to accept reality that way.”
“And what’s reality?” she asks.
“That we’re never leaving this place.”
“Speak for yourself,” she says. “I’ve worked hard to make up for lost time. I think they’ll see I have nothing but potential.”
“You really think they could see that from one lousy photo?”
“Lousy? What are you talking about? It turned out lovely!” With a sigh, I roll over and push up onto my knees.
“Well, it must’ve been, because you’ve got the dress.”
“The dress doesn’t mean anything more than that Conrad chose it for Tatiana.” She lets out a deep breath, and her eyes soften, betraying a rare moment of vulnerability. “I didn’t get an interview.”
“I know,” I say. I set the tweezers back in my kit and kick it back underneath my bed. “But you said it yourself—the interview isn’t strictly necessary.” Though, it pretty much is. Nobody gets admitted without an interview.
“That’s only happened once,” she says. “And never since.” Not much is said about the girl who was admitted sans interview, except that it happened the year the current prime minister met his wife. It’s easy enough to figure out who it was, though. The events that followed were more than enough to put two and two together.
“If it happened once, it could happen again,” I say, leaning toward her. “And if it’s going to happen to anyone, they could do a whole lot worse than someone who got such a late start and worked her ass off. Never mind looks stunning in that dress.” I give her a wink. She sighs, tucking away a smile as she returns to her reflection.
“Yes, but I can’t get my eyes to look right. Seventeen, and already I’m getting crow’s feet.”
“No, you’re not,” I say, swinging off the bed. I cross the room in two steps and turn her toward me, squinting hard as I study her brownish-green eyes. I step back, head tilted, arms crossed over my chest.
“Yep,” I say with a firm nod, “you’re right. Crow’s-feet, and beaks and heads and hands and everything else. Let’s just throw it out and start all over again!”
She cracks a laugh. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’ll do without you to snap me out of . . . well, this.”
“Stop spending so much time in front of a mirror?” I suggest, free-falling back onto my cot again.
“Easy for you to say,” she says. “You don’t have to worry about your looks—you never have. You come and go as you please. Nobody expects you to look pretty.”
“Wow, thanks. That should be your opener when you meet the minister and his wife.” I’ve never really thought of myself as being pretty or not. My hair, inherited from my mother, is badly behaved, but the warm chestnut color comes from my father, or so I’m told. My complexion is less refined than Neve’s, tanned from a life outdoors. Freckles smatter across the middle third of my face. My eyes are bright blue, allegedly from my mother’s mother, who I’m told was a great beauty. Of course, I have no evidence of this.
I stare at my reflection a moment longer, and decide that Neve isn’t quite right—it’s not about whether or not I’m pretty. It’s that nobody cares enough to decide whether or not I am.
“You know what I mean,” she says with a dismissive little wave. “When you work in the house, you’re expected to look a certain way.”
“No, you’re not. You think someday a visiting ‘dignitary’ will notice your beauty and pluck you from this life of squalor.”
“The investor from Brandeissland said he thought I was just his son’s taste.”
I shudder. “Does he want to eat you? Because I’d think that would be a hard no.”
“Well, we can’t all be you, Arden. What with the way CJ dotes on you.” The close, hot air in the room stifles, and for a moment, it’s as if I can’t trust my own mind—as if a handful of careless words could make me doubt what actually happened when I struggled to breathe against that workbench, to forget the pain and humiliation of less than an hour ago. The searing bite of panic creeps up my neck, tugging at my cheeks, and I chew the side of my tongue to keep the fear off my face, picking at my palms for ghost splinters I can’t see, but can feel so deeply it’s as if they cut into my soul.
“I wouldn’t call that doting.” I work to keep my voice even, barely biting out the words, but she’s so distracted she doesn’t notice. I’ve done a pretty good job keeping things a secret, but four years of unwanted “doting” can only be kept so quiet. Though, when the alternative is homelessness, it’s easier to let people think what they want. Much as the truth chafes against the lie.
“It’s not like he’ll marry you, but the attention must be nice. Maybe he’ll have a say in your placement?” My stomach curls as Neve spritzes herself with Tatiana’s lilac perfume. It’s too strong, and doesn’t suit her, but it’s in a pretty glass bottle and is the fanciest thing we’ve been allowed.
A frantic knock at the door draws our attention as Carla bursts in, all coarse curls and energy. Her golden-brown eyes are wide; the whites look even larger against her smooth brown complexion.
“There’s a newey car out front!”
“A what?” I ask, scrunching my right cheek into my eye.
“I was swapping out linens in the front of the main house, and I saw it—ne-we-ey,” she repeats to blank stares. “You know, N-W-I?”
“Holy shit!” Neve jumps to her feet, covering her mouth with her hands.
“Shhh! They might hear you! They’ll probably revoke your admission for that kind of language,” I say with a laugh.
“I can’t believe it!” Neve says, eyes shining. “It’s happening. It’s actually happening!” Carla rushes her, but Neve holds up a perfectly manicured hand, stopping Carla and her stained yellow housedress before her enthusiastic hug can ruin Neve’s gown.
“Don’t cry. You’ll screw up your makeup,” I say through a smile. Neve smiles back as a wave of something deep and aching, like a desperate star-wish on a starless night, sweeps over her features. A bitter ache tugs at my heart, and I meet Carla’s shining eyes. We aren’t getting out of here—but Neve is. We take a deep breath in unison, silent agreement that we’ll be sad for ourselves later. Right now, we’ll celebrate Neve.
“Oh my God. I have to pack!” she says, jerking her head from side to side, eyes frantic.
“They’ll send your things,” I say, and Carla nods, hair bouncing. Another rap at the half-opened door reveals Headmistress Moyle.
“I have been sent to request that all three of you dress for dinner,” she says, her austere countenance giving away nothing.
“All three of us?” Neve says, head cocked.
“Probably so we can celebrate and say goodbye!” Carla says, beaming. Neve smiles and nods, but shoots me a wary glance. Conrad doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body.
“Yes, Headmistress,” I say. She leaves, but not before narrowing her eyes on my ripped dress and shaking her head.
“Come on, Carla. Sit down. Let me put your hair in a twist,” Neve says, sounding inconvenienced, but wearing a sentimental smile as she blinks back tears. I dig through Tatiana’s old jewelry case and find a silver nine-point star with yellow stones clustered in the middle. I pin it over the stain on Carla’s dress. She squeals as she squeezes my hand, then sits still for Neve’s special treatment. Neve catches my eye through the mirror.
“It’s really happening!” she says.
“Yep. It certainly is,” I reply. I’m just not sure what “it” means for me.