It’s a room full of men. That’s the first thing I notice. Not a woman in sight. I would have expected Dean Edina to be here, or even Siobhan, but apparently, I was wrong. We’re somewhere in the Northern Point, though I can’t picture where. I was too nervous to track the twists and turns as I was escorted through the halls. It was complicated, though. I know that much. I’m not sure anyone would ever find this place if they didn’t know where to look. But maybe that’s the point.
My pulse hammers at my throat as I’m left in a room with so many men and no discernible way out. The room is long, and windowless, the absence of natural light making it feel stuffy and closed off. The minister is here, seated with a slew of stone-faced advisors at a massive, narrow table made of walnut, with an inlaid four-pronged star. They all wear slightly different iterations of the same suit, right down to the star pins between their second and third buttons. A sign of camaraderie, or allegiance, I suppose. I feel underdressed in my simple cream dress, with its rounded collar and standard-issue candidate bracelet.
Conrad laughs with someone at the far end. I don’t recognize most of them, but one wears a ring of strawberry-blond hair and a familiar condescending smirk. Fiona’s father. Nobody stands or acknowledges me when I enter, and I hover near the back wall, as far from their congregation as I’m allowed.
The door behind me opens, and I turn. Declan stands there, with disheveled hair and a patchy, unshaven chin. He wears the same suit as the rest of them and a stony expression to match. The minister nods at him, and Declan moves toward the table, but then stops. Instead, he stays by my side, joining me. The minister looks up from his papers, eyebrows slashed in surprised arcs, and then blows a heavy exhale through his nose.
“Well, gentlemen, I think you underestimated this one,” he says with a short laugh. A chorus of low chuckles follows, but Conrad remains silent. I’m not sure what the minister means by this, but I flush red just the same. Declan stands squarely with his arms behind his back, looking as though he’s ready for war. His father meets his eyes, and for a moment, it’s like seeing brothers squared off across battle lines.
“Declan, what is the meaning of this?” the minister asks. “Please take your seat so we can begin.”
“There has been a violent assault against one of our leading candidates,” Declan says. “I insist, again, that charges be filed against the perpetrator on behalf of Miss Thatcher.”
“Come now, let us not use such ugly language,” the minister says, dismissively. “We accept that the lady was interfered with, and we have removed the person in question from the grounds.” Conrad sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, as if to say, your move, princess. Declan takes a breath, shuts his eyes briefly, and then continues.
“It has been brought to my attention that this was not a rogue incident.”
“And as I said already, son, the alleged perpetrator is gone.” Alleged perpetrator? Already, this feels like a lost cause.
“His family still lays claim to her,” he says, and the room is icy silent. The minister leans forward and looks me up and down, his eyes lingering ever so slightly at my hip. His knowing gaze all but confirms he’s already been fed one version of the facts.
“And what is your grand plan?” the minister asks. “Did we not already cover this in the discussions these past few days?” Declan turns to me, but doesn’t actually meet my gaze. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on his father, as though, by looking away, he’d concede some type of defeat.
“Why don’t you ask her?” he says, and a flurry of whispers and half-breathed comments follows.
“Before I turn my inquiries to the lady, I want to be sure you understand the repercussions of my doing so—are you saying that you throw the full weight of your power behind whatever whim this girl requests?” The minister stares at his son as heat burns up my chest and into my cheeks. Declan smiles.
“Yes. Of course.”
The minister frowns and looks at the table in front of him. The room around us settles beneath a heavy tension—the weight of fortunes to lose. The minister clears his throat.
“Very well. Arden, what is it that you want, my dear?” The endearment curls around his lips like a sour tangerine. I’ve debated this back and forth, ever since Declan told me it was my decision to make. He offered to find me a good placement, so I could be done with the peninsula and out of the capital. He also offered Independent status, which he said was much murkier. But all I can think about is Zerah, and Carla, and Neve, and Tatiana.
If I leave, I will be married off to the highest bidder. Declan denied it, but I know it’s a fact. If I stay, maybe I can still do something to make a difference. I don’t know what, or how, but if I leave, then I know for sure it’s the end of the line. In a world of crappy choices, there’s really only one I’m willing to make. I clear my throat and wait until the minister lifts his head, so I can look him directly in the eyes.
“I want my benefactor to release his claim on me. I want to continue my time here at the institute as an Independent Candidate.” The men up and down the table smile and shake their heads. It’s obvious they think I’m just a silly girl, that I can’t possibly know what I want. Conrad, however, doesn’t move.
