The dining hall, when I return, is transformed into an elegant banquet worthy of foreign dignitaries. Four long, narrow tables form a large square centered around a massive brass chandelier. Gold brocade tablecloths and chargers offset the fine white china and a series of gold-stemmed glasses. I can’t help but marvel at the skill of the institute’s staff, to have altered the entire feel and decor of a room so fast. This is the third time I’ve been here today, and each time, it’s been like stepping into a different room.
The other girls stand in a cluster of jewel-toned silks, mildly suggestive chokers and ear cuffs, and less than subtle cleavage. Zerah is tucked into the corner behind them, eyeing the five-piece band being set up in the corner. She’s wearing a long-sleeved gown made of the most beautiful midnight silk chiffon tastefully scattered with silver embroidered stars. It gathers high on her neck and skates along her rail-thin frame to pool at her feet. Her hair is pinned low on her head in a series of overwrought twists, her eyes lined in dark, dramatic shadow, and her lips a bold red. I wave, and she presses her lips together, as if disappointed to be noticed. She walks toward me, though, eyeing my dress with thinly veiled jealousy.
“Nice dress,” she says, her mouth turned into a petulant scowl. I talked Meredith out of the low-cut, black velvet number she’d laid out and chose a simple satin dress instead. The stormy blue gown falls off the shoulder in ruffled capelet sleeves that brush against my elbows, and the bodice fits well without being too snug. The only real interest to it is the inset, diamond-shaped panel at the center front. The skirt falls naturally to just brush the floor; I can wear the little Swendish booties with the eyelets and laces that don’t destroy my feet. It’s not too snug, it doesn’t sparkle, and I can actually move in it.
It also looks nothing like what everyone else is wearing.
“Thanks,” I say. “You should’ve seen what I was supposed to wear.”
She scrunches her long nose and hugs herself. She looks miserable.
“How’d you convince them to lay off the makeup?” she asks, touching her mouth. “I feel like I’m going to suffocate.”
“I threatened to kick her,” I say with a shrug, happy to feel the comfort of my hair lying against my shoulders.
“I should’ve thought of that,” Zerah says, looking away.
“You look really pretty,” I say. The slightest of smiles breaks through as she rubs her left arm, glowering at the other girls and their boldly cut, jewel-toned gowns. My simple dress feels unremarkable in their presence, and I wonder for a second if maybe Meredith was right.
“Good evening, ladies!” the dean says, her hoarse voice easily cutting through the low rumble. She looks lovely, as well, wearing a sapphire-colored dress with sheer, voluminous sleeves and a soft train.
“First, may I just say that you all look beautiful. Thank you for taking the time and care in preparing for this evening. Now, you may be wondering where to sit for tonight’s dinner.” Are we? I was going to sit where I sat this morning.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed the extra place settings, and yes, the First Family will be joining us for dinner. As I mentioned, they’ve taken a special interest in this year’s class. As always, your classroom successes will be rewarded. And tonight, you will be seated in the order in which you performed on your entrance exam.”
Great. Now all these girls will know how dumb I am.
“The woman with the top score will sit next to the First Family, the second score will sit on the opposite side, next to me,” she says with a self-indulgent grin. “Third place will be next to first place, fourth next to second, and all the way down the list.
“Let me be clear, though, your success will not be measured by your relationship with the First Family, but rather by your performance in the classroom.” The other girls nod and smile. I don’t understand how sitting next to the First Family is such a prize if our relationship with them has no bearing on our success.
“When I call your name, you will come forward to receive a gift from the First Family.” A wave of excitement rises around me as Dean St. James motions to a maid carrying a tray stacked with crisp white boxes. The maid steps forward, and Dean St. James opens the topmost box. She retrieves a short brass chain with a delicate, four-pointed star, a dainty red gemstone in the center.
“These bracelets are yours to keep. As you can see, they contain the Nordanian Star—our proud symbol of unity, prosperity, and balance. Let them serve as a reminder. Just as each point represents a critical component of the Nordanian way, so too do you represent the pinnacle of our nation’s achievements. You, ladies, represent the true north of this compass, and of our nation, and you will come to play an important role in Nordanian prosperity for the rest of your lives.” She pauses for dramatic effect, holding up the bracelet as if it were a crown.
The girls nod at each other with solemn expressions, accepting without question that they will keep the rest of the government in check simply by being here. I can’t help but wonder how that works if most of the graduates leave Nordania.
“Without further ado, the top score on the exam this morning goes to . . . Avery Ashford.” Polite applause ushers the blonde from this morning to Dean St. James’s side. She watches with a demure smile I have no doubt she’s spent weeks, if not years, perfecting as the dean clasps the bracelet around her left wrist. Then she’s ushered toward her chair at the head of the table with a flourish. Rose-gold seems to be the blonde’s color of choice. She slinks across the room in a silk gown with a slightly flared skirt and a draped back that shimmers with every swishy step.
