Exhaustion courses through me, settling into my bones as I close the Great Hall’s polished doors behind me. Already, the music is softer, and I sigh at the relief. My legs feel like they’re filled with Nordanian copper as I push away and head toward my room. Maybe I’ll dream of emus and pirate ships, if I’m lucky. I’m halfway down the hall, my heels clacking on the black and white floor, already picturing how I will flop into my new bed, when someone calls my name.
“Arden?”
I pause and turn back toward the party. Declan stands outside the closed doors, his cheeks pink from dancing.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
He looks like a prince from a fairy story as he strides toward me, all glowy and sure-footed. I scan my surroundings. While the presence of a guard down the hall should give me some reassurance, my nerves are stretched thin, my instincts on high alert.
“I’m tired,” I say, remembering his question.
“I was hoping to speak with you tonight,” he says, stopping before me. He shoves his hands into his pockets. The motion pulls my gaze to the little gold star pinned between his second and third buttons. It matches the gold in his hair. He shed his jacket earlier in the evening, but his shirt still looks freshly pressed.
“Why?” I ask with a wary frown. Is this another bit of magic, like Meredith’s makeup removal cloths?
He lets out a short burst of laughter and I flinch, having forgotten there was a live person attached to that shirt.
“You were gone before I could the other night. I wanted to meet you.”
“Why?” I ask again, to his face this time. She’s one of only two women to ever get through without an interview. The bureaucrat’s words from my final dinner at Conrad’s come back to me, and an uneasy sensation rolls up my spine. Declan rubs the back of his neck, looking vexed, and I can see a bit of his facade crumble as his gray eyes round with uncertainty.
“I don’t know . . . I just did.” Flimsy giggles and perfumed air drifts down the hall. It’s not awful, but I have the sudden urge to run for higher ground, or at least fresher air. This hallway, with its marble floors and gilded sconces, is no shed, but I feel trapped just the same.
“Well, now you have,” I say.
He holds out his hand, and I stare at it, hesitating the same way I did with Beck.
“It’s nice to meet you, Arden,” he says. I relent after another moment and extend my own.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. He takes my hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my skin. A jolt of heat rolls up my arm, sending my pulse into panicked flight. I retract my hand a little too quickly.
“I should go,” I say, turning away.
“May I walk you?” he asks. I cock my head to the side.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“You have a room full of women waiting for you?”
“They’re not leaving right now.” I didn’t think he’d notice a girl who belongs in the shadows creeping away from a party that glows too bright, but apparently, he did. I shrug and continue walking. He steps in time beside me.
“How are you enjoying the estate?” he asks, formal and stiff.
“It’s lovely,” I respond.
“Have you toured the grounds yet?”
“No, I’ve only seen a few rooms,” I say. “And a couple of halls.” An awkward silence stretches between us as we ascend the stairs and take a right.
The stairwell is narrow and constricting, and I breathe easier when we’re through it. The lighting on the second floor is different: darker and more intimate, with small brass sconces covered in milk glass shades mounted every five or so steps.
“I’m sorry. I know that was a bit much back there,” Declan says, his voice suddenly different. Not just softer—fundamentally different in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. My pulse quickens, and I bite my tongue to stay calm.
“The party? It was . . . nice. The food . . . and the music was . . .” And there was Beck. I smile at the memory of how he put the Great Emu Feather Peddler in his place.
“Loud?” he asks with a wry smile.
“No . . . well, yes.” I turn my eyes to the shiny parquet floor that even in the dark looks somehow splendid and bright.
“Are you homesick?” he asks. I snort, and then stop myself.
“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t speak like that with you.”
“Speak? That was a snort,” he says with a grin. Silence again bleeds into the space between us, but it’s companionable this time. There’s nothing demanding in his demeanor. No pressure, no push or rush for me to answer him. He simply waits. I exhale and feel the room to breathe.
“No, I don’t miss home, but . . .”
