The transformation from academic spectator sport to dazzling dinner party is quick and dramatic, the institute’s staff once more an invisible, efficient whirlwind. The lights are dimmed, the tables dressed in navy linens and stunning gold place settings. Tall, white branches rise from the wide vase centerpieces, ornamented with gold ribbons and hanging tea lights. A different five-piece band plays old standards from the far corner, blending with the dull roar of conversation and clinking glass, and even I could get swept away in the intoxicating elegance.
I don’t bother changing, but other girls add more jewelry, or adjust their hair. Fiona’s ears are now cuffed from bottom to top with diamonds, while Avery’s golden waves are adorned with delicate shooting stars made of her signature rose gold. Despite winning our debate, Molly and I are relegated to a table in the back of the hall. Fiona’s distant, high-ranking Espancian relatives are here, and as such, are being seated at the head table with the First Family, resplendent in what I can only assume is the finest Espancian cotton. Dean Edina explained succinctly, but without pity, that it is tradition for visiting dignitaries to be seated with the First Family. Which is fine, except I overheard Siobhan tell Edina that she would not dine with “that cheating, classless, vulgar girl.” I may have won the debate on a trick play, but Fiona found a shortcut and won the prize.
Instead, Molly and I are sent to a table in the back corner, and I am seated between two people I don’t know, at a table set for eight. Four more candidates are spread amongst the others, and I’m grateful to see Zerah’s name two settings down from mine.
She approaches the table in a fussy silver dress that looks like someone did their best to make it fit, only to have the dress rebel. The bust puckers slightly between her breasts, and the diamond-paneled waist hangs loose, yet hugs tight across her hips. The dress is bad enough, but the boxy, long-sleeved velvet shrug she wears over it makes her look like a trout in a tinsel tourniquet.
“I hate every inch of this,” she says through too-dark lipstick, following my eyes as I slide my gaze down her dress.
“It’s not so bad.” I try not to wince at her discomfort.
“Easy for you to say. You’re fully clothed.”
“You are, too,” I say, nodding at her shrug.
“Barely,” she says, looking like she wants to scratch at her arms.
“If it’s uncomfortable, take it off.”
“I can’t.” Her rebuttal is quick and sharp. She pauses, sucking in a breath, and then continues in the practiced cadence of a mantra she doesn’t quite believe. “I’m grateful to have anything to wear.”
“Do you want to look at what I have? Maybe there’s something in there,” I say.
“What, like your school marm clothes?” she says, nodding at my dress.
“There are others—too fancy for me, but they’re well made.”
“I just want to wear pants,” she says in a breathy whine, and I laugh. “And boots. Why can’t I just wear boots?” She kicks out a leg, her foot stuffed into a tiny shoe that looks horribly uncomfortable.
“Hello, ladies!” says a high-pitched male voice. Zerah quickly covers her leg with her skirt, and I force a measured smile, looking up at the middle-aged bald man standing now between us. He wears a heavy black suit that looks horribly out of fashion and is way too baggy in the legs, and at least four of his fingers bear thick gold rings. He has a wide, if yellowed smile that forces his chin back into his jowls, and all in all, looks sort of like a well-dressed banana slug.
“Hello?” I say, and Zerah bites her lip to keep from laughing.
“It would appear we are tablemates for the evening! Lucky me!”
“Yes,” Zerah says. She flushes, and then quickly adds, “I suppose we are tablemates.”
“I am William Whitey, Nordanian delegate to the Espancian region of Frencia.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Zerah says with a ladylike bow. “I’m Zerah, and this is Arden.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, pulling out Zerah’s chair. She stares at me, tight-lipped, as if to say this is the point in the evening where we have dull conversation, and then sits. I’m next. He pulls out my chair, and I lower myself into it, careful not to cringe away from his proximity. He sits between us.
“Well, aren’t I just the luckiest man in the room? Two lovely ladies with whom to enjoy my meal. And you, Arden—you were the grand winner today! What a treat for me!” His laugh whistles through his too-small nostrils.
“Tell me about yourselves,” he says. “Arden, where are you from?”
