Dean Edina has taken our slow progress personally and has increased our classroom time, most likely hoping that she can force the information into our heads by osmosis. I’ve slipped slightly in the overall score, but am still clinging tight to first place. I’ve found a few more threatening objects in my room—a dead rat, a slashed dress—but nothing that requires medical attention. I told Beck about them, and he told me to set traps.
“You want me to set traps? Around my room?”
“Yes.” He blinked at me, his expressen flat and dead serious. “I thought that was obvious.”
“What, like a giant mouse trap?”
“Or a giant bear trap. Actually, a regular bear trap would work.”
I wasn’t sure how to feel about that conversation, and left his cabin with a greater sense of unease than I cared for. His words were flippant enough, and he made me laugh at the idea of planting a bear trap in my room. But still, there was a darker undertone of worry in his words, and I’ve wondered how much to take in jest, and how much to take to heart, ever since.
Meanwhile, I haven’t talked to Declan since our fight. When I think about him, my stomach knots tighter and tighter, until I think I’ll be sick. I’m so angry at him for not believing me. But there’s something softer and squishier mixed in, too. I have dreams about kissing him on the roof, and then, when he pulls away, his head is a mass of basil and my face is covered in blisters.
I haven’t told him about the other threats I’ve received these past two weeks. He might have heard about the dress, since Meredith was the one who found it, but if he did, he didn’t let me know. It was slashed nearly beyond repair. Meredith was distraught, but I think she’s been working to put it back together. I’m not sure what Declan’s paying to keep her on, but it must be so much more stressful for her to suffer setbacks when it’s him who’s footing the bill.
Molly hasn’t received any more threats, but she says she hasn’t spent any time with Declan, either. She seems sad and almost resigned. Her scores have slipped, but fortunately, she hasn’t fallen low enough to sit at a different table. Fiona has been eyeing her seat from the next table over like a harpie lying in wait. I don’t relish the idea of having her as my tablemate.
“I can’t read another word about the citrus trade in Brandeissland,” Molly says, letting a heavy book thump against the bookshelf behind us. We’re in the library, doing “independent research,” as Dean Edina calls it, about the country of our choice. Of course, the country of my choice would be Osterstan, simply because nobody talks about it and I want to know why. But when I presented that idea, Dean Edina sneered.
“Osterstan simply does not have the caliber of economy to compete with its neighbors. That’s why you don’t see more about it. It is not worth independent research. How about Swendenland?”
I picked Sudersberg to spite her, but now, I regret that decision. I keep staring at the border between it and Osterstan; it makes me think of Zerah. I wonder how she’s faring.
“If I never read about wood pulp again, it’ll be too soon,” I say, letting the dusty book cover fall closed with an unceremonious plop on the table.
“You think that’s bad? It’s nothing but oranges in Brandeissland. Some other pitted fruits, too, but so much fiber. It’s giving me a stomachache.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I say, as my mind drifts to something funny that Beck said. She raises a finger and bites her bottom lip, going slightly cross-eyed as she scans for something specific.
“Ah,” she says, tapping her bangs twice with her index finger, “here it is. ‘The downside to so much citrus fruit is, of course, that in the hot Brandeissland sun, not all fruit can be picked or consumed in the ideal time frame, and so, there is much waste. As it decays, it produces something akin to a sticky fertilizer that is used throughout the country. It has a slightly acidic fragrance that many Brandeisslandian women incorporate into their beauty regimens.’”
“Ew.” With as much citrus as we grew on the peninsula, I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this before. I shudder to imagine Headmistress Moyle dabbing her pulse points with rotten citrus.
“Note to self: do not settle for someone from Brandeissland,” she says, closing the dense book with a thunk. It’s reasonably quiet in here—too quiet for any sensitive conversations. But we’re also far enough from the other girls, who seem much more interested in their research. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Beck’s interrogation into my plans for the future, so I take a chance.
“Can I ask you a question?” I keep my voice low. I don’t want to fight with her again, but I need to talk to someone else, someone who is in this with me.
“Sure,” she says.
“Please don’t read anything into this . . .” I close my eyes and exhale. “What are your plans for when this ends?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, lowering her eyebrows, creating too much space between them and her bangs.
“I mean, there’s nine of us, right? We can’t all end up with Declan.”
“I thought you didn’t want to,” she says in a sharp whisper.
