Meredith has her work cut out for her. I’ve lost weight, and the dress she’d been saving for this occasion no longer fits. She sends for more thread and notions while I bathe, using the soap Beck gave me. It smells like leather and sea salt, and the lingering scent calms me.
We spend too much time applying makeup, which she tests on her own skin first. Then she yanks and coaxes my messy curls into smooth, loose cylinders that frame my face, accentuating my simply lined blue eyes.
A knock at the door sends her into a flurry of anxiety as another dress magically appears. She shares some clipped words with the delivery boy, who reveals nothing enlightening, and then holds it up to me, her expression shuttered.
“Is this from Declan?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“The delivery boy wouldn’t say who it’s from.” Her eyes don’t meet mine; she’s too enchanted by the gown she holds with tender reverence.
I freeze, and my hands tremble. What if it came from CJ? What if he’s somehow back? Meredith looks up, and shakes her head again as she presses her hand to her cheek. Her eyes glisten, though not with agitation, or concern. She must see the fear radiating through me splashed across my face, because she answers my thought before it’s voiced out loud.
“Don’t worry. It was thoroughly searched. There’s nothing nefarious about it.”
Swallowing the rush of panic tightening my throat, I nod and allow her to help me dress. The fabric is a velvety black chiffon that pulls and drapes in all the right places. It hugs my breasts, cinches my waist, and grazes my hips without feeling cumbersome. Tiny gold rhinestones are woven into the layers, and they spark as I move, reflecting the light with dazzling intensity. There are no straps, just a ruched, sweetheart neckline—or so Meredith tells me when I ask after its name. I can move my arms easily, and the fabric is so light, I think I could spar in it—if it were necessary. It’s the first dress I feel at home in, and I can’t imagine who sent it. Whoever they are, they deserve more than a simple thanks, though even that may be more than I’m allowed to give, if they never step forward to tell me their name.
Meredith takes a deep breath as she threads dainty brass teardrop earrings through my lobes, and then turns me toward the mirror. I gasp.
I look nothing like myself, and yet, I look exactly like myself. My skin is bright and smooth, slightly bronzed and utterly healthy. My lips are a natural shade of the softest pink, my eyes simply lined and bright blue, and while my frame looks a little more slender, I don’t look malnourished. I look like I belong among the remaining candidates. She moves my tamed brown curls over my shoulder and nods.
She straightens my bracelet, eyes narrowed as she studies me in the mirror, then drops her palms to her sides and steps back. A satisfied grin spreads across her face. “Nothing. There’s nothing left for me to do. You look beautiful . . . you’ll do very well tonight.”
Another knock sounds at my door—a signal that it’s time. She gives me a quick squeeze and a wink, and then ushers me to the door. A guard waits on the other side, ready to escort me to a room full of strange men. It’s all up to me, now. And as I let him guide me down the hall, I can’t help but hope that “very well” is enough.
Well, it’s not entirely full of strange men. Declan and his family are there, and when I’m announced, his eyes linger a moment too long. Siobhan nudges him a little harder than I think she intends, and he glares at her.
Beck is there, too, and after six or seven introductions to various interchangeable men, with titles that all equate to “I have money,” all I want to do is disappear into a dark corner and tease him about his tuxedo. With his trimmed beard and combed hair, he looks more handsome than I’ve ever seen him. My eyes are drawn to him as he negotiates his own parade of over-coiffed, handsy ladies, and I wonder when this endless stream of delegates and ambassadors will end.
“Excuse me?” I turn toward the voice. A man with an intense auburn brow and hazel eyes stands a little too close. I take a step back and bump into a cocktail table.
“Yes?”
“You are one of the candidates? The best one?” My unease amplifies at his assessment, at the way I am minimized to being “the best one,” as if I’m something to be acquired and not a person. His accent has a familiar lilt, but I can’t quite place it. His tuxedo looks like it’s supposed to, but also like something is just a little off. It’s too short at his wrists, and his shirtsleeves push out from the bottom. He smells of tobacco and something else that makes me sweat. I don’t like this man.
“I don’t know about the best, but yes, I am one of the candidates,” I say.
“I’ve heard you will win the whole thing,” he says, with a crawling sort of smile. This talk of winning has reached its zenith rapidly tonight, and I feel less like a woman and more like a racehorse as the evening wears on.
“I don’t know. I can’t predict the future.”
He projects a throaty guffaw and shakes his head.
“Oh, but if you could . . .”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t ask your name. You are . . . ?”
He smiles too broadly, exposing small teeth and too much gum, and then sticks out his hand.
“I am Mr. Herston’s aide. I wanted to congratulate you on your achievement. It is very impressive.” I nod, and then extend my hand to meet his. He grips it a little too long and says, “Perhaps we can chat more about our mutual interests? I’ll be sure to find you later in the evening.” My instincts tell me to smash his nose like Beck showed me, but then he mumbles something about having a good night, and he’s gone.
