The dining hall is mostly cleared out by the time I return. I scan the few girls left and recognize the brunette from earlier. Of all of them, she’s the one who most seemed like me—plus, she’s alone. She stares as I approach, mouth wide and frozen, about to bite into the shiny red apple held suspended in her hand. Her hazel eyes are round and large, as though she’s surprised I could even see her. I sit and help myself to the finger sandwiches on the platter before us. She waits until I’ve bitten into a dainty cucumber one, and then finally chomps into the flesh of her fruit.
“I’m Arden,” I say after a few minutes. She finishes chewing and looks down at my torso.
“What happened to your dress?” she asks. Her voice is lower than I would have expected from her slight posture, with a lilting hiccup of an accent. It’s less a question and more a statement.
“I was . . . clumsy.”
She stares and chews, like a horse sizing up a potential rider. Her mouth works in big circles, and the yellowish flesh of the apple is stained with lipstick. Lipstick that is now missing from her mouth. She lifts her thin eyebrows and shrugs.
“I’m Zerah.”
I nod, reaching for another small sandwich.
“Where are you from?” I ask, taking a bite. This one is creamy. It’s tangy, and tastes of fish. I thought I’d had enough fish on the peninsula to last me my entire life, but this flavor is new and different. I take a second bite to better savor it.
“The North,” she says.
“Really?” I ask, perking up.
“Yeah,” she says, skeptical at my interest.
“I’m from the peninsula,” I say.
“I know.” Her words aren’t harsh, though, and her features are almost expressionless, save for her large, wide eyes. Her skin is pale, made more so by the dark fabric of her dress. The garment’s high neck makes her features cut in severe angles. But up close, everything about her is soft, from the slope of her chin to the tip of her nose, the curl of her eyelashes. There’s something innately breakable about this girl—something that’s been hardened and calcified. Something I relate to.
“That must’ve been a long trip,” she says, biting into her apple. Juice drips down her palm into her fussy white cuff.
“It was,” I say. “It was also dark, so I didn’t see much. We arrived as the sun came up.”
“How romantic,” she says, biting again, slow and loud. I huff a small laugh through my nose, and then wince, hoping I haven’t offended her. She grins.
“Just wanted to see if you could take a joke. You’re the first one who can, by the way,” she says.
“Glad I passed at least one test today,” I say, and grimace.
“That bad?” she asks, eyebrow arching toward her hairline. The girls here are likely a combination of friend and foe, and I need to figure out which is which. But something about Zerah calls to me, reminds me of Neve, suggests that I can let her in. I decide to hope she’s a friend.
“I know it was,” I say, drooping with the admission of my failure. “I know Dean St. James said it was impossible to fail—or that they wouldn’t send us home for failing, but it still feels very possible.”
“You don’t speak like you’re stupid,” Zerah says with a gentle chuckle. I smile and bite into another thin sandwich. Cucumber, this time.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say.
“Take it any way you like,” she says. “Nobody’s gonna care if you can take a test. They’re gonna care what you sound like. What you look like. They might care about what you say, but if you’re pretty enough, not even that will really matter.”
“Well that’s quite a glass half-full worldview,” I say.
“Just being honest,” she says with a shrug. “We all know what they’re looking for here. Whatever they want us to think, this is a finishing school—a finishing school designed to win the affections of a certain royal man-child.” She crinkles her nose in distaste, and I laugh.
“What about the alumni who’ve been placed around the world?” I ask, setting down my half-eaten sandwich. I unfold the cloth napkin—cream-colored, like everything else—waiting on the table and use it to wipe my mouth.
“Yeah, and what about those posts? What are they? Can you even tell me?” she asks. She leans back in her chair, smug and waiting as she bites into the bottom of the apple core. I try to remember what some of the more prestigious posts have been.
“Wasn’t there a girl last year who went to Espancia?” I ask.
“Yeah, there was a girl last year who married a guy from Espancia,” she says, popping the rest of the apple into her mouth and crunching away.
“Well, I’m not here to marry Declan,” I say. Except, maybe I am. Maybe that’s what Conrad was talking about? Zerah snorts, eyeing me with a mix of intrigue and dismissal.
“Don’t tell anyone else. They’d probably send you home. Or to a reform school to correct whatever imbalance led you to that misguided decision.”
“Or they’ll send me home for being an idiot,” I say.
“Hey, I told you, if you’re pretty, smart doesn’t matter.” She stands, nodding at a passing server as she snatches another apple from their tray. She tucks it into her side, polishing its shiny red skin as she strides out through the doors and away, never glancing back.
I slump in my chair. Maybe Neve was onto something, after all. I’ve never worried about whether or not I was pretty, but after the humiliating failure of that test, maybe it’s time I tried.