My room is an exercise in subtle opulence. From the massive, richly woven cream rug beneath the elegant and modern walnut sleigh bed, to the simple wooden frames showcasing a thoughtfully curated mix of portraits, landscapes, and faded monochromatic photography, it’s breathtaking. It’s also at least three times the size of the dorm I shared with Neve on the peninsula. The walls are the softest hint of rose, and the bedding is a rich blush satin. The brass chandelier, comprised of hundreds of milky beads draped in clean lines from the ceiling, is the only truly extravagant piece in residence, casting a pretty, warm light around the room.
The bathroom is another thing entirely. The floors are marble, as are the counters—even the shower might be marble. The clawfoot bathtub in the center is the shiniest, whitest tub I’ve ever seen. I touch its pristine chrome handle with hesitant fingers and leave a dirty smudge. I lick my thumb and wipe at it, but it only makes it worse. Catching my reflection in the long mirror above the sink, I flinch: my skirt is coated in a thin layer of dust, and I have what looks like an actual smudge of dirt on my cheek. I turn on the bathtub, wait for the right temperature, and then fill it, stripping off the smelly, filthy dress and leaving it in an unceremonious heap. As I step into the tub, the pristine whiteness turns murky from my filthy sweat.
It’s comfortable, though, something I didn’t know bathtubs could be. Lukewarm baths were all I had at the Laarsworth’s, and only ever in water already used by Neve and Carla. I stretch my toes and allow myself a few moments to close my eyes, letting the warmth surround me. When I open them again, I see how dirty the water’s become, like it might suffocate me if I’m not careful. I drain the tub and refill it, grabbing a bar of floral-smelling soap from the counter. I work it into a lather. It smells clean and expensive, a mix of lilac and something else that reminds me of spring. I close my eyes and let everything—the silky warmth, the fragrance, the day—sink in.
I can’t believe I’m here. This time yesterday, I was in that horrible shed. I can’t imagine what CJ thought would happen when he nominated me, but it certainly wasn’t this: me, soaking in a bathtub, as far from him as I can get. I never thought I’d feel grateful for something he’d done. I never thought I’d be free.
My hand travels to my right hip, where the scar is. It’s ugly to touch, and even uglier to look at. I keep my eyes squeezed tight, let my arms float on top of the water. I don’t want to go back. Ever. But I feel guilty for being here, for leaving Neve and Carla. CJ will find someone else—he made that abundantly clear. I don’t want him to do this to someone else. If I don’t go back, I can’t stop him from doing this to another girl. If I never go back, Carla and Neve will almost certainly be harmed. The only way to help them is to get some leverage, and to do that, I have to help Conrad.
But how do I do that if I can’t even finish a simple test on the first day? I groan and slide down in the tub, holding my breath as I submerge. All the other girls have trained for this since they were twelve, if not earlier. Judging by their clothes and confidence, the vast majority of them are not beneficiaries. They were probably born into privilege and raised in similar environments. They were also probably educated beyond thirteen years of age, which puts me at a double disadvantage. It would be one thing to say I’m the underdog, but I’m more like the understudy to the underdog’s backup.
“Arden!” A warbly voice travels through the water, and I emerge, letting cool air fill my lungs. As I wipe the water from my eyes, I see a tightly wound, pale girl in a gray dress and white apron standing with her hands crossed over her chest. Her short brown hair is combed and held neatly in place with a black ribbon, and there’s a single silver star embroidered on the right breast of her apron. Her small, pink lips are pressed together in a twisted pucker of a frown.
“Um, hello?” I ask, pulling my knees into my chest to cover up as much as I can.
“Your hair is still wet?” She reaches into the tub and pulls the plug from the drain.
“I’m in a bathtub,” I say, “so, yeah.” Ripping a towel from a neat, fluffy pile, she unfurls it in front of me.
“Out. Now.”
I obey, because despite the fact that I outsize her, I’m pretty sure she could lift me out of here. I step out, and she wraps the towel around me. She pushes me to a stool I didn’t notice before, tucked neatly up against the vanity.
“You have curly hair? I don’t know what we’re going to do with it in this amount of time!”
“Oh, it’s okay. It air-dries fine,” I say.
She glares at me through the mirror with her close-set brown eyes, as if I just told her I was serving pickled catfish for a state dinner. Using another towel, she blots my tangled mane dry, and then, with a variety of potions, starts to work through it with a comb. She makes surprisingly quick, if painful, work of it.
“Can I at least ask the name of the person combing my hair while I’m naked?” I ask.
“You’re not naked. You’re wearing a towel. Instead of a dress. I suppose that’s one way to make an entrance, though,” she says with a tsk through her teeth. She spins me around and applies a cream to my face that smells vaguely of holiday sweets.
“Meredith,” she says. “I’m responsible for your appearance.”
“Does that make me irresponsible?” I ask.