“But what?” he asks.
“I’m not certain I belong here, either.” His thick eyebrows draw together, and he stands taller, his posture more formal as he walks.
“What makes you say that?” he says.
“I mean . . . this just isn’t the right place for me. Nothing will come from it. I’m just wasting space.”
“I doubt that very much,” he says. “You were hand-selected—”
“Yes, I know. But I’m not . . .”
“You’re not what?” he asks. I lose my patience. I stop in the middle of the hall and turn to him.
“Look, I know what this is. Everyone knows what this is.”
“And what is that?” he asks, stopping mid-stride. His chest is half expanded, as if I caught him in the middle of a hiccup.
“Well, it’s a contest. For you.” Faint music and the sounds of general merriment rise up the stairwell behind us. He sighs, jaw clenching as his face goes slightly red. I can’t tell if it’s from anger or embarrassment. He bites his lower lip, eyes downcast, as though he’s struggling to find the right words to say. After a moment, he nods.
“Okay, yes. There is a component of that.” I roll my eyes and shake my head.
“A component? It’s the whole thing.”
“It’s not the whole thing,” he says, gray eyes flashing up to mine. “The girls who graduate will find themselves in opportunities beyond their wildest dreams.” His words are insistent; his hands gesticulate as if he’s giving a speech. I raise my eyebrows and press my lips together. We stare at each other for what feels like eternity before he finally looks away, letting out a deep, defeated breath.
“Is it really so foolish that I would want to meet someone?” His voice is softer now, and he seems earnest, like he genuinely wants to know if this is a lost cause. I don’t trust it.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s not about whether or not it’s foolish.”
“Then what?” he asks, stepping toward me. I step back, and his eyes flash with hurt.
“It’s . . .” I start, but the words elude me, vanishing somewhere in the ether of Conrad’s voice telling me to do whatever he wants. The hall around us is so quiet, and its guardians are in Declan’s employ. Would they step in if he tried something? My shoulders rise around my neck, and I stare at the parquet floor. I edge away from him, and when he doesn’t stop me, I keep walking.
“Arden, wait,” he says, catching up quickly. “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” A breathy, nervous laugh escapes my throat.
“No, of course not.” I shake my head, but refuse to meet his gaze.
“Because it kind of seems like I have.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say. He grabs my arm at an awkward angle, and I freeze. Then, just as quickly as his touch warms my skin, he lets go.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I won’t marry you,” I say, my voice weaker than I meant it to be.
“Oh.” His posture falters as an amused grin seeps into the corners of his mouth.
“I mean, it’s nothing personal,” I say, my face flushing hot with embarrassment and anger that he’s so amused.
“How can it be?” he asks with a sheepish half-smile. “We’ve only just met.”
What did I just do? Did I just damn myself to being sent back to the peninsula? My heart thunders in my chest as he turns, striding down the hall to my room. Knowing that he knows where my room is makes me uncomfortable. But it’s his house. It can’t be that odd, can it? He probably knows where all the girls have been assigned. Still, this one is mine, and as he walks away, I realize something important.
“You know, Arden,” he says, sounding suddenly tired, “if you don’t want—”
“I want to stay,” I blurt out, rushing to catch up. My words surprise us both, but I know I mean them. He stops, turning back to me with a confused, uncertain expression.
“You do?”
“Of course I do.”
“Why?” he asks.
“I want to learn,” I say, a warm swell of ashamed anger flushing down my neck.
“You want to learn?” he says, eyes squinted and head cocked.
“Yes, of course. I . . .” I falter. The women who get accepted to this program are supposed to arrive with an elevated education. I don’t want to highlight my ineptitude.
“So, you’re here . . . for the institute?”
“I want a chance.”
“A chance at what?” His shoulders lift, as if floating.
“A job.”
He deflates, ever so slightly, but then nods. Cool understanding dims the gray of his eyes. I look away, unable to bear the weight of his disappointment.
