She sits back, her face a mask of pain and hurt. “My parents have made it clear that if I put one foot out of line, they’ll take me to the palace as forfeit. There’s no place the king couldn’t find me if I tried to escape. Lille is his capital, but he holds just as much sway in every other city in Mersailles. You’ve seen the convoys when they come through town, bearing gifts, emissaries groveling at his feet. Every king who has ruled over Lille since Cinderella’s time follows the same path. You think it’s any different outside our borders? It’s not.”
“That’s not true,” I say, scrambling to find a way to make her change her mind.
“The ball may lead to something wonderful for us.” It sounds as if she’s reading the words from a piece of paper, stiff and unfeeling.
“How can you say that to me?” I ask in disbelief. “How can you pretend like this isn’t tearing you apart?” I refuse to believe that everything we’ve shared suddenly means nothing to her.
“You’re tearing me apart,” she snaps. “Why do you have to question everything? Why do you have to make this so hard?” Anger invades her voice, but it isn’t loud enough to drown out the sadness. The same sadness that colors everything we do because we know these stolen moments are rushing us toward a catastrophic end. She crosses her arms hard over her chest. “I don’t want to fight for us, Sophia. I don’t want to fight for something that will only bring us pain. This is wrong. Everyone says so, and they’re right.”
“It’s not wrong,” I say. “I choose you, Erin. I want you, and I’m willing to risk everything for that.”
Tears slide down her face, and she pats them dry with a handkerchief before they have a chance to leave streaks on her cheeks. “I can’t do this. I can’t be an outcast. Our families are depending on us to make them proud, to find suitors who will provide for us. Disobeying the king for an impossible situation won’t do that.”
“I don’t care about what the king wants,” I say.
“Because you’re selfish,” Erin says bluntly. “Because you’ve never once stopped to think that maybe I don’t want to be different. I don’t want to stick out. Accept it.”
I choke back tears. Then I give in and let them fall. Maybe letting them flow freely will give me a temporary relief from the crush of sadness that comes with knowing that Erin isn’t saying she doesn’t care about me; she is saying she’s choosing not to. But relief never comes. The ache creeps into every part of me and lingers there, burning and painful. I can only look at her as she avoids my eyes and stares out the window.
I find the little vial the dresser had given me and open the top.
Erin glances at me. “What is that?”
“A potion. For luck.”
Erin’s eyes grow wide. “Really? Where’d you get it?”
“One of the dressers gave it to me. It’s from Helen’s Wonderments.”
I drink half and offer Erin the remaining part. She hesitates for a moment but then takes the vial from me and gulps it down. I hope against hope that it works, but something tells me we’ll need much more than luck to get through this night.
The carriage bounces along over a ridge. Erin shifts in her seat, and a gasp escapes her lips. The palace comes into view outside the window, and it looks like something out of a painting. On any given day, the palace is extravagant, a beacon of wealth, power, and privilege. The sprawling ivory façade can be seen from miles away, but when the ball is held, it looks like something out of a dream. I wonder how he manages to do that, to make something so terrible seem so inviting. This isn’t a dream; it is a nightmare made real, and there is no waking up.
8
Lamps line the drive; their low, undulating light gives the entire area an ethereal glow. Every window is dressed with red-and-blue sashes. Lights hang along the covered parapet walks, and the ramparts are decorated with gonfalons displaying the royal crest: the body of a lion with the talons of an eagle and the head of a hawk. The golden mantling is set against a crimson background, with the royal motto emblazoned across the bottom: A Deo Rex; A Rege Lex, which my father told me means “From God, the king; from the king, law.”
The palace guards, dressed in colors matching the crest, line the length of the footpath just outside the main entryway, their gleaming swords holstered at their sides, their faces stoic and unchanging. A wave of panic washes over me. I dread going inside.
The queue of carriages extends behind us almost all the way out to the main road. We inch along, waiting for our turn to exit.
“This is more than I could have ever imagined,” Erin says, staring up at the castle.