We move into the ballroom, where the staff has once again outdone themselves. The tables are dressed in white and gold lace, adorned with lush centerpieces in pinks, creams, and soft, mossy greens. It looks very much like the first breakfast, only more extravagant. Delicate brass tea lights are dotted around the centerpieces, glimmering like captured stardust; two kitchen boys work the room in a frenzied zig-zag, re-lighting candles as they’re extinguished by the cool, floral breeze drifting in off the veranda.
Yet another five-piece band plays jazz standards from the corner as I navigate the room, trying to find my table. I laugh to myself when I do. I’m in the back corner, my seat angled so that I can’t possibly see Declan around the centerpieces—and he can’t see me.
“ ’Ello?” A man approaches the table and holds out his hand. He wears a tan suit, with a deep blue tie that looks almost black in the dim candlelight. His longish blond hair is slicked back behind his ears, and falls to his collar. He has a broad smile and deep blue eyes that match his tie; they, too, look almost black in the light. He doesn’t make me comfortable, but he doesn’t give me a terribly bad feeling, either. I extend my hand, and he raises it to his lips, his stubble scratching at the backs of my fingers, making them itch.
“Good evening,” I say, because it sounds more elegant than hi.
“I understand you are Arden? The number one candidate?”
“Yes,” I say with a demure smile, embarking on yet another iteration of the same conversation.
“Wonderful! I am Skenish Hamesterg. Of Sudersberg.”
“Yes, hello,” I say. He pulls out my chair, and I sit.
“I understand you study Sudersberg.”
“Yes, some,” I say. “I’ll admit I don’t know nearly as much about it as you do.”
“Naturally,” he says, a pompous note in his deep baritone. He settles into his chair, unfurling his napkin with a similar flourish to the one Molly taught me weeks ago. “I suspect my name must be familiar to you? As a scholar of Sudersberg?” My mind reels, and nothing comes from the depths of my memory.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a whirlwind of a night. My mind is a bit mushy right now.” A gut-shaking laugh roars from his wide mouth, and he shakes his head.
“I do not know this phrase, mind is mush, but I think I understand. Funny. You are funny girl.” He points at me as he laughs, and I feel my ears burn.
“Thank you?” I say, though I’m not sure I want to be a “funny girl.”
“My family owns Hamesterg Mill. Largest lumber mill in nation.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Yep, lots of wood,” says another, familiar voice from behind me. “But oddly enough, it’s all very soft.”
“Ah, I didn’t realize they were letting just anybody in here,” Skenish says with an unpleasant smirk.
“Yep. Anybody. Literally.” Beck radiates tension as he stands beside me in his suit. His jaw moves in tight, almost mechanical circles as he chews on an orange peel, and there’s an odd, unreadable look in his eyes.
“Perhaps they should revise that policy,” Skenish says, turning from me when he notices Gracie Beth standing at the chair next to his in an elaborate red number. Beck doesn’t sit, glaring at Skenish with a strange intensity.
“Sit down,” I say in a stage whisper. After a tense moment, he does, but not gracefully. Even sulking, he looks positively handsome in his formal getup, and I wonder if he knows. He drains the rest of his wine glass and presses the base into the table with a little too much force, causing the tablecloth to pull slightly in his direction.
“Well, don’t you look like a thousand bucks,” he says, leaning back in his chair. Disappointed warmth fills my cheeks.
“Damn, only a thousand? I was hoping for a lot more than that,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the rest of the room. Declan escorts Fiona to their table, though I can’t see his face. She wears another stunning emerald dress that nobody can compete with. It’s cut on a bias and wraps around her curves like a gift. Actually, all the other girls are wearing jewel-toned dresses. I look down in my lap at the little gold crystals that blend into the black chiffon. My dress is different—it stands out, but maybe for the wrong reasons. I feel my shoulders curve inward.
As if reading my mind, Beck leans over and says, “Dress is perfect.”
There’s kindness in his words, and combined with his spicy orange scent, a sweet warmth fills my chest. His face spreads into a smile, betraying the dimple in his right cheek, but then he leans in closer and says, “Your tits look great.” I punch his arm harder than necessary, and he winces.
“You look nice,” I say, my words feeling inadequate for how he looks. Then, it’s as if the spell is broken, and he’s back to playing the pirate. He grabs a bottle of wine off a passing tray, rips the cork out with his teeth, and drains its contents into his glass.
“So, how’s it going? You find someone to buy the whole cow?” he asks, tipping a quarter of his glass into his mouth. I narrow my eyebrows and stare at him. He doesn’t look at me, just the glass. He’s right next to me, and yet, he’s not really here. Something cuts inside me, leaving an exposed end, frayed and flammable.
“Nope.”
“You should try harder.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously, though. Declan didn’t wrap you up in that number so you could waste it.” He glances at me out of the corners of his eyes, his face unreadable.
“Declan didn’t send it,” I say, smoothing my hand over the fabric in my lap. “I don’t know who did.”
Beck gives a noncommittal grunt. “Secret admirer, then. Probably wasn’t expecting you to clean up quite this good, though. That dress really does make your tits look great.”
“Can we please stop talking about my tits?” I hiss, crossing my arms over my chest. I turn to face the table.
“Fine. Maybe it doesn’t show enough of your ass? That could be why nobody’s calling.”