“Close behind her in second place is Fiona Abramson.” More scattered applause as the redhead in an emerald-green, sequined gown and a delicate black choker receives first her bracelet, and then her seat. Her eyes narrow dangerously on Avery. The dean keeps going, each girl more relieved than the last as their name is called. Zerah does well enough, finishing at the top of the middle of the pack. She flashes me a grim smile, and then skulks off to her chair. Finally, it’s down to me and another girl who looks like she’s going to be sick.
“Ladies, there’s no need to worry,” the dean says with an empathetic smile I’m sure is intended to be reassuring. “I told you, there is no way to fail this test. It is simply a reminder that we all come from different backgrounds, and that there is much still to learn. That said, please take note of your position today and strive for improvement.” The dean dips her chin, practiced smile still in place as her eyes flit between the two of us over the prominent slope of her nose. The message is hard to miss: do better, or be cut.
“Molly, you’re next.” Molly smiles in relief and moves forward to receive her bracelet. As she heads toward her place at the table, Dean St. James steps forward. She sighs and places her arm around my shoulders, adding to the weight of the eyes already on me as she walks us slowly toward my seat.
“I’m not going to pretend this isn’t a disappointment,” she says, taking her time to clasp my bracelet around my wrist. It fits a little more snug than I expected, feeling like a cuff. “In fact, I question your benefactor’s preparation methods. But the fact is, you are here because somebody saw something in you.” She lets her words linger for a moment, and I wonder if she might say something else about how I ended up here. Thankfully, she moves on. “Our focus is and has always been on the fulfillment of potential. That is what you will aim for. But I must tell you that we also have a three-strikes policy. Every woman is entitled to a bad day, but if you have three bad days in a row, we will ask you to leave.”
“I have three days to turn it around?” She shrugs.
“I don’t mean days so much as I mean chances. We’ll have other challenges—no more written exams, I promise,” she says with a wink, “but rather tasks designed to evaluate and nurture growth. And we’ll rank your scores again. If yours is the lowest three times in a row, we take that as a symptom of failure to improve.” I swallow, feeling uneasy under her touch.
“Now, I don’t want you to stress about this. In the twenty years I’ve been here, we’ve only asked three women to leave for consistently low scores. I simply feel I need to make it clear to anyone who finishes last—especially when the score is as low as yours, my dear.” My cheeks and ears get hot with shame, and I bite the side of my tongue to keep it off my face.
“There’s a fire in your eyes, Arden, and I know you will fix this. So take this defeat as an opportunity to learn, and let’s move forward.” We’re standing at my seat now, and she squeezes my shoulders with a heartfelt smile. I’m reminded of Headmistress Moyle’s heartfelt smiles. A whole lot of help they were. She may have been appointed by the institute itself, but Conrad paid her. As Dean St. James returns to the head table, I wonder whether she is any different.
“All right, ladies, the First Family should be arriving any minute.”
As if on cue, the doors open and the prime minister and his wife enter with Declan close on their heels. Siobhan wears a ruby-colored gown with sheer balloon sleeves and a keyhole opening at the nape of her neck. Her dark hair is slicked back into a low knot, and her ears drip with ruby- and diamond-crusted teardrops. The prime minister and Declan both wear charcoal jackets, vests, and pants with brass buttons and black leather details. The minister’s boyish smile lights up his face, and I can picture how handsome he must have been when he was my age. To his credit, Declan looks handsome, too. His golden-brown hair is slicked back along his part, showing off its shorter sides and accentuating his jaw. He wears the same practiced smile his father does. He nods as he takes his place next to Avery, and she blushes with expert precision.
“Please, have a seat,” the minister says, helping his wife into her chair. We follow suit, and he settles into his own seat with the seasoned nonchalance of someone born into privilege.
“I understand you took an exam today,” he says, carelessly lifting a finger; his silver ring catches the light. The gesture yields a frenzied waiter with champagne. Knowing laughter fills the room, but its intensity fades the further one sits from the head table.
“I’ve always hated exams. Used to get the lowest marks in the class,” he says, staring right at me. My cheeks get hot as I realize that of course they know about the seating arrangement.
“Sure showed my teachers, though, didn’t I?” he says to another round of laughs. I don’t laugh. It’s a stupid joke. What exactly did he show his teachers? He was born into his position. He didn’t earn it.
A waiter reaches past me, fills my glass with champagne. The bubbles rush up the slender flute in dizzying streams, so similar to my glass last night. It’s pretty, but I still don’t trust it. My throat tightens, and I push it away a fraction of an inch.