“That something could look so beautiful and still be a nightmare is terrifying,” I say as I look at her.
“You don’t know that it will be a nightmare.”
“I wasn’t talking about the palace.”
She shoots me a frustrated glance as she climbs out of the carriage. I follow her, my heart galloping in my chest, my nerves getting the better of me with each passing moment. There are sideways glances, hushed whispers, and more than one catty laugh. I’ve never felt so exposed. I look through the crowd, and for every judgmental face I see, another is drawn tight with fear and apprehension.
I struggle to keep my balance atop my heels as I approach the guard and hand him my invitation, my fingers trembling. He checks it and crosses my name off a list. Erin does the same, and we push through the crowd of young women that has flooded into the main entry hall of the palace.
Gilded cherubs line the walls on either side of the long hallway. A portrait of Cinderella hangs over a set of enormous double doors overlaid with gold lilies and the royal family crest. In the painting, she is seated with her hands delicately clasped in her lap. She looks serene, smiling gently. Her golden hair falls around her shoulders in tight ringlets. Wearing her iconic blue dress, she gazes at us, her shining hazel eyes reflecting the candlelight. She is watching us.
A pair of guards pull open the gold-framed double doors at the end of the long entryway. The rush of girls spills into the grand ballroom, but Erin stays by my side even though the tension between us remains.
The ballroom is as large as a field. Dozens of crystal chandeliers hang over the space, their light washing us in a warm glow. I can see my reflection in the ice-like surface of the polished marble floor. The smell of fresh-cut flowers permeates the room. An entire orchestra sits readying their instruments, and random notes float through the air as they prepare to play.
I can hear Erin sucking in quick gulps of air beside me. I want to comfort her even though she’d all but ripped my heart out. “Try to take a deep breath,” I say, quickly glancing at her.
She nods, slows her breathing, and readjusts her wig. The girls break off into groups, and I scan the room for Liv but can’t find her among the sea of ruffled dresses. I hope she’s been able to get to the palace on time. More girls than I was anticipating crowd the room, and each of them seems to be stunned by our lavish surroundings.
Just then, I am struck hard on the shoulder by someone walking past. I turn to see a girl glaring at me. I don’t recognize her, and I think for a moment that she is looking past me at someone else.
“Who do you think you are, wearing a dress like that?” she hisses.
“Excuse me?” I ask, bewildered at the hatred dripping from her voice.
“Cinderella’s dress? More like a cheap knockoff. You look ridiculous, but you probably couldn’t afford anything better,” she says, her breath shallow and eyes wide. Fear lingers just below the surface.
“Do I know you?” I’m growing angrier by the second.
She rolls her eyes. “No. But that’s because I don’t run in the same circles as peasants trying to steal the spotlight from the rest of us. Pathetic.”
I figured there would be men who might have something rude to say and that I would be required to keep my retorts to myself. I didn’t think that the harshest words would come from another girl.
“Sophia,” says Erin as she takes
hold of my arm. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“Yes she does,” I say, shrugging off Erin’s hand and squaring up with the other girl. “Does it make you feel better about yourself to put me down?”
Her face flushes crimson. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re no competition.”
“Then why say anything at all?” I walk toward her and look her dead in the eye. “You’re just as afraid as the rest of us, so don’t take it out on me.”
“I know I will be chosen,” she says, her voice trembling.
“That’s exactly my point. Do you even know what that will mean for you?”
“My parents aren’t stupid. They’ve made sure I’ll come out ahead.”
She’s implying her parents either paid money to have her picked by someone specific or that a suitor has already purchased a claim on her.
“Do you think your money makes a difference?”
She glares at me. “I would expect someone like you to say money doesn’t matter.”
Erin tugs at my arm again.
“Money won’t keep your future husband from using you as he sees fit. And your privilege won’t keep you safe. You and I are exactly the same in the eyes of the king and the suitors.”
Her face pales a little. Regardless of her abrasive front, we share the same fears. A small crowd has gathered around us, a mixture of alarm, hope, and uncertainty in all their faces.
