You spend the whole morning surrounded by publicists. Statements are drafted and dismissed. The critics are still flocking and frenzied. Your most suggestive photos are being paraded on every news channel, half screened with the blurred faces of your accusers. There’s nothing shocking about what they say. It is how men have always seen you, and dreamed of you, and wanted you. The accusations are welcomed by other men who will never get to dance with you, or taste your lips, or know your bed. The rumors work because they’re feeding the desperate what they’ve always wanted and could never have.
Your publicists turn away thirty-seven interview offers. Money slips back into the pockets of certain sponsors who are pulling out amidst the storm. They forget that dark clouds and strong winds only mean lightning’s about to strike. You know they’ll want back in when you’re illuminating the whole damn sky, but you will not forget and you will not forgive.
You’re far more worried about Bravos. He sends you a single text from his public phone:
if it wasn’t true, you would have denied it, right? finding out this way? c’mon.
That’s the text the hackers will pull and parade around the Chats. The two of you have given them little tastes just like it ever since the fake breakup. That was always the plan.
Feed the public, let the other racers think you’d split, and then win the Races together. Bravos can’t hold a candle to you when it comes to riding or alchemy, but he’s one of the top duelers in Furia. Together, you’d have taken first and second place easily, but now you’re not sure if his recent message is part of the plan or a sign of actual anger, because you know he’s right. You didn’t tell him about the beholder shots and you feel so guilty about it.
As the publicists flap around like caged birds, you keep checking your burner phone. But Bravos hasn’t texted and you know he’s been awake for hours now. It has you half worried and half furious, because you actually love him. Bravos is the one man you want to dance with you, to taste your lips. The idea of losing him to Furia’s hungry circuit of false rumors is enough to make your teeth grind.
Evening arrives and your head publicist, Zeta, has two action plans for you.
“First thing: you win the Races. You’re the daughter of two former champions. Fulfill their prophecies for you, and almost all of this will go away. Just ask the Longhands or the Dividian. The only thing that matters in the Empire is who wins. Do that and this all goes away.”
You nod. “Consider it done.”
Zeta says, “You won’t like the next one.”
“Why not?”
“You need to throw the spotlight somewhere else. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”
She’s right. You don’t like it. “Fine, who?”
“Have you ever heard of the Alchemist?”
Zeta pulls the video you saw the other day. You watch the girl leap through the air and land on the reappearing horse. You’re nodding, but not understanding what Zeta wants.
“And?”
“We did some research,” Zeta says. “In the last fifteen years, fourteen of the Qualifiers have been boys. The Empire Racing Board always talks about how equitable the Races are.”
“And they are,” you reply. “Girls always outnumber the boys in the Races. They win more often, too.”
“Which is true,” Zeta counters. “But in the one instance that the Empire Racing Board gets to select a participant, they’re completely biased against Dividian girls. So all you have to do is talk up the girl’s video. Say it shows the kind of brilliant riders the Empire Board’s been unfairly keeping out of the Races. Make it about the advancement of women. I’ll write up something about how this is their chance to put the most competent scholarship rider in the Races, regardless of gender.”
You’re nodding now, seeing the genius of Zeta’s plan.
“So the spotlight is on the Dividian girl and the Empire Racing Board. What will that get us? An hour of newscasts without those blurred creeps claiming me as their mistress?”
“An hour or two,” Zeta says. “We just need to stop the bleeding long enough to get us to the Races. Once we’re there, the talk won’t be about the way you look. It’ll be about how you ride.”
You know that’s not entirely true, but no point correcting Zeta now. She’s done her job. It’s time for you to do yours. “Set up the interview,” you say. “Let’s get it over with.”
The interview’s arranged, and brief. You recite the memorized script, and Zeta’s plan sets everything into flawless motion. As you sit in your room, alone for the first time all day, the talking heads hound representatives of the Empire Board about sexism. Ten minutes pass without your name on anyone’s lips, and that’s the freest you’ve felt all day.
Until your burner phone vibrates. It’s from the phone you gave Bravos a few weeks ago.
finally, they’ve stopped spitting out these lies about you. so sorry, love. i’ve been stuck in interviews all day. left my burner phone at home. But I love you. The plan’s still the plan, right? Call me later.
You’re so thankful to read his words, to know that he’s not mad, that you start typing a response. But halfway through the first sentence you remember the rules. Always ten minutes between texts. Hackers will catch quick signal bursts if the two of you aren’t careful. If other competitors know you’re teaming up, strategies will change. You want to keep the damage control to a minimum. Dinner and your parents are waiting downstairs, but you sit there in bed, the burner phone clutched to your chest, until the ten minutes pass.
you ARE my plan. I’ll call in a few hours.
You descend the marble steps. The hall is silent, except for the occasional clatter of silverware. Dividian butlers move in and out of the dining room. One holds the door open as you approach and offers a wide smile. Mother and Father are already seated at the crystalline dining table. You’re expecting to be scolded, but they both look up with smiles of their own. The table is big enough to seat thirty, but it’s just the three of you tonight. You take your seat across from Mother, who sparkles in her eveningwear. Father’s looking fine, too, in his charcoal suit.
You remember they’re attending a play tonight.
“A little late, Pippa.”
“Sorry, Father. I had an interview arranged. I wanted to watch the responses.”
He nods. “I’m certain Zeta has everything sorted out.”
“She has. All I have to do now is win.”
“That’s the easy part,” he replies with a smile.
Mother’s more sympathetic. “It’s not the easy part. It’s the hardest part, but you think like me and you ride like him. If it wasn’t illegal, I’d throw a few thousand legions down on you.”
