by Kiera Cass
The Great Room buzzed with excitement. People told me that all of Illéa had been waiting for this moment: the excitement of the new princess, the thrill of me as a soon-to-be king. For the first time, I felt all of that energy and worried it would crush me.
I shook hands and graciously accepted gifts that I didn’t need. I quietly asked one of the photographers about his lens, and kissed cheeks of family and friends and my fair share of complete strangers.
Finally I found myself alone for a moment. I surveyed the crowd, sure there was somewhere I ought to be. My eyes found Daphne, and I started walking toward her. I was looking forward to just a few minutes of genuine conversation, but it would have to wait.
“Are you having fun?” Mom asked, stepping into my path.
“Does it look like I am?”
She ran her hands over my already-crisp suit. “Yes.”
I smiled. “That’s all that really matters.”
She tilted her head, a gentle smile on her own face. “Come with me for a second.”
I held an arm out for her, which she happily took, and we walked out into the hallway to the sound of cameras clicking.
“Can we do something a bit smaller next year?” I asked.
“Not likely. You’ll almost certainly be married by then. Your wife might want to have a rather elaborate celebration your first year together.”
I frowned, something I could get away with in front of her. “Maybe she’ll like things quiet, too.”
She laughed softly. “Sorry, honey. Any girl who puts her name in for the Selection is looking for a way out of quiet.”
“Were you?” I wondered aloud. We never talked about her coming here. It was a strange divide between us, but one that I cherished: I was raised in the palace, but she chose to come.
She stopped and faced me, her expression warm. “I was smitten with the face I saw on TV. I daydreamed about your father the same way thousands of girls daydream about you.”
I pictured her as a young girl in Honduragua, her hair braided back as she gazed longingly at the television. I could see her sighing every time he had to speak.
“All girls dream of what it would be like to be a princess,” she added. “To be swept off their feet and wear a crown . . . it’s all I could think about the week before the names were drawn. I didn’t realize that it was so much more than that.” Her face grew a little sad. “I couldn’t guess at the pressure I’d be under or how little privacy I’d have. Still, to be married to your father, to have had you.” She swept her hand down my cheek. “This is all those dreams made real.”
She held my gaze, smiling, but I could see tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. I had to get her talking again.
“So you have no regrets, then?”
She shook her head. “Not a one. The Selection changed my life, and I mean that in the best way possible. Which is what I want to talk to you about.”
I squinted. “I’m not sure I understand.”
She sighed. “I was a Four. I worked in a factory.” She held out her hands. “My fingers were dry and cracked, and dirt was caked under my nails. I had no alliances, no status, nothing worthy of making me a princess . . . and yet, here I am.”
I stared, still unsure of her point.
“Maxon, this is my gift to you. I promise I will make every effort to see these girls through your eyes. Not the eyes of a queen, or the eyes of your mother, but yours. Even if the girl you choose is of a very low caste, even if others think she has no value, I will always listen to your reasons for wanting her. And I will do my best to support your choice.”
After a pause, I understood. “Did Father not have that? Did you not?”
She pulled herself up. “Every girl will come with pros and cons. Some people will choose to focus on the worst in some of your options and the best in others, and it will make no sense to you why they seem so narrow-minded. But I’m here for you, whatever your choice.”
“You always have been.”
“True,” she said, taking my arm. “And I know I’m about to play second fiddle to another woman, as I should. But my love for you will never change, Maxon.”
“Nor mine for you.” I hoped she could hear the sincerity in my voice. I couldn’t imagine a circumstance that would dim my absolute adoration of her.
“I know.” With a little nudge, she pushed us back to the party.
As we entered the room to smiles and applause, I considered my mother’s words. She was, beyond anyone I knew, incredibly generous. It was a trait I endeavored to adopt myself. So if this was her gift, it must be more necessary than I could understand at the present. My mother never gave a gift thoughtlessly.
CHAPTER 2
PEOPLE LINGERED MUCH LATER THAN I thought was appropriate. That was another sacrifice that came with the privilege, I guessed: no one wanted a palace party to end. Not even when the palace wanted it to.
I’d placed the very drunk dignitary from the German Federation into the care of a guard, thanked all the royal advisors for their gifts, and kissed the hand of nearly every lady who walked through the palace doors. In my eyes, my duty here was done, and I just wanted to spend a few hours in peace. But as I went to escape the lingering partygoers, I was happily stopped by a pair of dark blue eyes.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Daphne said, her tone playful and the lilt of her accent tickling my ears. There was always something musical about the way she spoke.
“Not at all. It was bit more crowded than I thought it would be.” I looked back at the handful of people still intent on seeing the sun rise through the palace windows.
“Your father, he enjoys making a spectacle.”
I laughed. Daphne seemed to understand so many things that I’d never said out loud. Sometimes that made me nervous. Just how much about me could she see without me knowing? “He outdid himself, I think.”
She shrugged. “Only until next time.”
We stood there in silence, though I sensed she wanted to say more. Biting her lip, she whispered to me. “Could I speak to you in private?”
I nodded, giving her my arm and escorting her to one of the parlors down the hall. She was quiet, saving her words until I shut the doors behind us. Though we often talked in private, the way she was acting made me uneasy.
“You didn’t dance with me,” she said, sounding hurt.