A trumpet blares. Everyone looks around, unsure of where to go or what to do as a throng of guards marches in, their boots pounding the floor, sending a shudder through the entire room. They push the girls into a line, positioning them so they all face the front of the room where a three-tiered platform stands, the king’s empty throne at the very top. It’s a massive seat made of gold, inlaid with rubies. A giant lion’s head is carved into the backrest, its mane designed to give its occupant the appearance of having a golden halo.
A squat guard takes Erin by the shoulder and shoves her into line. I step between them and push the man’s arm down.
“Don’t touch her.”
“Sophia,” Erin says, her eyes pleading. “Don’t.”
“Listen to your friend, little girl,” the guard says. A man nearly a foot shorter than me has the nerve to call me little.
He grabs me roughly by the elbow, shoving me into line next to Erin. I yank my arm out of his grip and scowl at him. He smells of sweat and cigar smoke.
“Feisty now, ain’t we?” He smiles, exposing every one of his yellow and rotting teeth.
“Leave me alone,” I say.
The man raises his eyebrows, and the corner of his mouth turns up. He grabs my arm again, this time digging the tips of his fingers into my skin. If I act quickly, I can break his nose and run away before he has a chance to catch me. I ball up my fist and draw my arm back. The trumpets sound again, and he hesitates for a moment before letting go of me and walking away in a huff. I push away the tears, refusing to let them fall.
The atmosphere changes as the guards direct a line of girls across the grand ballroom. A palpable sense of fear descends as those who were excited to arrive soon realize that this is no happy social gathering. It isn’t even a well-disguised trap.
Erin stands silently, a big forced smile plastered across her face, her hands shaking. I purse my lips. I have to get us out of here. My arm throbs in time with my frantic heartbeats. Glancing around at the other girls, I finally spot Liv.
She wears a plain cotton frock, no makeup other than a bit of rouge on the apples of her cheeks. Her hair is draped over her shoulder, and a crown of baby’s breath encircles her head. She stares at the floor, and I watch her chest rise and fall in the rhythm of someone who is quickly losing her ability to pretend that everything is fine. She looks lovely, but as she glances up, I see only sadness in her eyes. She shakes her head, and I know that something has gone wrong. She hadn’t been visited by a fairy godmother, and her parents couldn’t afford to make other arrangements. Her gaze moves down the length of my gown and back up again. She smiles and presses her hand against her chest.
I swallow hard. I know what Liv will be facing if she isn’t selected, and my heart aches for her. The king might grant her a pass to work in Hanover or maybe even Chione, but that isn’t a solution as much as a punishment. The people there run workhouses where forfeits labor day and night with a small amount of compensation sent directly to their heads of household. I desperately try to find what Luke had called “an out” but can’t think of a single thing that doesn’t end up with us in prison—or worse.
A guard stands at attention and clears his throat as a set of doors at the side of the room open and a procession of men files in. “His Majesty’s honored guests,” he announces.
The suitors.
“The Marquess of Eastern Lille,” the guard says.
The marquess marches in. He always dresses audaciously and makes a point of showing off whenever he can, but he has outdone himself this night. His suit is the color of freshly bloomed marigolds and is so tight it looks like it’s been painted on. The fabric creeps into all his creases, and I see outlines of things that make me wish I could poke my eyes out. In the brim of his three-pointed hat is a plume of brightly colored feathers. His shoes are made from some kind of animal skin but have been dyed yellow to match his suit. He climbs to the tier just below the throne and stands there like a very awkward bird. The Marquess of Eastern Lille is the highest-ranking man in Mersailles besides King Manford himself.
“The Earls of Hanover and Kilspire, and the Viscount of Chione,” says the guard.
These men and their entourages are less officious than the marquess, but they still think themselves better than the rest of us. They are smiling, some of them laughing, and all of them dressed in their finest attire. They walk in and take their places on the second level of the three-tiered platform.