I give him a tight smile. “Peninsula City.”
“Oh, what a lovely part of the world! I spent some time there on the outer banks as a child.”
“I’ve never been,” I say before I can stop myself. Anyone with money could afford a day trip to the outer banks from the city. I may as well have written “beneficiary” across my forehead. Though we are all candidates, a clear hierarchy’s been establishing itself, and I just cemented my place at the bottom. His smile tightens, and his eyes skate down my torso with a different, familiar gleam, sending a sharp shiver ratcheting up my shoulders.
“Shame. You’ll have to make a point of it sometime,” he says, turning away. “And Zerah, where are you from?”
“The Northwest,” she says, her shoulders curving into a subtle slouch. Is she as uncomfortable in the spotlight as I am, afraid of what the enhanced scrutiny will reveal, or just not that impressed with the part of the world she calls home? I don’t yet know her well enough to tell, though I suspect it’s the first one from the way she shrinks away from everyone’s feigned curiosity.
“Oh, how wonderful!” William says.
“Have you been?” she asks.
“Yes, we camped there when I was a child. Beautiful country!”
“It can be,” she says. This is the most I’ve heard Zerah speak to anyone but me, the most affable I’ve ever seen her, but her vacant eyes are haunted. I try to ignore the shiver that longs to roll down my back, and as they continue to exchange empty pleasantries, I turn my attention to the room instead. Every table is set exactly like ours: boy-girl, boy-girl. The only exception is the empty seat next to me. If I were another girl, I’d find this man’s absence disrespectful—hurtful, even, after having heard Siobhan’s earlier slight—but if it means I don’t have to talk to anyone the entire evening, it’ll suit me just fine.
The uneasy weight of watchful eyes settles on me, and I turn, meeting Declan’s gaze from across the room. He raises his eyebrows and smiles. Unable to look away, I smile back. He starts to rise, but Fiona, sitting beside him, places a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. His expression dims, just a hair, as he turns toward her Espancian relatives instead, wearing that politician’s smile that seems so second nature.
“Ugh!” A solid mass of grunts collapses onto the chair next to me, and I startle, turning to our tardy tablemate. He’s young—twenty years younger than William Whitey, at least—and wears an ambiguously dark, wrinkled shirt, buttoned only three-quarters of the way, beneath a quilted leather vest, a black wool jacket, and a gray necktie that hangs loose. Dark, heavy pants are tucked into black, thick-soled boots—the kind worn by men who don’t usually spend their time navigating posh circles like these—and his dark, wavy hair is unkempt, tied back with a ragged bit of leather. He looks as if he hasn’t shaved in several days, and he stares down at his name card as though expecting it to change. Then, without shifting his head, he slowly moves his eyes to look at me. They’re almond-shaped and heavy-lidded, and they hold my gaze with the authority born of confidence, or maybe apathy, making me feel like I need his permission to look away.
He glances around my shoulders, tilting onto the back legs of his chair to get a good peek at William, and then drops forward with a bang. He scoots the chair back from the table, just enough to lean his elbows on his thick thighs, and places his head in his hands.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, chewing on something.
“Are you okay?” I ask, more amused than I am concerned. He tilts his head toward me and squints, as though he’s working out a particularly nasty puzzle. He jerks upright, and I flinch at the unexpected violence of the motion. A snarky grin twitches the corners of his mouth as he extends a massive bronzed hand.
“Beck,” he says. I stare at his hand, covered in a visible film of dirt, and then turn my nonplussed gaze to his. He pulls his hand back, sniffs his palm, and then extends it again with a shrug. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m not contagious . . . I don’t think . . .”
I hesitate a second longer, then take his hand and shake it. His calluses are rough and scratchy, but his grip isn’t nearly as forceful as it could be.
“Arden,” I say.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“It’s what your place card says.” He nods toward the card sitting by my empty wine glass. A thick strand of wavy dark hair flops into his eyes.
“Then, why’d you ask?”
“I didn’t.”
“But you—”
“No. I was clarifying that I like to be called Beck,” he says. I look at his place card—it says, Sobeck Hermeston.