“All right, the real competition begins now,” the minister says with a raised eyebrow, “and let there be no doubt that this is a competition. Life is a competition, ladies, and don’t you forget it.” He lifts his glass of champagne. “Cheers to unity, cheers to prosperity, and cheers to Nordania!” Everyone lifts their glasses, echoing the toast, except for me. I leave mine sitting on the table and feel the weight of curious gray eyes fall on me from the opposite end of the room with indecipherable interest.
“I’m sorry you got the last seat,” Molly says, unfolding her napkin in one elegant sweep. She lets it fall across her emerald and gold skirt. Her auburn hair is twisted back, and her too-short bangs make her round face seem boxy. Her dress is cut on a diagonal, and the neckline falls in a flattering V, accentuating her curves. She too wears a choker, a thin brass chain with a modern-styled moon and four-point stars dripping down the line from neck to décolletage. Yet, despite her plethora of stars, she runs her fingers over the brand new one with gentle reverence. Her eyebrows bow beneath her bangs, and her lips twist into an empathetic pout, but I doubt how sorry she actually is.
“I kind of expected it,” I say.
“Why?”
I try to copy her napkin trick, but knock the silverware hidden inside into my plate. The clank of silver on china attracts more than a few stares, and I cringe.
“Here, let me show you.” She refolds the napkin, and then points to a corner of the fabric. “Take the silverware out. Then grab it here, sweep to the right, left, and right again.” She shows me again, and again, and I’m sure I won’t be able to replicate it. But after two more tries, I manage.
“Thank you,” I say, wondering what other simple things will expose my ineptitude. The waiters arrive then, carrying trays of chicken, potatoes, bread, and greens, and I accept everything, thrilled that it’s not fish.
“I’m Arden,” I say between mouthfuls of salad. She nods and smiles, finishing her bite, and then dabs the corners of her mouth with her magic napkin.
“Molly,” she says.
“So, what happened with your exam?” I ask. She squints her eyes into a self-deprecating smile.
“I missed two pages.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, spearing a potato and biting into it.
“Some of the other girls were talking about questions afterward, and I didn’t recognize any of them. So I found Dean St. James and asked if those questions had been left off of mine, and when we looked at my booklet, a few of the pages had been stuck together. I missed them.”
“And she didn’t let you retake it?” I ask as Molly gently pokes a potato with her fork, and then delicately saws her knife back and forth until she ends up with a ladylike bite.
“No, it wouldn’t have been fair after I’d been talking to the girls about the exact questions I missed.”
“That sucks,” I say, copying her again. I press my fork into a potato, without success. I apply a little more pressure, and the potato shoots off my plate and onto the floor. My cheeks flush with embarrassment, but Molly is oblivious to my plight. She shrugs and closes her mouth around a dainty bite.
“It’s all right. I know I can do better than that. It’s all uphill from here. And being on the lower end, there’s not such a target on my back. Though, you can’t beat facetime with Declan, can you?” she says, nodding at Avery, who has completely eschewed her meal to talk to the heir apparent. I wonder if she ever eats. My stomach grumbles at the thought of purposefully skipping meals, and I load up another forkful of salad.
“I don’t know,” I say, between chewing. “This food is pretty good. And I’m getting more of it than she is.” Molly raises her eyebrows and shakes her head.
The dessert course, a spongy cake with an orange sauce, is thankfully easier to eat. After cheese and coffee, my dress feels undeniably snug, and I promise to pace myself tomorrow. A gentle ringing spreads across the space, and the room goes quiet as Declan stands. Everyone sits a little taller. Avery looks up at him as if she’s already his. For some reason, Fiona catches my eye. Her eyes are on Avery, and her wide mouth is twisted into a snarling smile.
“Thank you for being here,” Declan says. “This institute is important—its work is critical to our country, its mission vital. We all know the story: how, two generations ago, the women of Nordania were cast aside, denied access to such basic things as education, healthcare, and government assistance.” I snort under my breath, while Zerah, across the room, lowers an amused eyebrow. He can’t seriously think that’s a problem from a previous generation. Can he?
“This institute shed light on an important problem and supplied a brilliant solution. Now, we can confidently say that our women are educated, our life expectancy has increased thanks to their contributions, and because of our esteemed alumni, our influence is felt worldwide. I’ve had the chance to meet a few of you,” he says with a smile down at Avery and the girl sitting next to her—they beam and blush, respectively, “and I cannot wait to meet the rest of you. Please, raise your glasses and join me in toasting the future of our nation—you.”