“The barons,” the guard says, his enthusiasm waning. “And peasantry.” He says that last part like a curse.
The last of the suitors file in. Some of them are old enough to be my grandfather, but that doesn’t stop them from shamelessly ogling the young girls. I cross my arms as one man looks at me from his perch, and I stare at him unflinchingly. He only smiles wider. Most of them are well-to-do men—not quite commoners, not quite aristocracy—who stand on the bottom tier of the platform. Their attitudes are more reserved, but they are here, so they can’t be that concerned with the well-being of the girls present. Some of them admire us, while others look around the grand hall as if they, too, are in awe of the lavish surroundings. It’s hard to believe that the king found so many like-minded men within riding distance of Lille, and it doesn’t surprise me that even the men considered peasants by the palace are positioned above all the girls here.
Surely there are good men among the ones gathered here, but if there are, they won’t stand up to be counted. The men on the bottom tier seem restless, wringing their hands or tapping their shiny boots on the marble. One man stands quite still, gazing out into the crowd. I know him.
Luke.
9
I clear my throat loudly, and he looks in my direction. He catches sight of me and smiles. I smile back, but I’m immediately struck by a sickening sense of apprehension. He said he could avoid the ball for as long as he wanted. So why is he here? Had he lied to me? And if so, had he lied about other things? I’d been more open with him than I should have, and now I regret it. He continues to stare at me, and I clench my fists at my sides. I swallow hard and kick myself for being so trusting. Now I’m worried he’ll tell, but I temper my fear. He’d told me things about himself, too. His gaze wanders to the upper part of the wall, and I follow it.
Portraits of the kings of Mersailles hang all around the ballroom. Some of them are as wide as a barn door. Prince Charming’s portrait hangs by the tiered platform. His hair is gray, and his skin is creased at the corners of his eyes and mouth. A fur is draped around his shoulders. He lived to be almost one hundred and was Mersailles’s
founder.
Paintings of his successors are hung up as well: King Eustice, King Stephan, and of course, King Manford.
Since the time of Cinderella, the throne has been passed to a successor of the king’s choosing. All new kings are handpicked from a city beyond the Forbidden Lands that does nothing but work to produce a suitable heir. The city’s name and exact location are a closely guarded secret because the rulers of Mersailles fear someone might interfere in their process of always putting the most detestable fools on the throne. Cinderella hadn’t had any children, and her Prince Charming had ruled alone for nearly seventy-five years, dying a decrepit old man and passing the throne to his successor, King Eustice.
Three notes from the trumpeters blast through the room, and the guards scramble to form two parallel lines near the door. Everyone turns as the royal anthem blares, and King Manford appears in the doorway. He strides in, draped in a bloodred fur cape and all black underneath. He proceeds to the platform, ascending the steps as three servants follow him up. Each of the men already standing there bow low, and when he gets to the top, Manford unclasps his collar and tosses the cape at the servants, who gather it up and scurry away.
There is an audible intake of breath from the crowd as the music fades. He stands in front of his throne, and I get a good look at him. The last time I saw him in the flesh was at his coronation. I’d only gotten a glance at him then from very far away, but I see him now, clearly. He has dark wavy hair that curls up just above his ears. His eyes are dark and his skin is a warm golden brown. He is tall and commanding and absolutely possessed of self-importance.
Some of the other girls in line seem completely smitten, even before he’s had a chance to speak. They stare up at him, their mouths open, smiling, as if he and his predecessors aren’t the sole reason most of their parents have gone bankrupt funding their trip to the palace.
“I am honored to have you here tonight,” says the king in a booming, gravelly voice that echoes off the walls. The girl beside me sighs, trying her best to catch his attention by batting her eyes repeatedly and poking out her chest. She raises her hand slightly to wave at the king, but she inadvertently attracts the gaze of another on the lower platform. A stocky little man, who furiously dabs his forehead with a piece of cloth, blows a kiss to her. She quickly lowers her hand and looks down at the floor.
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