“So, you won’t answer to Sobeck?” He shakes his head, hair flopping across his eyes.
“I’ll answer to a great many things, but not Sobeck.”
“Has this ever been tested?” He narrows his thick, dark eyebrows, and his full lips split into a puckish grin. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Not clinically.” I raise my eyebrows and reach for my water glass. He casts a stealthy glance around, and then reaches past the centerpiece to retrieve a carafe of wine. He pours the golden liquid into his own glass, filling it until it’s almost full, and then offers some to me. I shake my head, and he hesitates, then fills my glass to the proper level and relocates it next to his.
“You need to be drunk to sit next to me?” I ask.
“It so happens I am already drunk, so I figure why stop a good thing?” He lifts his glass and faces me, shoulders square, then pushes mine forward with his finger. “Should we toast to our health? Or the health of the realm? I can never remember what’s in fashion, and what makes me look like an asshole.”
“Is that something that keeps you up at night?” I ask, nodding at his glass. “Mishandling a toast?” Already, I can feel the glares from our tablemates.
“I suppose not,” he says, raising his glass toward me. “To the victims of the small bird massacre that will undoubtedly fill our bellies tonight.” I sit still, unsure if toasting or abstaining will give the greater offense. He shrugs and drinks half his glass, then sets it down and refills.
“What’s wrong? Don’t care for this Espancian crap blend?” he asks. Years of being tricked into drinking things that left me unable to defend myself have led me to abstain whenever possible, but I can feel more than Beck’s eyes on me, and I don’t want to cause a scene. I lift my glass to my lips and take a respectful sip; the acidity burns my throat as I swallow. I set the glass aside and look at him, forcing my emotions down with the drink. His eyes narrow slightly, and his nostrils flare.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice quieter.
“You simply must come to visit our property sometime!” William says to Zerah, his shrill tenor floating over the rest of the table conversation. Zerah’s smile is strained, but she nods politely.
“Where are you from, man?” Beck asks across me, leaning forward so William can see him. His strong baritone makes William’s voice sound whiny.
“Not far. Just along the gulf to the south,” William says.
“Near the stockyards? Or the mudflats?” Beck asks, tipping back more wine. William’s mouth pinches, and I wonder if humiliating people is Beck’s only move.
“South of the mudflats. We do a lot of clamming, actually. It’s quite the family tradition,” he says with renewed energy.
“Clamming? South of the mudflats? Don’t think so,” Beck says. “Haven’t been clams down there for years.”
“It’s a bonding activity. And we do find them—some years are better than others,” William says, his face going slightly red.
“Good thing you’ve got people to truck ’em in from up north, then,” Beck says. An ugly sneer twists William’s face. He shakes his head.
“You’re obviously not Nordanian, or you would know better. So who, precisely, are you?” he asks, turning on Beck as though I’m not still seated awkwardly between them. I glance at Beck, but come up empty as to what makes him so obviously not Nordanian.
“Beck Hermeston,” he says. “Born and raised in Nordania, as a matter of fact.” He places a hand on the back of my chair and reaches across me with the other, trapping me as he extends his palm to William. He smells like brine and leather and citrus—not an unpleasant combination. I focus on it to distract myself from the unease creeping up my spine. His heavily calloused hand is steady and calm, keeping my anxiety over being stuck within the circle of his arms surprisingly quelled and at bay. William looks at the extended hand and turns up his nose.
“The pirate, himself!” William says. An amused grin spreads into the folds of his jowls, but Beck doesn’t react. “William Whitey, Nordanian delegate to the Espancian region of Frencia.”
“No kidding? The emu guy?” Beck asks, thumping his arm down hard on the table. My place setting rattles with the impact, and I flinch. Beck’s gold-flecked gaze flickers to me before turning just as fast back to William. William’s face has gone a deep shade of crimson, and the humor of the moment is calming.
“What does he mean? Emus?” Zerah asks, perking up, her hazel eyes wild with intrigue. Poor William mistakes her sarcasm for genuine interest. He puffs with self-importance and clears his throat.