“Wow. That’s helpful. Thanks for that.”
“We’ve had this conversation, princess—some men are tits men, some are ass men.”
“Maybe I want to appeal to the brains men?” I say, my voice a thin shred. His pupils dilate, and a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“Not in that dress, you don’t.” My cheeks flush hot, and I wrap my arms around my waist. He knocks back more wine, and a large man with a full red beard slaps him on the back.
“Beck, sonuva betch! How are yeh?” Beck stands and says something unintelligible, and the man turns to me.
“This guy being nice teh yeh?”
“No, not particularly,” I say. He bursts into a wallop of a guffaw.
“I’m being very nice. I complimented her dress and everything,” Beck says, lifting his glass for another long sip.
“You’re drunk,” I say, irritation thick in my voice. The man laughs again and shakes his head.
“If he’s being mean, he’s not drunk. Man can hold more liquor than a sea sponge. If he’s actually drunk, he doesn’t say a word. That’s how you know the difference between him faking it and—”
“Where’s the missus?”
“Oh, she’s back home.” I turn back to the table. Skenish and Gracie Beth are deeply involved in their chat; there’s no breaking in. It’s too late. The table is paired off, and once again, I’m left exactly where Siobhan wants me.
Beck’s friend finally leaves, just as the salads are delivered. Beck hunches over his plate, shoveling it all into his mouth in about seven scoops. He signals a waiter for more wine, and I push a crouton around my plate, once again unable to eat.
“So, you gonna let one of these gentlemen make you an offer?” he asks, his voice too loud. Our tablemates glare at the interruption to their deep conversations.
“Why are you being like this?” I ask, forcing a mask of indifference.
“Like what?”
“You’re not being you.”
“What are you talking about? This is what we do. I say dickish things, you come up with a snappy response, and then I drink. Rinse, wash, repeat. It’s our thing.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I say, staring at him, feeling the sting of his blasé attitude in my bones.
“God, lighten up. It’s a fucking party,” he says, draining the rest of his glass down his gullet. I push my plate away and stare at a candle on the table. The band strikes an uptempo number, and a blur of emerald green drags a tuxedo onto the dance floor. I’m not concerned. Fiona’s arrogant, abrasive voice flits through my head. I can barely see their shapes moving into each other before they move in time with the music.
“Oh jeez, you want to dance or something?” Beck asks, holding out his hand. When I don’t take it, he lets it flop in my lap. I push back from him and knock his hand into the table. It shakes the centerpiece, and everyone’s wine glasses. More than few startled looks shoot our way.
“Do not touch me, you asshole.”
“What is with you?” he asks, rubbing the left side of his nose with his thumb. I don’t like that Delcan and Fiona dancing together bothers me. But I hate that Beck being drunk and rude is killing me.
“This isn’t you. Will you please snap out of it?” I say, my voice strained, hot tears threatening the backs of my eyes. He leans back in his chair and lets his head roll as his laugh fills the air.
“This is me, princess. I don’t know what to tell you. I’m a drunk asshole, remember? This is what I do.” He places an arm on the back of my chair, and I glare at him. I can’t believe that all I wanted earlier was to talk to him.
“You’re being . . .” I lose my words and shake my head. I thought I’d gotten to know a different version of him over the weeks. But it occurs to me now that, in letting him teach me to defend myself, he may have left me exposed to another sort of injury—one I didn’t prepare for. The music drones on around us, until it doesn’t. Applause fills the air, followed by a slower number.
“Come on,” Beck says with a nod toward the dance floor. He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “Want me to feel you up in public?” I launch out of my chair, rattling the table, nearly toppling Beck’s empty wine glass. Hot anger and humiliation clog my throat, and I choke on my words, unable to find anything to say. Instead, I turn and make my way to the door.
“Arden!” I hear behind me, but I keep going. I weave through the tables, moving easily with the featherlight layers of my dress. I try to be discreet, but that doesn’t stop the stares I see from the corners of my eyes, or the hurried whispers that aren’t quite soft enough to remain unheard. I reach the doors and push through, marching down the hall, not even bothering to mask the clacking of my heels.
Siobhan was in charge of the seating charts. This is not the Beck I know, but somehow, it’s as if she knew there was another side to him; she knew that seating us together would end in disaster. The embarrassment and anger at being had is too much. She knew this would make it clear to everyone in attendance that I am not good enough for her son. That I am not good enough for anyone. That I am unworthy, undeserving of my place at this institute, no better than an Unchosen.
I mean, Beck’s never made me feel like this. We’ve had disagreements, fights even, but this is different. He’s never objectified me, never made me feel like I’m less than human. Like CJ did. And somehow, that’s what makes it worse. Beck knows me, and he still did this. It wasn’t just obnoxious—it was cruel.
The hot sting of saline hits the corners of my eyes and I blink, hard, but it’s no use. As I approach the vestibule outside my door, I hear something behind me. Assuming it’s Beck, or a guard, I ignore it. I reach for the handle and turn my head, see Beck standing just outside the doors, at the opposite end of the hall. His eyes go wide, and his mouth opens. Then everything goes black.