“I don’t. That’s not—” I sigh again and reset. “I mean, if you don’t end up with Declan, what will you do after this?”
“I don’t think I really have much say in the matter,” she says with careless ease as she runs a finger down another dusty tome.
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Well, of course it bothers me,” she says with a frown. “But it’s the way the world works. I know my parents wouldn’t put me in a situation that wasn’t worth it.”
“Worth it to who, though?”
“Well,” she says. She opens her mouth as though she’s going to continue into a long conversation, but nothing comes out. She scrunches her nose and tilts her head slightly, as if deep in an unpleasant thought.
“Ladies,” Dean Edina interrupts us, and it’s just as well. We gather round, standing shoulder to shoulder, so she doesn’t have to yell across the library.
“I am delighted to inform you that we will be hosting another state dinner in two days’ time.” Some of the girls let out hushed squeals, while others just look confused—most notably, Molly.
“Excuse me, Dean Edina? I didn’t think there was another state dinner until graduation?” Molly asks. The whispers fade into silence as we wait for Dean Edina to answer. The dean blinks in rapid succession.
“While that is typically true, this year, we are fortunate enough to be hosting an additional fete to celebrate your midpoint. Representatives from all of our allied nations will be in attendance.”
“Why?” I ask. The other ladies seem equally interested in the answer, but Dean Edina looks down her nose at me.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We are proud of the progress you’ve made and want to show you off to the world!” Most of the girls smile and nod, but something doesn’t sit right. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can smell that something’s off.
“What do you think that’s about?” I ask Molly once we’re safely alone in the hall. Neither of us is headed anywhere specific, and so we find ourselves walking toward the grand foyer. Workers in matching uniforms bustle in every direction possible, carrying bedding, flowers, and crates of wine. For a moment, it’s as if I’m back in Peninsula City, among the hustle of men with money to be made.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just nerves?” she says, but her words are tempered, lacking their usual levity. Her eyes follow a worker as he maneuvers a dolly loaded with a large barrel.
“I don’t know. . . . She’s been so on edge about us falling behind, and now this?”
“Maybe? I mean, I haven’t exactly done this before . . .” Molly says with a stilted laugh.
“Arden?” Declan’s voice has a visceral effect on my body, causing my heart to twist and my stomach to drop. I don’t turn around. Molly does, though.
“Well, hello there, Declan,” she says brightly.
“Nice to see you, Molly,” he says with a cursory nod. “Are you well?”
“Right as rain,” she says with a cheery grin. He nods and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Do you mind if I talk to Arden alone?” he asks. I can feel Molly’s spirit falling as the color drains from her cheeks, but she nods and mumbles some kind of goodbye. He walks around me until I have to look at him. Heavy shadows smudge beneath his eyes, making his irises seem more silver than gray. His hair is a little shiny, his skin pale. He doesn’t look like himself.
“Can we talk somewhere?” he asks. I shrug.
“You tell me.”
He presses his fists into his hips and closes his eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he says quietly. His words shake me, unraveling something tight. But it’s the earnest plea in his gaze, when he reopens his eyes, that thaws my resolve. “Can we please talk?”
I nod and follow him out through the main doors.
It’s late afternoon, and people are outside, enjoying the sunshine during their free time. The late summer sun is too hot, the air too still, and the visibility is obscured by a thick haze. It seems like the weather should be starting to cool by now, but it hasn’t taken even so much as a breath. I feel too many sets of eyes on us as he loosens the collar of his linen shirt and unhooks the buttons at his left wrist. He struggles to unlatch the right sleeve, and the way he blows his hair off his forehead tugs a smile from the corners of my mouth.
“Here, let me help,” I say, unwrinkling his right sleeve and rolling it up in crisp, neat folds. I do the same to the left.
“Thanks,” he says, touching my wrist. I freeze for a moment, and we each stare at our hands resting on the other. We let go at the same time, both of us quickly looking awkwardly away. Declan clears his throat and nods toward the Rhododendron Garden. I follow him toward the unkempt grove of less than impressive bushes. Most are wilted and bud-bare. Still, they’re tall and provide some privacy and shade on this sweltering summer day.
“You were right,” he says, walking with his hands stuffed into his pockets. “I didn’t want to believe that people here would do that—hurt you, I mean.” His words stop my heart, and it takes a heavy swallow for me to find my voice again.