“It just so happens that Frencia is home to the world’s largest population of domestic emus. It is also the world’s largest exporter of emu feathers, and it falls under my purview to ensure that Nordania receives all the emu feathers it needs.”
“How many emu feathers do we need?” I ask, with too much emphasis on need. Zerah conceals a snort. Beck buries his laughter into my shoulder, and a high-pitched, nervous giggle crawls up my throat at the way his warm breath tickles my neck. William huffs, shaking his head.
“Obviously, a woman of your class cannot begin to understand the appeal of such a luxury item. I see no purpose in continuing this inane conversation,” he says. Beck stands, sudden and harsh, all trace of humor gone. William looks up, and a flash of fear crosses his bloated face before his lips purse with the indignant entitlement of someone who’s always purchased the upper hand.
“I think you owe the lady an apology,” Beck says, hovering over William, his hands braced on the table before me. His shoulders rise into his neck, giving the impression he’s expanded. I shrink down in my seat between them.
“If it will make you sit, then yes, I apologize, Arden,” he says, not looking at me.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, but Beck doesn’t sit. I lift my hand, hesitate for a moment, then place it lightly over his. I have no doubt he could hurt William. “People here already think I’m trash. Please don’t give them another reason.”
His eyes flicker to mine, but he doesn’t move. After another moment, he sits and drains the rest of his wine. A tiny, frustrated sigh escapes me as the tension drains. It doesn’t matter what I do, I’m always stuck between the person who thinks I’m trash and the person who’s drunk—or both.
“You don’t have to take that,” Beck says, his voice soft, but not gentle.
“Yeah, I do,” I say. It’s the way it’s always been. It strikes me that I don’t feel anything when I say those words. Not anymore. All that’s left is the numbness. He leans into the table, ducking into my eyeline so I can’t help but look at him.
“No,” he says, not blinking, “you don’t.”
“What would you have me do?” I ask in a hushed tone, bunching the fabric of my skirt in my hands.
“Stand up for yourself, for one.”
“And what would that have done for me?” He sits back in his chair, cocking his head. He stares at me, assessing, then bites his lip to fight the sardonic grin threatening to break through, and shakes his head.
“Unbelievable.”
“What is?”
“That’s all this is to you, isn’t it?”
“That’s all what is?” My eyebrows pinch with confusion.
“Marriage camp.”
I tense and open my mouth to respond. He raises a hand, shakes his head again. “Save it. You don’t have to pretend with me. I’ve seen it over and over. I know what the friendship bracelets look like.” He gives a meaningful nod at my wrist.
“You think I want to marry that?” I whisper, pointing my thumb over my shoulder. The bracelet catches my eye, winking in the softened light, and I tuck my wrist under my opposite arm. He laughs in a quiet wheezing fit and shakes his head.
“Look, I get it. You come here, and your stock rises. So instead of ending up with the butcher’s third dumb son, you get to land someone who thinks he can clam barren mudflats. But hey, at least your boots won’t smell like manure.”
“That’s not me,” I say.
He arches a skeptical eyebrow as a server places a dish in front of him, and then me. On it is a small game hen with an assortment of roasted root vegetables. Beck looks at the table, and then sits back, his face the picture of satisfied glee.
“See? What did I tell you?” He discreetly removes an orange peel from the inside of his cheek and folds it into his napkin. Then he picks the meat off the bone using a fork and his fingers. He pauses for a moment, nodding solemnly as he says, “May we observe a moment of silence in honor of our fallen comrades.”
He grins and bites into a long strip of bird, letting the grease drip down his chin. I’ve lost my appetite, but I can’t look away. He smiles widely, his mouth full of animal. The clank of silver on glass draws my attention to the other side of the room.
“We would like to thank you all for attending today’s event,” Siobhan says, standing between Declan and Fiona at the head table. “It is because of your unwavering support that this institute flourishes.” She raises her hands in a polite clap that probably doesn’t make a sound. Equally polite applause fills the room, and she smiles, waiting for it to dissipate.
