The revered guests arrive with little fanfare, but much pomp. Every surface sparkles and shines, as though it’s the estate’s sole purpose to impress these guests who have come from every valuable corner of the world. Everyone is more tense, but Dean Edina is stretched thin as a whip, ready to snap, shred, or split skin on a moment’s notice.
Some of the attendees are more obvious—Fiona’s Espancian relatives, with their deep-set eyes and haughty frowns; Avery’s people from Swendenland, with their fair skin and expensive noses. But for everyone else, there is little explanation, and we are left largely to ourselves to guess where they’re from.
Royal-blue carpets are unfurled for our mysterious visitors. The servants don elegant liveries, and with the all-hands-on-deck aesthetic running strong through every corner of the estate, we are mostly ignored. Breakfast this morning consists of croissants and lukewarm coffee in the classroom.
“How glamorous,” Fiona says, plopping a greasy pastry on her plate. She wipes her fingers on a paper napkin, and sullenly then takes her seat. We’ve assembled the chairs into a sort of circle among the tables. There’s something about the camaraderie of being forgotten that makes us kinder, or at least less openly hostile.
“It could be worse,” Avery says quietly, tearing off the tiniest shred of croissant, and then thoughtfully chewing it.
“Could it? Shoved into a back room, away from the people who control our futures?” Ophelia says, tucking a thin strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear.
“It’s like they’re embarrassed of us or something,” Greta says, crinkling her nose; it makes it look even more turned up.
“Or they’re making them wait to meet us?” Avery says, her voice smaller than before and even less sure.
“I’m not really worried about that,” Fiona says, sitting back in her chair. She chances a sip of her coffee, and then, cringing, sets it down on the table in front of her.
“Well, you don’t really have to be, Miss I-Have-Connections-Everywhere,” Greta says, rolling her eyes.
“What, you mean you don’t have connections everywhere, Greta?” Molly says with a knowing side-glance, and most of the circle giggles. Not Fiona, though, and not Avery.
“It has nothing to do with that,” Fiona says, turning to look out the window. She tugs at a long, loose curl, as if she has no interest in this conversation.
“So, you don’t think it’s a bad thing that nobody knows we’re here?” Greta asks, lifting a paper napkin, her expression rife with disbelief. Fiona sighs and whips her head around to look at Greta.
“I don’t really think anything about it. I’m not planning to make a future with any of those people.” Her meaning sinks into the silence that follows, and it’s as if someone flipped a switch, stopping us all from eating or drinking. The room is deathly quiet. But then Avery starts to laugh. It starts as a swallowed chuckle, and then grows until she can’t control it, until she’s snorting between laughs that shake her entire body. We all stare at her, and Fiona raises an eyebrow.
“What is wrong with you?” Fiona asks, sitting taller.
“You are so damn confident. What? You think you’re the only one he’s made promises to? Come on. You’re smarter than that.” Avery shakes her head and wipes a tear from her eyes. Nobody else is laughing, and Fiona narrows her eyebrows, but I can see a flicker of fear pinch her wide mouth.
“Promises? How maudlin. I’m not an idiot. And let’s be honest, the only one of us he’s made any promises to is Arden.”
“Hey, leave me out of this,” I say, shaking my head and drinking my weak coffee. But all eyes are on me, running the gamut from voyeuristic and suspicious, to hurt and offended. Avery pauses, mid-laugh, and purses her lips.
“What promises?” Avery asks Fiona.
“Oh, you know, that he would buy her things after she got out of her deal with her benefactor. I’m sure there’s a formal agreement—probably all in exchange for some other vaguely defined consideration.” Her accusation is clear as silence once again envelops the room. I’m not hungry anymore, and I set the remnants of my croissant aside.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Molly says, her voice like simmering tar. Fiona flaps a hand in her direction and rolls her eyes.
“Look, worry all you want. It doesn’t bother me.”
“I can’t wait to see how much you actually enjoy Espancian life, Fiona,” Greta says, shaking her head. She crosses her arms over her chest with a satisfied, smug little half-smirk. “I hear the perfume of the upper class is quite . . . enchanting.” Mean-spirited chuckles float across the room as Fiona’s nostrils flare. She looks like she’s about to deliver a real comeback, but then the door bursts open. Dean Edina scurries to her place behind the podium, and we hurry to rearrange our seats.
“Please, don’t trouble yourselves, ladies. There’s no need,” she says, her palms raised.
We stop in varied states of motion—holding chairs, half bent over, coffee cup to lips. “We won’t be holding a typical session today. Rather, you’ll have the rest of the day to prepare for an afternoon reception, followed by the state dinner, dancing, etcetera.” After the extra lessons and emphasis on learning having been our priority as of late, it’s as if no one believes her. The idea that she would actually cancel our lessons so that we can get pretty is so at odds with her recent behavior that nobody moves. After a long moment, she narrows her eyebrows.
“Off you go!” she shouts, and the room rushes back to life. Fiona strides out the door first, followed by the others. I hang back for a moment, unable to shake the feeling that all is not well.
“I understand that Declan spoke with you about the seating arrangements?” Dean Edina’s voice is soft, and her skin is splotchy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s not having her finest morning.
“Yes, ma’am.” She shakes her head and forces a smile.
“I’m not sure what you were told—”
“I was told that Siobhan doesn’t want me anywhere near her son.”
Dean Edina’s face falls, feature by feature: her eyebrows collapse, then her eyes droop, her cheeks slip, and her mouth falls. The mask she normally holds so tight in place sinks into her chin, resulting in a sort of deflated impression of the dean.
“Yes, well . . . we can’t all be the favorite, can we?” There is no air to her voice, no headiness or pretense. It’s as if I’m hearing her true, natural voice for the first time. I wonder what her story is, what set of circumstances might have shaped her into the person she presents to us day after day. I wonder why she feels she has to hide.
As if realizing she’s slipped, revealed a brief moment of vulnerability, the mask I’m used to snaps back in place. She gives me a dismissive wave.
“Well, get on with you, then. You have much to prove tonight, as it seems you always do. But if anyone can manage this, I have no doubt it’s you, Arden. You’re tougher than granite.” She gives me a tight nod, and then leaves me to prepare for another night outside of my control.