“Thank you,” I say, walking ahead of him so he can’t see my face.
“But things are getting out of hand.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” I reach for a lone pink blossom and examine it.
“Like you handled the shredded dress?”
“You heard about that?”
He nods, frustration pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Mother was outraged.”
“Your mother was?” I turn around. “Why?”
He shrugs. “She thought you had done it because you didn’t like it. You didn’t tell me about it, so I had a hard time defending you.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
“I know.” I let go of the flower and continue down the path.
When I don’t say anything more, he clears his throat. “I actually . . . um, I have to talk to you about something.”
“Okay,” I say, turning a corner to find the welcome relief of shade. My dress is doing nothing to keep me cool. Made of a heavy cotton, it sticks to my body, giving my skin no room to breathe. Much like this conversation.
“I’m sure you’ve heard we’re having another state dinner?”
“I might have heard mention of it, yes.”
“Well, my mother thinks I need to sit with someone else.” He places the words so delicately, I wonder if he thinks they might break. Or that I might break with them.
“Okay.”
“It’s . . . well, you’re the top girl.” He frowns, and his voice is more agitated, as if I’ve simply misunderstood.
“Okay,” I say again, leaning forward to examine a clump of hidden white blossoms.
“I think she has a mind to seat you with a delegation from Sudersberg. Or that pirate.” He’s angry now. His words poke and prod, as if he wants me to bite back.
“Beck?” I ask, looking up. That would actually be nice. At least then, I’d have someone to talk to who can take a joke. Maybe I could even get away with wearing my sparring boots instead of heels. Declan snorts and shakes his head.
“You aren’t outraged?” he asks. “You should be outraged. This will do nothing to help you find a good position.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. He offered me a spot on his crew.” Declan doesn’t move. His eyes harden, and his jaw tightens.
“The pirate offered you a job?”
“Beck did.”
“On his boat?”
“No.”
“No? You just said—”
“It’s not a boat. It’s a ship.”
“What an honor,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I’ve always wanted to see the Mittlesee.”
He runs a hand through his hair and exhales forcefully, exasperation etched into every line of his posture. “Arden, I wish you would take this seriously.”
“What makes you think I’m not?” I ask, tugging at the wilting blooms. I tuck one behind my ear. “I think I’d be great on the water. Seeing new sights, meeting interesting people—”
“You can’t handle your rum,” he says. I turn, stare at him in shock. He’s practically glaring at me. His arms are crossed, tension making his stance rigid and stiff. The barb was clearly something he intended, something he knew would hurt. He wanted me to be outraged? Well, looks like he got what he wanted.
“Screw you,” I say, spitting the words at him. It doesn’t feel adequate enough to counter his low blow. I start to walk away, but then stop. Beck’s words come back to me: “You can’t just say ‘screw you’ and walk out. You’ve gotta stand up for yourself.” He’s right. I do need to stand up for myself. And I’m not going to walk away from this fight. It’s too important. Instead, I turn back to Declan, mirroring his stance.
“Okay, fine. If Beck’s offer is so beneath me, then tell me, what exactly is a good position for me? You want me to take over for Dean Edina? Or are you going to make me marry you so we can resent each other for the rest of our lives?” He rocks back, his hands dropping as hurt replaces anger. He deflates. Long strands of hair fall forward into his eyes, and he tosses them back with a flick of his head.
“Is that really how you feel?”
I throw my hands in the air, letting out a frustrated scoff.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know what I’m supposed to want, but I’ve been thinking, and I know I want something more than party planning and cocktail dresses.”
“Well, you’re never going to get that option if my mother has any say in it.” He shoves his fingers through his hair hard enough that I half expect him to come away with chunks of it.
“What does that mean?” I say, lifting my curls off my neck to let the still air soothe my sweaty skin.
“I told you, she’s not going to let me sit with you, even though you’ve earned the right to.” His cheeks are red, and he looks less like a man fighting for a woman and more like a child throwing a tantrum. It’s not becoming.
“Why not?”
“She says she’s had enough with your scandals,” he says, keeping his voice low. He rolls his eyes, making it clear he thinks she’s ridiculous, but still, something niggles in the pit of my stomach. Why are they my scandals? I didn’t cause them. “Letting the Independent girl sit with us sends a message that benefactors are not valued . . . it spits in the face of the system.”
“And why does it matter where I sit?”