“I’d like to raise a glass to all of our guests tonight, but especially to our friends from Espancia, who made a special trip to be here today in support of our bright young candidates.” Glasses rise, and Fiona looks radiant, basking in the attention. I roll my eyes, and Beck snorts.
“Now please, eat!” About two-thirds of Beck’s plate is already clean, and I can’t help but be a little impressed by his commitment. The conversation around us resumes, a pleasant buzz punctuated by the clack of silver on china.
“So, she’s the one, huh?” he asks.
“The one, what?” I say, poking at my meal with my fork.
“The girl Espancia’s throwing its weight behind.”
“Fiona?” I ask, looking at her as she smiles and demurely bites into a delicate bit of bird.
“If that’s a Fiona, then yeah, that’s the one.”
“You think he’ll marry her because another country tells him to?” I ask. He laughs and shakes his head.
“You really don’t know how this works, do you?”
“Why don’t you enlighten me?” I say, crossing my arms. He pours himself some more wine and takes a hearty gulp.
“Well, first, Lord Bedhead there isn’t marrying any of you. Not yet, anyway.”
“Why not?” I ask, too quickly.
“Oh, it’s nothing personal, princess. It’s just not happening.”
“I didn’t take it personally, and I want to know why it’s not happening.”
“Because it doesn’t benefit the crown for him to marry.” Beck shrugs and takes another drink, watching me over the glass’s rim.
“The crown?”
“The government, the ruling party, the whole damn shitshow—whatever you want to call them. He’s the only heir they’ve got, and once he’s married, all of this kiss-assery goes away.”
“But it’s not like the institute will go away if Declan marries,” I say.
“No, the institute will still exist. It’s not going anywhere, but that’s not the point,” he says. “As long as there’s a chance someone could marry him and become wife and heir-factory to Nordania, people will keep cutting deals with the ruling family. Once he’s married, this all goes away.”
“But women will still graduate from the institute, won’t they? It’s not like their influence will disappear.” He stares at me with an incredulous smile.
“You are so damn optimistic,” he says.
“Well, that’s something I’ve never been accused of.” He edges closer, leaning his arm on the table between our meals.
“You really don’t see what’s happening here?” He moves his greasy finger in a small circle, and I examine the room again. Every table is seated boy-girl, boy-girl, and there’s a visual distinction among the tables now, literal gaps between couples. Heck, at our own table, Zerah tolerates William’s conversation, Molly talks to another man, and the fourth girl talks to yet another.
“They don’t want him to pick anyone?” I ask, looking back at Declan. He’s still speaking with Fiona and her family. “What about Fiona?”
“Well, her family’s here. They have to keep up appearances.” My stomach churns, and I suddenly feel like I might be sick. A quick image of the map from the library flashes through my head, but I don’t know why.
“This is wrong,” I say, and he laughs, nodding vehemently.
“I hate to kick you when you’re down—and sober—but there’s more,” he says.
“More?” I’m not sure I want to hear any more.
“I’m afraid you’ve been given the throwaway mate,” he says, brushing his thick hair back off his forehead and grinning broadly, showing off his slightly crooked front teeth.
“You’re the throwaway mate?”
“Yep.” He almost seems proud of that fact.
“What does that mean?”
“For me, nothing. But for you, it ain’t good.”
“Explain,” I say, turning my knees to face him.
“Look around. This room is full of mid-level bureaucrats. The big guns will come in later, but it’s still a pretty respectable group of men.”
“Mid-level?” I ask. He nods, drinking more wine.
“Not particularly important or powerful, but with something genuine to offer, including Mr. Emu-Feathers over there.” I stifle a laugh and shake my head.
“So, then, what about you?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I got nothing. Sorry.”
“You have nothing?” I say.
“No, I got nothing. Very different. Family shame—you know the deal. It’s all very dark and pathetic. No influence, no power. Nothing.”
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask.
“They needed a seat filled, and when I’m in town, I’m entitled to a meal.”
“You’re entitled to a meal? What are you? A troubadour?” He does that strange wheeze-laugh again and shakes his head.
