The trip is excruciatingly slow and bumpy. The shiny beige car looked huge from the outside, with spare tires mounted along flared fenders that are wide enough to stand on and a large nickel statue of a woman leaning forward from its nose like the masthead of a grand ship. But it’s smaller on the inside. Leather benches—not nearly padded enough—face each other behind the driver’s. My knees touch those of the bureaucrat across from me, and my arm touches the one beside me. I’ve got my window rolled down, blowing night-cooled air in my face, drying out my eyes and leaving my cheeks raw.
The air is a comfort, really, making the cramped, tight space with two strange men manageable. It becomes less humid, less filled with the scent of citrus and fish, shifting instead to the smell of dirt, and cleanliness, the soothing scent of being far from danger. I sleep in fits and starts, trying not to doze off while in such close proximity to these strangers. By the time the sunrise burns warm against my skin, my eyelids are heavy and I feel like I could sleep for a week after the yo-yo effect of so much adrenaline.
“Here we are,” the first official says, and I shift, straightening my slumped posture so I can see better. The car swings around a corner, and I see them—limestone walls, signature barrier of Executive Hill’s immense grounds. We pause outside a massive pair of wrought iron gates. The guard scrutinizes me through the glass, then waves us inside. Rich, green land stretches as far as the eye can see. We pass the famed Rhododendron Garden, the hazelnut groves, and I spot the hedge maze in the distance as we approach the main building—a palatial, four-story limestone estate with a red roof and massive rotunda.
“This the one from the peninsula?” another guard yells, approaching the vehicle as we pull to a stop. The driver nods as he steps out to open our door. The bureaucrat next to me exits first, uncurling his short frame. He takes the door from the driver, dismissing him, and holds it open for me.
“Yes, this is Arden Thatcher,” he says to the guard, offering his hand for me to take. I tentatively accept and exit the car, wobbling on my stiff legs. The swampy sense of dreaming settles around me, and I wonder for a moment if that’s what this is.
“Welcome, Miss Thatcher. Please follow me,” the guard says, his eyes traveling to the tear in my dress. My fingers ghost over the frayed threads; the hole serves as the proverbial pinch, making it clear that no, this is not a dream. “No time to change, unfortunately,” he says and turns, striding toward the entrance. I cross my arms over my waist and follow him through the massive double doors made of polished oak.
The foyer is every bit as grand as I’ve seen in photos. The walls stretch at least thirty feet high, clad in elegant molding and culminating in the infamous blue-and-gold stained-glass dome. The floors are tiled in alternating black and white marble, and the grand staircase is wide enough for at least seven people to stand shoulder to shoulder. A massive brass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, dripping with crystals so thin they look like tassels, casting the entire room in a dreamy, gilded haze. Above the doors, expansive windows bathe in natural light, mirrored by identical windows at the top of the staircase. The room smells like lemons and roses, and I notice with embarrassment that I smell decidedly unlike either.
“Come, follow!” the guard barks from further down the hall. I rush forward, almost tripping over my dull shoes, and walk double time to catch up. He stops before another set of polished doors and takes a deep breath.
“Ready or not,” he says and pushes the doors open. The breakfast room on the other side is just as impressive, but more feminine. A wall of paned windows streams warm light into the space, illuminating its soft greens and wood tones. Round tables arranged in a square fill the space, draped in creamy linens and adorned with overfull vases of peonies and rhododendrons. Elegant, composed women sit around each, bedecked in much finer accoutrements than mine.
“May I present Arden Thatcher,” the man announces in a regal voice. I pull a face at his affected accent. He scowls as he catches my grimace and jerks his head toward the room. “What are you waiting for? Go.”
Nothing happens as I walk toward the tables. A few of the gathered women murmur amongst themselves, the air thick with excited apprehension.
An older woman comes in through the side door to my left. She’s tall—taller than any woman I’ve ever seen. Her features are harsh, angular, with sharp eyes and too-big teeth. She smiles, and there’s something about her that’s somehow pretty, or that may have once been. Before power hardened her veneer.