Father offers a roguish smile. “Who says I haven’t already done just that?”
You can’t help but smile. You love it when they joke. A butler sets a plate in front of you. Flamed merepeck, encircled by roasted greens and dappled in a boiled rose sauce. It’s the first thing you’ve eaten since breakfast, and gods is it better than the rest of your day. You catch your mother winking at your father. You’ll never get tired of seeing how in love they are.
“Tell me the story of how you met again.”
It’s always been your favorite, because it never gets old. Besides, you’re still fighting the butterflies Bravos gave you just by sending a text. In a way, you’ve always held your romances up to theirs. For the first time, it feels like you have something that can stand its ground, because for once you’re actually in love with someone who feels worthy.
Father laughs. “Well, I was in my room, going through my morning routine.”
“Late for class,” Mother corrects. “He was in a dorm that should have been empty. I volunteered that year to help with the gardens around the property. One of them was just outside the men’s dormitory. Some of the windows…looked into the baths.”
You love how Mother always blushes at this part and how loud Father always laughs.
“A fact that’s always made me curious,” he says.
Mother raises a single, perfect eyebrow. “It helped clarify the claims of hopeful suitors.”
You groan at that confession. “Mother.”
She laughs, which makes you laugh. You don’t ask what needed clarification.
“So there I was,” Father says. “Wearing only my long underwear and my riding cap. Shirtless and shaving in front of a mirror. I’d gone to the sink nearest the window, because it was just so stuffy that day. I opened it a tick and started. Wanted to look fresh for class.”
“To make up for how late you were?” Mother asks.
“Exactly,” he replies. “And then I heard this noise. I swear, the blade almost slipped across my neck and ended me, then and there. I turned, though, and there was this beautiful woman at the window. It was so unexpected. I couldn’t think of anything to say. So instead, I turned to her, tipped my cap in that old-fashioned way, and went back to shaving.
“And though this next part is unproven, I believe your mother stood there and stared a little longer, because she liked what she was seeing. Certainly, accounts of the event differ.”
Mother shakes her head. “I ran, Marcos. You know I ran.”
“But you couldn’t run forever,” he adds, smiling. “When I submitted my name for the Races, she was the clerk working the Empire Board’s front office. I handed her my papers and when I realized who she was, I just sort of went speechless in front of her.”
“You should have seen his reaction.” Mother laughs. “It was adorable.”
“I asked her on a date. You know what she said, Pippa?”
Of course you know, because this is your favorite story.
“She said she didn’t date riders.”
Father nods. “And I asked, ‘Not even if you’ve seen them half naked?’ She reconsidered after that. We went for drinks at the Beguiler. She told me she was glad I was entering the Races that year, because she planned on winning them the next. I remember laughing, but gods, you should have seen just how serious she was. I knew then and there I’d marry her.”
They smile at each other again. You and Bravos met at a bar, so you won’t have some classy shaving story to tell your children, but you think it’s more than enough that they’ll see the two of you smile at one another like your parents are smiling at one another now. You’re so hopeful for that future that you ask the one question you’ve always been too afraid to ask.
“What would have happened if you had raced the same year?”
They both smile at the question. Mother’s the first to answer.
“I would have won, obviously.”
It’s such a quick, direct response that you all laugh, but Father can’t hide his first reaction to it. There’s a flash of something on his face and you recognize it instantly. He wants to object, to beat his chest, to call himself a champion again. That burning and competitive part of him snaps back to life at your mother’s words. He takes a long swallow of wine before answering.
“I would have raced like hell,” he says eventually, with false humility. “And she still would have waltzed across the finish line before me.”
You smile at him, but you’re startled by the lie, the pride he’s still breathing out like smoke. For years, you’ve been watching the old Races on vintage chat-casts. And you’ve always favored your mother’s chances in an imaginary race between the two of them.
Watching Father was like watching a storm. Fast and reckless and vengeful.
But watching Mother? That was like watching whatever person, whatever god, had summoned the storm into being. She moved every competitor like a piece on a game board. Her phoenix rebirths were masterpieces, her chosen route flawless. No one in the history of the Races has ever won by such a wide margin.
As they head to the theater and as you return to your room, it takes a long time to figure out the real question you wanted to ask, the one hiding beneath the words you spoke aloud:
Would you have ever married if one of you had lost to the other? Would I even exist?
You didn’t ask the question because you think you know the answer. Your father’s pride would have never borne such a burden. He couldn’t have ever faced the prospect of a life with someone who bested him. Fate favored him enough to let him ride in his own year, leaving the question of who was the best a permanent mystery.
Lying down, you let your eyes trail the dark walls. You think about Bravos. How often has he said second place would suit him just fine? How long has he been hiding his own pride? He’s not quite as competitive as your father, not really, but you know that when the Races begin and eternal glory is on the line, people change. Could Bravos really live with second place? Or would it eat him alive over the years?
You hate the answer to that question. Deep down, you know Bravos would not suffer second place. Not for long. Champions wear their crowns for life. It would always be you stepping into the spotlight, always you giving interviews, and always you smiling at the crowd.
All while Bravos withered in your shadow.
It would break him, and eventually break the two of you. As you trace the inevitable steps, it’s not hard to see where that road would lead.
He’s not strong enough to be second, but you are.
You already know that you’re the best. You’ve already pulled all the necessary strings to arrange a victory, so now all you have to do is hand him the crown and live happily ever after. Your parents will think it a grand disappointment. Zeta—and maybe the rest of the world—will call it a disaster, but stubbornly you remind yourself that this is your life, it’s your future.
And you want that future to be with the man you love at your side.