“I wish! Can’t you just picture me with a penny whistle? Or a hurdy-gurdy?” He chuckles to himself, and then leans forward on his elbows. “I have a ship. I sail across the Mittlesee, and when I’m in town, I get merchant quarters, which entitles me to a meal. This just happened to be the meal tonight.”
“So, you have a boat,” I say, with a grin.
“Ship. It’s my father’s ship,” he says, swerving out of my logical trap.
“And, if you weren’t here . . .”
“You’d be alone,” he says. I don’t envy the other girls engaged in conversation with middle-aged men, and yet I hate the feeling of inferiority that settles into my neck, pushing down on my spine.
“Great,” I say.
“Hey, on the upside, I decided to show up, and I guarantee I’m more interesting than anyone else here.”
“I’m not interested,” I say, pushing my vegetables around my plate. He laughs out loud this time.
“I can’t imagine you are. You came here for a damn prince.“
“No, I didn’t,” I say sharply, turning my head to glare at him. He raises his eyebrows and lets out a breath, as though surprised by my reaction.
“Okay, you didn’t.” If what he says is true, then my only way out of here is a marriage agreement with someone who considers me worthwhile. But I don’t want a freaking husband—I want a job. I want a real chance at a life where I call the shots. I bite my tongue to keep the devastation out of my eyes.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer.
“I don’t belong here,” I say, staring at the table. Beck doesn’t respond. A waiter walks by, collecting plates. They take his, leaving mine. I’m reminded of my own words, shaming Avery for choosing to skip her meal. Turns out, with the right circumstances, I’m not much better.
“You and me both, Capo.” I look up at the odd nickname. His eyes flicker up to mine, something undefinable flashing in their green-gold depths before they quickly dart away. He clears his throat, washing down whatever it is that got caught with the rest of his wine. He sets it down with a dull thump. “Two sore appendages like us,” he says, eyes cast down toward the table, “we’re bound to run into each other before I go. I’ll be here for a few weeks while we wait for our next . . . shipment.” He looks up, glancing toward Zerah. The band gets louder as Fiona and Declan walk to the dance floor together, Fiona blushing like a virginal debutante. Slowly, other couples rise to join them, and a sick, creeping feeling spreads from my stomach as Zerah and William do the same. I look at Beck, wary. He scrunches up his face and shakes his head.
“Nope,” he says. “This is where I leave.” I’m relieved, but the embarrassment of being left alone is overwhelming.
“Can I leave, too?” I ask. His green eyes are round with empathy, but he sighs and shakes his head.
“Tell you what, stay here for a minute,” he says, pushing up to his feet. He only wobbles a little. I watch as he crosses the room to Dean Edina. He says something to her, gesturing toward me. She looks at me with concern, and then returns with him.
“Mr. Hermeston tells me you’re feeling unwell?” she asks, examining my untouched dinner. I say a silent thank you for Beck’s terrible table manners and nod slowly.
“I feel a little queasy,” I say. Her eyes migrate to my wine glass.
“Well, I know this may seem unfair, but I can’t have you getting the others ill,” she says, a slight warning in her tone. “I think you should skip the rest of the evening and get some rest.” Her eyes travel between Beck and me, and she sighs.
“Mr. Hermeston, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I think it best that I escort Arden to her room.” As ridiculous as her insinuation may be, my cheeks flush at her suggestion of potential impropriety.
“Then I’ll say my farewells,” he says to her. To me, he says, “Good night, Arden. It’s been a pleasure.” He turns on his heel with a quick wink and strides out of the room, grabbing a freshly corked bottle of the Espancian blend from a waiter. Applause titters through the air as one song ends and the next begins. This time, Declan turns a leggy brunette—Deena, I think—around the floor.
“Arden, I must say, you’ve handled yourself very well tonight,” Dean Edina says, giving my shoulders a little squeeze. Her eyes stray to the dance floor, where my classmates have paired off with their tablemates. A hazy, distracted smile crosses her face, and she waves me off; apparently, she had no intention of actually escorting me anywhere.
“Now, go get some rest.”
I nod and make my exit, ready to tuck myself into bed.