“Ah, Arden!” she says, in a voice I recognize. This must be the dean. She comes close, skirt swishing, and takes me by the shoulders, kissing the air by first one cheek, then the other. It’s not a custom we observe on the peninsula, and I tense awkwardly, unsure of what to do. She smells like coffee and bottled lavender, and wears a button-up hunter-green dress with a matching bolero jacket despite the already heated morning air. Her hair—prematurely gray along the temples—is twisted back to display brass earrings, complementing her long face and flawless, peachy complexion. All in all, she’s about what I expected; her grand, hoarse voice matches her appearance.
“How was your trip, my dear?” she asks, hands still on my shoulders.
“It was fine, thank you,” I say, and then add a hasty “ma’am.” She smiles and nods.
“Come, meet your comrades in arms.” She walks me the rest of the way to the tables, and I’m met with an intimidating wall of hawkish stares.
“Ladies, ladies!” she says, as if to quiet the nonexistent commotion. “Please welcome the final member of your cohort: Arden Thatcher, of the peninsula.” A round of polite applause rises. Their faces are pleasant enough, but I know better than to trust it. I’m just one more bitch to get rid of.
“You’ll find your seat in that corner,” the dean says, pointing to a table on the right. There’s only one spot vacant. I walk to my chair and take in my tablemates: the first sits ramrod straight in an impeccably fitted cap-sleeve, blush-colored dress made of the softest chiffon, a sparkly sun brooch peeking out from her neatly pinned blonde waves; the second is a slight, mousy brunette stuffed into a fussy indigo dress with long, baggy sleeves and a tight neck. Breakfast having already been served, they pretend to be engrossed in their plates as I sit. The blonde is being peckish, pushing eggs and some kind of flat pink meat around her plate, but the brunette has already finished. I’m inclined to follow her lead. But before I can, the dean clinks a knife against her glass and stands.
“Now that we are all here, I bid you welcome, ladies, and am delighted to finally meet this year’s class.” Polite, measured applause answers, barely making a dent in the cavernous room, but she smiles graciously.
“As you know, this is the thirty-ninth year of our prestigious program. Having been here since the twentieth—I’ll let you do the math there,” she says with an affected chuckle, and a few of the girls politely join in. “Having been here since the twentieth, I have seen an entire generation of poised, beautiful, talented young women make their way from these halls to far bigger things than I could ever have dreamed, running as a young girl around the tall grass fields of Southeast Nordania.” A few of the girls smile more broadly; I take that to mean they’re from the Southeast. “As graduates, your experience does not end here. You will continue to affect and shape the institute in meaningful ways long past your tenure amongst its walls. But this year will be a little different than in years past.”
The already reserved din of the room settles into hushed silence. “The curriculum will be very much the same, with little deviation from our core subjects of Cultural Appreciation, Geopolitical Understanding, Literature and the Arts, and of course, my favorite: Etiquette.” She gives a self-indulgent smile to the girl on her left, who beams at the attention. “But this year, the First Family will take an unprecedented role in the program, serving as administrators and assisting with assessment.” Gasps fill the room around me, and Blondie looks like she might pass out.
“Yes, yes, this is all very exciting,” the dean says, holding out her hands, palm down, as if she can physically suppress the noise. “But there’s another thing. Over the past few years, we’ve noticed a considerable . . . shift in our candidates’ focus. We’ve sensed that some of them are here not for the betterment of all, but in the hopes of finding a husband—a very specific one, in fact,” she says with a knowing smile. Giggles rise, as if on cue. I don’t. I don’t think I even know how to giggle. I’m not alone, either. The brunette next to me, to her credit, rolls her eyes.
“The First Family takes this shift very seriously,” the dean continues, all mirth drained from her features and voice, “and if it is determined that any of you are here for any reason other than the opportunity to expand your knowledge and represent your country, you will be asked to leave.”
“I bet he still cuts the prudes,” the brunette says under her breath. Nervous butterflies flip in my stomach as I recall Conrad’s parting words. I want to believe what the dean’s saying, that we’re supposed to have value here, to be molded and honed into leaders and role models. But if that’s true, then why parade us around in gowns and jewelry like floral centerpieces, beautiful for the night, wilted and pitched by morning?
I feel eyes on me and look up to find Blondie’s cold blue gaze staring at the hole in my dress. I wrap my arm over my torso, and she looks away.