“For the top girl to not be sitting with me, but rather a pirate—”
“Beck.”
“Fine, Beck. It’s insulting. And it says more about you than it should.”
“What? That I’m not good enough for you?”
“Pretty much. Which then equates to you not being good enough for anyone else.”
“I don’t want anyone else!” I yell, letting my hair fall and slamming my hands against my hips. “I told you, I don’t want to be married off.”
“That might be the only option.” There’s a threat in there—I can just barely eek it out—but I can’t see the upside, and I’ve had enough of his speaking in riddles.
“So then, what’s your plan for me, Declan?” I ask, putting a little extra emphasis on the first syllable of his name, turning it into a curse word. He winces at the violence of it, and then pulls back, flexing and fisting his hands. He opens his mouth, then bites his lip, as if he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how.
“I won’t resent you,” he says, softly.
Everything around us goes still. My heart hammers away in my chest, and my head spins. I squeeze my eyes shut and keep them that way. Everything is spinning out of control, but if I keep them closed, I can shut out the world. Because, if I open them, it makes this real: he’s really here, proposing something I unequivocally do not want; something that makes my stomach drop and my heart ache in a way I’m not equipped to handle.
“Maybe your mother is right.” I open my eyes. He stares at me, his jaw open. This was not the response he expected.
“How do you—do you hear yourself? Do you know how insane you sound?” He charges at me, and I hold up a hand to stop him. He runs into my palm, pressing my hand against his chest with his own. I can feel his frantic heartbeat, the way it spurs my own into a matching pace. “You say you don’t want to marry a stranger. Has it ever occurred to you that I’m trying to avoid that, too?”
“Marrying me will not solve your problems.”
“But at least we’d be in it together. We would be partners. Eyes wide open.”
“How romantic,” I say with a huff.
“It could be.” His breath comes heavy and fast. His voice gets much quieter as he continues, taking on a desperate, husky rasp. “If you wanted. You know it could be. The roof . . .” I close my eyes, and my heart captures my breath, holding it hostage for a beat. I raise my other hand to his chest, and he leans into my palms.
“That wasn’t real,” I say. He flinches.
“Of course it was,” he says, stepping closer, carefully brushing his fingertips against my elbows. “It was as real as it gets. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t feel it.” I open my eyes and meet his, brighter and reinvigorated for this little bit of sunshine.
“What do you want me to say?” My voice is an almost whisper, and his fingers slip to my waist, loose yet certain.
“I want you to say that you’ll think about it. That you won’t do something you might regret . . . something we’d both regret.” I can feel his heartbeat, pulsing rapid-fire, matching my own.
“I don’t want pity.”
“Neither do I. . . . I want this.” He leans in, and I don’t back away. If anything, I lean forward to meet his lips. His hands slowly work up my back, pulling me tighter. My hands are wedged between our bodies. He threads his fingers through my hair as his tongue gently parts my lips. The kiss becomes all-consuming. All I know is his mouth, his hands, his chest. I pull back, gasping for breath, and press my forehead into his, enjoying the feel of his fingers through my sweaty curls.
“This isn’t what I want,” I say.
“Why not?” he asks, his voice slightly hoarse. “Conrad can’t touch you anymore. You can do so much good from this position. It doesn’t have to be about me at all. It can be about you—I swear.” I shake my head and step back.
“What would I do?” I ask.
“Whatever you want. You’d have my full support. You could help other girls—reform the system. Let me give you this. Whatever you want—you’d have a platform. Please, Arden,” he says. Uneasiness settles in my stomach. This is too much, too easy, too perfect. There’s got to be something in it for him, and I don’t understand what he has to gain by marrying a girl from nowhere, with nothing. I shrug and shake my head, and he slides his hand to my cheek.
“You challenge me,” he says, answering a question I haven’t asked. “You make me think; you make me see the world differently. You don’t back down. You’re strong. Stronger than anyone else I know.” I snort and shake my head, but he angles his neck so I have to meet his eyes. “It’s true. And not only because of what you’ve been through.”
“Yeah, just wait until everyone finds out exactly what I’ve been through. That’ll go over well.”
“It will be fine. I will silence anyone who says otherwise.” His voice shakes slightly in its firmness, and he slides his fingers around the back of my neck. “I’d never voiced an opinion,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper, “until I saw your picture. Every other picture, the other girls, they looked so posed, so . . . like they were dolls, or someone else’s idea of what they should look like. But that picture of you . . .” He sighs, and I feel the creeping shame of another memory I can’t clearly recall.
