For the next three days, I skulk around the estate, avoiding Declan. Though it seems he’s avoiding me, too. Whether he’s ignoring me out of irritation or self-preservation, I don’t know. And I don’t really care.
My body won’t relax, and I realize that my time here has been the first in as long as I can remember that my defenses weren’t on constant heightened alert. That was my mistake. Just because it’s prettier and smells better doesn’t mean it’s any less dangerous. It just means the vipers wear better cologne.
If I hadn’t pushed Declan off me in the hedge maze, what would have happened? In a place where nobody can see or hear me, what would he have done? My restless sleep is now punctuated with nightmares of being held down in a shed made of hedges, and instead of CJ’s voice, it’s Declan’s.
I should have seen it coming. Declan is untouchable. He will inherit the ministry. He’s been raised to expect certain things, and I’m sure that, in the many years he’s seen girls coming through his home, he’s not found many unwilling participants. I should have expected this. I should have known from the first night, when I told him I wasn’t interested and he kissed my cheek. Of course, this is what would happen. Of course, he would just take what he wanted, even knowing that I didn’t want the same thing. But if that were true, then why did I kiss him back? The dark shadow of doubt, and guilt, and self-directed rage shrouds me like a blanket and hot, ashamed tears rush to my eyes. I bite my tongue, forcing them back down to the place I keep all the other emotions I don’t have the luxury to feel.
I let my guard down, plain and simple. I was foolish and naive. The last time that happened, I was turning thirteen and new to the Laarsworth plantation. Aside from CJ’s leering eyes, I thought I was safe. I trusted it. Then Tatiana was chosen as the investment, and the next day, CJ showed me his shed. When I resisted, I got a split lip for my trouble. He was reprimanded, of course, but it was Conrad’s booming voice that really leveled me.
“If you get mad,” he told CJ, “you walk away. Or at the very least avoid the face, hands, and anything that prevents it from working.”
At that moment, I realized I was never safe, had never been safe, would never be safe, as long as they were in charge. It wasn’t until I was older that I truly understood. I wasn’t worth a pronoun. I was an “it,” a dehumanized nothing.
I wonder how many others at the institute have had a similar upbringing? I’m certain Fiona and Avery didn’t go to sleep afraid that someone else might slip into their bed. As I enter today’s classroom, I take note of the faces around me—they look well rested, save for Zerah, who looks perpetually tired. My heart hurts, watching her stare at a book on the table as though she’s reading. Her eyes are unfocused.
Somehow, I know she’s aware of everything around her. If anything, the book is a distraction from her own thoughts, if not a prop to make her appear less distracted. Molly sits at the table in the front left corner—the one reserved for the top two students. As her debate partner and co-winner, I’m supposed to sit with her, but every muscle in my body resists. Instead, I palm my brass nameplate and cross the room to where Zerah sits. She places a hand over her book, and her skittish eyes jump from me to every corner of the room.
“What’re you doing?” she hisses, pushing a limp lock of hair from her pale cheek.
“Joining you, if that’s okay,” I say, sliding into my new chair at her table, ignoring Fiona’s glare from the doorway and Molly’s quiet scrutiny. Zerah’s eyes flicker around the room.
“Do you want everyone to hate you?” she asks.
“I don’t particularly care what they think,” I say.
“Well, that’s novel.”
“Do you care?” I ask. Maybe I’ve misread her, and she doesn’t want to be seen as someone who breaks the rules.
“Tara might,” she says with a shrug, nodding past me.
Tara doesn’t care. She’s thrilled to take her own nameplate and relocate to the top seat with Molly, though Molly glares at me with baffled disdain.
“Good morning, ladies.” Dean Edina’s voice booms as she moves from the back of the room to the podium. Everyone takes their seats, and an anxious calm descends. She looks around the room as she takes her place at the front of the class, and then pauses, her eyes first on Molly and Tara, then on Zerah and me.
“Tara? Arden? What is the meaning of this?” she asks.
“Arden wanted to switch seats,” Tara says.
“Arden?” Dean Edina says, and I feel all eyes swivel toward me. Zerah looks down at her book, while Fiona watches with something between hunger and intrigue.
“Yes, Dean Edina. I asked if she would switch.”
“Is there a problem I should be aware of?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why would you do this?” Her voice is slightly shrill, and I know if I don’t say exactly the right thing, I’ll be on her bad side.
“I have really enjoyed working with Molly. She’s a great teammate.”
“Wonderful. That doesn’t answer my question,” she says, leaning into her fist, her weight braced on the table beneath the podium.
“Well, I’ve noticed that Tara’s been working so hard this week. And I’ve been wanting to work with Zerah.”
“So you eschewed tradition and gave up your top seat?” she asks, tapping a finger against the table.
“With all due respect, it’s only a chair, ma’am. I can do the work from anywhere.” The words hang in the still air longer than I’m comfortable with, and my cheeks get hot.
“I see,” she says, looking down at her podium with an unreadable face. The silence in the room is crushing. I shrink in my chair, withering under the weight of everyone’s stares.
“Very well. You’re absolutely right,” she says, a broad smile sweeping across her face. “Seating arrangements are tradition, but it’s no guarantee. I’ve seen many women become complacent after receiving a highly placed chair. It moves me to see your confidence shine through like this. Arden, Tara, thank you for reminding me—and all of us—that there is more to this experience than numbers.” She claps her hands together, and the others slowly join her. I can’t bring myself to meet Tara’s gaze, but I can feel the vitriolic intensity of someone who knows she’s been made a fool burning into the side of my face.
I want to roll my eyes. You wanna be my enemy? Fantastic. Get in line. Instead, I pick up a fountain pen and take notes about Suderstanian poetry.