“In some ways, I suppose it’s a relief. Knowing why you’re here. I wish everyone was so forthcoming.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, ducking my face as I start to walk away.
“Wait!” He catches my arm again. I go rigid under his touch, and he freezes in return. He lets go, staring at the bare stretch of skin his hand is no longer touching.
“I’m sorry.” His words are soft as a prayer, genuine and heartfelt, distinct from every other apology I’ve received.
“It’s fine.” I shrug, avoiding his gaze.
“I don’t think it is, but I’ll forgive you that lie.” This is a disaster. Within a few short minutes, I have rejected him, recoiled from him, and now, he thinks I’m a liar.
“What do you want me to say?” I whisper. He lets out a frustrated laugh and shakes his head.
“I don’t want you to say anything. I just wish I understood you.”
“Understood me? I told you—I really want to learn. I want to do the work . . .” My cheeks flush again as I realize he knows my current standing among the ranks. “I want to catch up.”
“You will,” he says with a firm nod.
“How do you know?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his gray eyes studying my face. A confident smile curves into the corner of his mouth. “I just do.”
“And you’ll tell your parents what, exactly?” I ask.
“I’ll tell them nothing,” he says.
“But they’ll see I’m not trying to . . . you know.”
“I do?” Confidence turns to cockiness as he plays dumb, his smile spreading. I choose to ignore it.
“Yeah, you know. Like the other girls.”
“And what are the other girls like?” He might think he’s being coy and charming. I don’t. My patience for this game is wearing out. I huff.
“I don’t know . . . damsels in distress? Marriage material?”
“I object to those classifications.”
“You know what I mean.”
“So, you’re worried they’ll notice you’re not throwing yourself at me? You’ll recall, you’re not supposed to be throwing yourself at me,” he says. The arrogance in his voice is somehow both off-putting and hilarious.
“Won’t they notice we’re not spending time together?”
He presses his lips into a boyish, stubborn line.
“No, they won’t, because we will be spending time together.”
“What? But I—” A door slams further down the hall. He looks in its direction, and then jerks his head toward my room. We move quickly, stepping into the wood-framed mini-vestibule leading to my door. The space is tiny. We’re close enough that my dress brushes against his knees. Warm uneasiness pulses through my body.
“Look,” he says. He takes a deep breath and exhales. “I find you interesting, and beautiful, and I’d like to get to know you better.” Warmth spreads through my chest, even as everything else in me recoils.
“I think you’re wasting your time,” I say, staring at his shoes. There’s a tiny smudge of dirt on the right one.
“I think you should let me be the judge of that,” he says, voice husky. His cheeks redden. “Maybe we could be friends?” The feeling of warmth regresses, and I narrow my eyes.
“I’m not a very good friend,” I say, stepping backward and hitting the wall. He presses his lips together again.
“I think knowing how to be a friend is a skill. It takes practice, and is something worth learning.” The corners of his mouth turn up slightly, and his eyes are victorious. “You did say you wanted to learn.” A small, answering smile breaks through my traitorous lips.
“Fine.”
“Okay, then. It’s settled.”
“What is?”
“We’ll spend some time together, we’ll become friends . . . and we won’t get married.” I laugh under my breath.
“This has been the strangest few days of my life,” I say. I reach across to the doorknob and turn toward him. He is inches away, his warm breath palpable against my temple. My heart pounds as he closes the distance to brush his lips against my cheek.
“Good night, Arden.”
“Good night,” I say. It’s barely more than a half-choked whisper. He smiles and shakes his head. I suck in a breath, anticipating more, but he backs away, disappearing down the hall. I turn the knob and nearly fall through the threshold in my rush to get inside. Shame crawls through my body at my naiveté. I know better than to let him get so close. His family owns everything in this room. In a way, they own me, just as Conrad and, by extension, CJ owned my fate.
Can Declan really be any different?