“Now, I know you’re still settling in, and some of you haven’t had a wink of sleep since the announcement”—she catches my eye, and my cheeks feel hot—“but they are on their way right now and are so excited to meet and wish you well.” The room bursts into excited conversation, drowning out anything more the dean wanted to say. After a few feeble attempts to restore order, she gives up, crossing her arms with an indulgent smirk.
Just then, the doors part, and in walk three people. The man has caramel-brown hair and a matching beard, with thick, bushy eyebrows and warm brown eyes. On his arm is a woman with long, lithe limbs. Her dark, mahogany-colored hair is pinned back into a loose, yet tidy hairstyle, highlighting her sharp, icy-gray eyes. Behind them is a young man, tall and lean like his mother, with golden-brown hair and the same icy-gray eyes. I know he’s twenty, but he seems younger. The brunette next to me pokes me in the arm, and I realize everyone has risen. I hurry to do the same.
“Well, what do you know? Right on time!” the dean says, turning to greet the First Family as they join her at the head table. “Ladies, allow me to introduce Prime Minister Neville Levington, his wife Siobhan, and their son, Declan.” A ladylike round of applause replaces the chaotic hum of moments earlier, and all three smile with gracious, practiced ease.
Declan’s smile is boyish and charming, plumping the apples of his cheeks and creasing deep around his eyes where well-worn laugh lines already exist. I hear more than a few jittery giggles as his gaze scans around the room.
He’s dressed casually, as is his father, as though they always breakfast among twenty eager women. The minister wears a tailored shirt, with no tie, tucked into relaxed navy pants. His wife, Siobhan, is smartly attired in a houndstooth suit, with pearl earrings that draw the eye to her long, elegant neck. Declan somehow manages to channel both, wearing a lightweight, sky-blue sweater over a tailored button-down shirt, despite the obvious impending heat of the day. His hands are casually stuffed into the pockets of his relaxed linen pants, and I find myself wondering how he can be so at ease in front of a room full of strangers.
He scans the assemblage, pausing briefly on each lady in turn as the dean speaks low to the minister and his wife. His face becomes slightly unsettled after the first table, though, as if he’s searching for something he doesn’t see. It’s a near imperceptible shift in his eyes, but after years of learning to read Conrad and CJ’s swift-changing moods, it’s enough to make my neck stiffen.
As his gaze gets closer and closer to me, I feel inexplicably nervous. My heart speeds up, and I fold my arms over my torso to hide the shabbiness of my dress. When I next lift my eyes, he’s looking at me. Embarrassed heat burns in my cheeks.
“Declan, will you stay for the rest of breakfast?” The dean’s voice cuts through the awkward moment, and Declan turns to her. I let out a relieved breath and feel someone else watching me from the opposite side of the table. I look over at a tall girl with cascading red hair and panther-like blue eyes made even more blue by the deep, rich cobalt of her beautifully made silk gown. A frown settles on her dark lips, until her eyes fix on my torso, on the spot bared by my falling arms. She smiles then and returns her attention to the First Family.
“Oh, I wish I could. It smells heavenly in here!” Declan says, in a slightly affected accent that doesn’t match the expression I saw just moments before. “Sadly, I have work to do. I would like to spend some time with the ladies this evening, though, if that’s all right?” Another round of applause, more energetic this time, shivers into the air, and his mouth splits into a polished grin, displaying white, straight teeth.
“We won’t intrude long, Dean St. James,” the minister says. “We simply wanted to stop by and welcome you, ladies, and to let you know that if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The minister’s voice is booming, with overtones of the same affected accent Declan used. “For the duration of your stay, our home is your home—except for the Northern Point, of course.” Many of the girls laugh in earnest; I can’t imagine any of us being allowed into the legislative part of the building. Not yet, at least.
“Yes, please do be comfortable,” Siobhan says, her voice less inviting than her husband or son’s, though I can tell she’s trying to force at least some warmth into it. “We want you to enjoy your time here, and if there’s anything we can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Everyone nods, but I can guarantee that not one of us will ever go to the prime minister or First Lady with our problems.
“Thank you so much for stopping by!” the dean says, raising her hands in applause; everyone soon follows suit. Our hosts all smile and wave, well-rehearsed choreography from years of doing the same thing over and over again. Declan takes one last look over his shoulder as they leave, his intense eyes scanning until they pause, lingering, on mine. And then, just as quick as they arrived, they’re gone.