“You arrived in a filthy day dress with a hole the size of a dinner roll.” She pauses long enough to give me a look of supreme archness. “You tell me.”
“It wasn’t that big—wait, you saw me?” I ask, feeling strangely unnerved despite the fact she literally just saw me naked.
“Of course. We all spied on our girls this morning. And let me tell you, if I don’t turn this around, and quick, I’ll never hear the end of it. Tell me, why did your benefactor put you in that horrible dress?” She uses a brush to apply powder that definitely never belonged to Tatiana to my eyes, and I don’t have the benefit of seeing her face.
“He didn’t know I was going to be accepted,” I say.
“Well, didn’t he get the hint when the officials arrived?”
“He thought they were there for another girl.”
She huffs. “They need to be prepared for all circumstances. You nominate a girl, you need to prepare her in case she’s selected.” I bite the edge of my tongue to keep the cringe off my face.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here.” The hopelessness and anxiety of the day spreads into my voice and weighs me down, pressing me into the little stool that can’t possibly bear that much weight. Meredith snaps her fingers in my face.
“You’re here. So you may as well make the best of it,” she says. She tilts my head back and applies more makeup to my face. “And you got here without an interview. When I heard I got the girl without the interview, I thought I had a huge advantage. I mean, you look to be about the right type, but now . . . it’s going to be a bigger challenge . . .”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, pushing past her, turning toward the mirror to examine what little of my face isn’t covered in makeup.
“What?” she asks, looking in the mirror. She tilts her head sideways and squints. I’m not sure what she’s focusing on: the three colors of blush on my cheeks, the four shades of eyeshadow, the thick eyeliner, or the bright red lipstick. It’s certainly a look, but it doesn’t look like me at all.
“This is what all the girls will be wearing,” she says, as if that will persuade me.
“Then I don’t want to look like the other girls,” I say, which, judging by her shocked expression, is something no one’s ever said to her.
“Fine,” she says, handing me a moist tissue. I wipe at my face, and the makeup comes away as quickly as it went on.
“This is amazing,” I say, watching the makeup melt into the cloth. She beams, smiling with a slight snaggletooth.
“Thanks! It’s my own invention. The other maids have tried to figure them out, but I haven’t given in.” She returns to my hair, applying some kind of cream to it again.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’ll prevent your curls from frizzing.” I nod and continue wiping at my face. “So,” she says, “what do you want me to do then? You wanna play it demure? More of a smoky, sultry eye? Focus on your mouth? Declan loves a good mouth.”
“He does what now?” I ask, the words sticking in my throat. I recall CJ’s comments about my mouth at dinner, and how they made me want to crawl under the table.
“I have palettes for all of these, and about thirty shades of lipstick.”
“You’re putting makeup on me for Declan?” I ask, a wave of anger surging up my chest.
“Who else?” she asks. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. She looks at me and nods. “Yep, definitely gotta show off that mouth.”
“No! Stop!” I stand, and the towel falls. I snatch it before it hits the floor and pull it tight around my waist, grateful that it didn’t expose my scar, my biggest secret. “I’m not here for Declan.”
She cocks her head and narrows her eyes. “Why not?”
“The dean told us that was strictly forbidden! I mean, this isn’t just some dating contest,” I say, a familiar churning in the pit of my stomach.
“Well, that’s not all it is. He’s just the ultimate prize.”
“Unbelievable,” I say, wrapping the towel around my chest, holding it tight against my right hip. She takes me by the shoulders and pushes me back down to the stool.
“What did you expect?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You are an odd duck, you know that?” she asks, grabbing a bright pink lipstick. She twists it up to apply it to my face.
“If you come even an inch closer, I’ll kick you,” I say. She raises an eyebrow and hesitates, as if deciding whether or not I’ll do it, then shrugs and twists the lipstick tube back down.
“Fine, we’ll do it your way. I can’t let you out of here with nothing, though.” She stands with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
“I just want to be comfortable, to feel like myself.”
“Yourself is covered in dirt.”
“Not right now,” I shoot back, and she arches a brow, as if to say touchè.
“So, what is comfortable?” she asks. I think about the other night—no, last night. How has it only been a day since Neve forced makeup on me?
“Mascara and lipstick. And you can pinch my cheeks if you want.” She laughs and shakes her head.
“You’ll look washed out. That will never work. What if I mix the foundation in with your moisturizer, so it doesn’t feel so heavy? Then, we can try mascara, lipstick, and one eyeshadow, and if you still look washed out, we’ll add blush?” I stare at her. She stares at me.
I sigh. “Fine, but if I look like I’ve been attacked by the rouge fairy, I’m taking it all off and going down there with nothing on.”
“Well, you’ll certainly get his attention that way.”
She laughs as I grumble, but takes a lighter hand with the powders. I breathe easier, relieved she didn’t call my bluff.