Glasses lift around me, but again, I sit still. What exactly are we toasting? That he finds a future wife? I feel eyes on me, and when I look up, I realize they’re Declan’s. His gaze is penetrating, and I feel trapped. He raises uncertain eyebrows and in my head, Conrad’s voice reminds me to do what he wants. A shudder rushes down my arms, and I force my hand to lift the glass.
“Cheers!” His toast is echoed, and he breaks his gaze as I set down my glass—again, without sipping.
“Now, ladies,” the dean says as she stands. “We have an early day tomorrow, so this is the time when I should recommend you retire to your rooms for a good night’s rest. But . . .” She looks around the room and is met with a chorus of giggles. “Declan has offered to stay up and entertain you in an effort to get to know you better. So it’s your decision, but remember, you are expected to be at breakfast no later than seven-thirty.” There is a resounding groan, and the minister and Siobhan laugh heartily.
“Government life starts early!” the minister says, standing. “Enjoy yourselves tonight, and we’ll see you soon.” He helps Siobhan from her chair, and they leave with Dean St. James.
As the band strikes an uptempo dance number that is markedly louder than anything else they have played tonight, I wish I could leave, too. My plush, cushy bed sounds heavenly. But something tells me that would be frowned upon, so instead, I remain seated, nursing my water glass and watching girl after girl compare bracelets as they casually wait for their magical turn with the crown prince. Part of me wants to interrupt to remind them they’re all wearing the same cheap piece of brass.
“What are you doing over here?” Zerah shouts in my ear over the music. I’m not sure when she made her way from her seat to the newly vacant one next to mine, but I’m grateful to have someone to talk to. Even if we can barely hear each other.
“Trying to appear grateful while attempting to master the art of sleeping with my eyes open,” I say. She snorts and tugs at the neckline of her dress.
“You’ve got a good view of the room,” she says, nodding toward the gaggle of bedazzled girls shaking their hips in Declan’s general direction. “Great spot to scope out the competition.” It’s loud, and I don’t know any of the songs, but plenty of the other girls do. They prove it by periodically screeching along with the singer.
“Are you actually interested in him?” I ask.
“Declan? I don’t know how anyone can resist that fine specimen of manhood,” she says without blinking. I’m pretty sure she’s joking, but her delivery is so dry, it’s hard to tell. I follow her gaze. Four girls pretending to look comfortable in four-inch heels surround the man of the hour, and his gray eyes are alight with the energy of the uptempo music. He laughs, the booming sort, bursting from his belly. It makes his entire face look utterly boyish, yet still mature enough to appreciate a good joke. I find myself smiling, and in that moment, he looks at me. My ears feel warm, and the music dissolves into an indecipherable haze as I am frozen, unable to look away. He blinks rapidly, then turns back to the surrounding girls, and I am released. I turn my eyes to my half-empty water glass.
Molly chooses that moment to return from dancing for a sip of wine.
“This is so much fun!” she shouts.
“I know! I’m so glad I woke up this morning!” Zerah says. Molly cocks her head, as if she isn’t sure she heard correctly. I stifle my laugh, snorting into my water glass.
“Come dance!” Molly says, tugging at my wrist.
“No, I need to stay and . . . drink water,” I say. “Hydration is just . . . super important to me.” I gulp down more water, pretending it’s the best thing in the world. She shrugs and returns to a group of five other girls as the music shifts tempos, slowing to a languid roll. It’s obvious everyone wants to share a slow dance with Declan. So obvious in fact, that he becomes noticeably uncomfortable. He bites his lower lip and shoves his hands into his pockets. Fiona is the fastest. She cuts between Declan and Avery, takes his hand, and pulls him to the dance floor. The entire room watches, both devastated and impressed, and as I watch them sway to another crappy song, I decide I’m done.
“I’m going to bed,” I say to Zerah.
“What? And miss all of this?” she asks with a half grin. Fiona’s gown glitters beneath the lights, reflecting gold against the sequined green, as if the dress itself knows she’s well on her way to a victory lap. They turn to the music and my eye wanders up the length of her gown to where Declan’s hand gracefully holds her back. Higher still, his smile is practiced, the lines carved into carefully considered creases. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Something uncomfortable twists in my stomach, and I stand. Declan’s eyes shift from Fiona to meet mine.
The delicate skin around his eyes crinkles, and he tilts his head as if to ask something of me. I chew on the side of my tongue and grip the back of my chair.
“Arden?” Zerah’s voice is a welcome interruption, and I break our connection to look at my new peer, my . . . friend, perhaps? Her lips are pursed, and she lifts a questioning eyebrow. It’s an impressive arch.
“Good night,” I say, turning. I head straight for the double doors before I can be interrupted by dancing girls, green sequins, or mesmerizing gray eyes.