“You were beautiful—in the same reckless, natural way as a thunderstorm, or an avalanche. All-consuming. But your eyes—you looked like you were ready to take on the world. I don’t think I’ve . . . that I’ve ever really felt that way. Ready to meet whatever comes my way and just . . . mow it down. It stirred something within me. I thought . . . well, I just had to meet that girl.”
“And now you have,” I say, though it’s not exactly true. He hasn’t met that girl, who glared at CJ with the fire of wanting to end him. “But why would you want to? You don’t really know me. What I’ve been through.”
“Then tell me,” he says. “Let me know you.” A wave of fear washes over me. I want to pull away, to not have his hands on me as I tell him. But I stay put, lean into him a little, because it seems I’m going to tell him. Something inside me shivers.
“Conrad was cruel, but as you’ve probably gathered by now, the real problem was CJ. The first time he attacked me, I blacked out. He hit me so hard, I lost consciousness. The next time, he threatened to do it again. Same with the next time. After a while, I stopped fighting it, just tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.
“Last fall, he went away to university, and it was the best thing to happen to me. When he was gone, I met someone. I knew him from the market—he used to help me carry heavy loads back to the estate. He was sweet, and kind, and we became close. Nothing happened; it was just a close friendship. Maybe we flirted a little, but even from a distance, the threat of CJ scared me off of trying anything more.
“And then CJ came home. He somehow found out I’d become close to this guy, and he and his friends beat him up pretty bad. Messed up his leg, made it hard for him to work again. Then he took me to his cabin, tied me down, and carved his initials into my hip.”
“What?” Declan seethes, holding me at arm’s length. His gray eyes are wild as his gaze drops to my hip, his jaw flexing as he grits his teeth.
“It’s small; it doesn’t hurt much anymore. I guess it’s something people do to mark girls with bad reputations. It warns other people to keep away, and can sometimes function as a mark of ownership . . . I think that’s what CJ wanted.”
Declan takes a sharp breath, shaking his head. He narrows his brows, eyes downcast and turned away. The planes of his face are hard, his fingers rigid on my arms. He stands there like that, frozen for several silent minutes.
This is it. This is the moment he decides whether I’m worth all the trouble or not. And I’m devastated by the sudden ache of wanting him to decide I’m worth it.
“Who else knows about this?” he asks.
“Conrad, your doctor . . . Beck,” I say, and Declan closes his eyes, exhaling hard. When he opens them, they’re stormy gray, but I’m not afraid. His hold on me tightens.
“You do not belong to him. You don’t belong to anyone. We can keep this quiet. I’ll pay people to keep it quiet. Whatever it takes.” Relief settles over me like a warm blanket, comforting, but restricting. It doesn’t change the fact he’s still pushing me toward a future I haven’t planned. A future I’ve told him time and again I didn’t—I do not—want.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, tears pricking my eyes. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t find his words. “I don’t understand what you’re getting out of this.” He laughs a little as his eyes turn dark.
“I get you, Arden,” he says, letting go of me with one hand to scratch the back of his neck. “I get to be with you—I get to be myself. Can’t you see that that’s enough?” I snort. His face falls, and he looks away. Something in my chest pinches.
“Who else would even support this?” I ask.
“I’ll work it out,” he says, pulling me close. He presses a kiss to my forehead. Then he leans back and looks at me, the wisp of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Wait, are you considering it?” I open my mouth and blink, but the word no doesn’t come to me.
“I don’t know . . .” I say, but if I’m truly honest, it’s hard not to consider. If I agreed to marry him, maybe I could get Zerah back. Maybe I could find a safe place for Carla, and Neve, and even Tatiana. I would have some power, at least. And maybe I could prevent benefactors like Conrad from abusing theirs.
“You’re smiling,” he says as a grin spreads into his pink cheeks. I shrug and shake my head, but it’s impossible not to smile.
“I don’t know. That’s all I’ve got for now.”
“I’ll take it. Just don’t change your mind, all right?”
“I just said, I don’t know,” I say with a laugh.
“That’s enough for me,” he says. He holds my face in his hands and kisses me again. And for just a few minutes, standing in the sun, I let the rest of the world melt away.