“My dear,” the minister says with a condescending smile, “after all your benefactor has done to support you, to raise you, to prepare you for this, is that not a harsh punishment for something he himself did not do?”
“He didn’t stop it,” I say.
“I have spoken with him, and it was clear he did not know what was happening that night.”
“I’m not talking about that night,” I say, my words calm and clear, though my hands shake and my cheeks burn. The minister looks up and makes a noise in his throat. I continue before my nerve fails, or he can sweep away my insinuation. “I’m talking about the day I was accepted to the institute, and the day before that. The times I was locked in a shed on his property overnight. I’m talking about the very first time, when I was thirteen, and my face was ruined, and he scolded his son for leaving bruises where they could be seen.” The silence is uncomfortable, but unsympathetic. My body feels as though it’s floating on the tension in the air, suspended by my shoulder blades.
“I am not safe on the peninsula,” I say, when nobody has interrupted. “I understand that nothing is guaranteed if I continue as an Independent Candidate, but I know exactly what I’m guaranteed if I return.”
“I think we’ve heard enough,” Conrad says, his voice cutting through the tension with cool ease. “It was obviously an unfortunate, upsetting incident. But when young people are given alcohol, these things do happen. It’s obvious the girl is embarrassed, and wants to smear my family’s good name in an attempt to make her reputation prettier than it is in actuality.”
“I was there,” Declan says, stepping forward. “Don’t tell me these things happen, because what I saw—that should never happen.”
“Arden, what do you say to the massive investment your benefactor has made over the years in your preparation?” the minister asks. Conrad starts to speak, but the minster raises a hand and looks at me, expectant.
“What do you mean by my ‘preparation?’” I ask. “I was educated for three months when I arrived, and was then determined to be undeserving of further education. I have worked as his indentured servant ever since. There’s been no preparation. There haven’t even been regular meals.”
“She’s obviously lying!” Conrad interjects, but the minister raises his hand again.
“Why would he do that?” he asks.
I shrug. “He thought Tatiana was the better choice.”
“Tatiana?” he asks, squinting his eyes as he looks down his nose, as though he’s reading some invisible ledger that will give him the answer.
“She wasn’t nominated, because she’s pregnant. She was raped.”
“Oh, that’s a lie,” Conrad says, shaking his head. “I know the boy in question. He comes from a good family, and she trapped him. She got what she deserved.” The minister stares down the length of the table at him, and the energy in the room starts to shift. Fiona’s father narrows his eyes, glaring at me with sharklike intensity.
“If we grant you Independent status, you understand that you are on your own from here on out? You must provide your own clothing, your own support staff. Do you have a plan for that?” the minister asks, his tone condescending, but cautiously hopeful.
“Up to this point, she has been wearing almost exclusively the house gowns provided by the institute. I will cover the gaps,” Declan says. The minister and his comrades shake their heads with a mixture of distaste and outrage. Fiona’s father is quiet, leaning back in his chair as he strokes the red whiskers on his chin.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate—”
“I don’t care. This is how it will be—if she accepts?” Declan turns to me, eyebrows raised. What can I say? What other option do I have?
“I do, yes. Thank you,” I say, quietly.
“Well, that’s all well and good, but if this gets out—”
“Let people think what they want,” Declan says, stunning the room into silence. Conrad’s face turns purplish-red as he glares at me, and my cheeks feel hot again. I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment, or anger. Maybe both.
“Very well,” the minister says.
“Sir, if I may—” Conrad’s voice is agitated, his words clipped with barely contained rage, but the minister shakes his head and stands.
“You may not. It’s over, Conrad. And we will order an inquiry into your other charges’ conditions. If even an inkling of Arden’s accusations are true, your Benefactorial Trust will be revoked.”
“In that case, we need to discuss compensation,” Conrad says, pushing to his feet. The minister turns slowly to face him, his body is so stiff it’s like watching a mechanical creature.
“I believe your compensation is my willingness to overlook the criminal charges that should rightly be levied against your son. As well as the accessory charges it appears should be levied against you.”
“You take a teenage girl’s word over mine? You’ve known me for years!”
“Yes, I have known you for years.” The minister stares at Conrad. I don’t know what passes between them, but Conrad’s color drains. He looks away, the slope of his shoulders defeated.
“Best of luck,” the minister says to me with a cursory nod. Declan moves to follow as he leaves, offering me a small smile. Dismissed, I walk out the door alone, but independent.