“I didn’t dance at all.” Father insisted upon classical musicians this time. While the Fives were very talented, the music they played lent themselves to slower dances. Maybe, if I had wanted to dance, I would have chosen to dance with her. It just felt wrong with everyone asking me questions about my future mystery wife.
She let out a breathy sigh and paced the room. “I’m supposed to go on this date when I get home,” she said. “Frederick—that’s his name. I’ve seen him before, of course. He’s an excellent rider, and very handsome, too. He’s four years older than me, but I think that’s one of the reasons Papa likes him.”
She looked over her shoulder at me, a little smile on her face.
I gave her a sarcastic grin in return. “And where would we be without our fathers’ approval?”
She giggled. “Lost, of course. We’d have no idea how to live.”
I laughed back, grateful for someone to joke about it with. It was the only way to deal with it sometimes.
“But yes, Papa approves. Still, I wonder . . .” She dropped her eyes to the floor, suddenly shy.
“You wonder what?”
She stood there a moment, her gaze still focused on the carpet. Finally she focused those deep blue eyes on me. “Do you approve?”
“Of what?”
“Frederick.”
I laughed. “I can’t really say, can I? I’ve never met him.”
“No,” she said, her voice dropping. “Not about the person, but the idea. Do you approve of me dating this man? Possibly marrying him?”
Her face was stone, covering something I didn’t understand. I gave a bewildered sh
rug. “It’s not my place to approve. It’s hardly even yours,” I added, feeling a bit sad for the both of us.
Daphne twisted her hands together, like she was maybe nervous or hurting. What was happening here?
“So it doesn’t bother you at all, then? Because if it’s not Frederick, it’ll be Antoine. And if it’s not Antoine, it’ll be Garron. There’s a string of men waiting for me, none of them half the friend to me that you are. But, eventually, I’ll have to take one as a husband, and you don’t care?”
That was gloomy indeed. We scarcely saw each other more than three times in a year. And I might say she was my closest friend, too. How pathetic were we?
I swallowed, searching for the right thing to say. “I’m sure it will all work out.”
With no warning whatsoever, tears began streaming down Daphne’s face. I looked around the room, trying to find an explanation or solution, feeling more and more uncomfortable every moment.
“Please tell me you’re not going to follow through with this, Maxon. You can’t,” she pleaded.
“What are you talking about?” I asked desperately.
“The Selection! Please, don’t marry some stranger. Don’t make me marry some stranger.”
“I have to. That’s how it works for princes of Illéa. We marry commoners.”
Daphne rushed forward, grabbing my hands. “But I love you. I always have. Please don’t marry some other girl without at least asking your father if I could be a choice.”
Loved me? Always?
I choked over words, trying to find the right place to start. “Daphne, how . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll ask your father,” she pleaded, wiping away her tears hopefully. “Postpone the Selection long enough for us to at least see if it’s worth trying. Or let me enter, too. I’ll give up my crown.”
“Please stop crying,” I whispered.
“I can’t! Not when I’m about to lose you forever.” She buried her head in her hands, sobbing quietly.
I stood there, stone-like, terrified I would make this worse. After a few tense moments, she raised her head. She spoke, staring at nothing.
“You’re the only person who really knows me. The only person I feel I truly know myself.”
“Knowledge isn’t love,” I contradicted.
“That’s not true, Maxon. We have a history together, and it’s about to be broken. All for the sake of tradition.” She kept her eyes focused on some invisible space in the center of the room, and I couldn’t guess what she was thinking now. Clearly, I was oblivious to her thoughts in general.
Finally Daphne turned her face to me. “Maxon, I beg of you, ask your father. Even if he says no, at least I’ll have done everything I could.”
Positive that I already knew this to be true, I told her what I must. “You already have, Daphne. This is it.” I held out my arms for a moment and let them drop. “This is all it could ever be.”
She held my gaze for a long time, knowing as I did that asking my father for such an outrageous request was beyond anything I could truly get away with. I saw her search her mind for an alternative path, but she quickly saw there wasn’t one. She was a servant to her crown, I was a servant to mine, and our masters would never cross.
As she nodded, her face crumpled into tears again. She wandered over to a couch and sat down, holding herself. I stayed still, hoping to not cause her any more grief. I longed to make her laugh, but there wasn’t anything funny about this. I hadn’t known I was capable of breaking a heart.
I certainly didn’t like it.
Just then I realized this was about to become common. I would dismiss thirty-four women over the next few months. What if they all reacted this way?
I huffed, exhausted at the thought.
At the sound, she looked up. Slowly, the expression on her face changed.
“Doesn’t this hurt you at all?” she demanded. “You’re not that good an actor, Maxon.”
“Of course it bothers me.”
She stood, silently assessing me. “But not for the same reasons it bothers me,” she whispered. She walked across the room, her eyes pleading. “Maxon, you love me.”
I stayed still.
“Maxon,” she said more forcefully, “you love me. You do.”
I had to look away, the intensity in her eyes too bright for me. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to put whatever it was I did feel into words.
“I’ve never seen anyone express their feelings the way you just did. I have no doubt you mean every word, but I can’t do that, Daphne.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t know how to feel it. You just have no idea how to express it. Your father can be as cold as ice, and your mother hides within herself. You’ve never seen people love freely, so you don’t know how to show it. But you feel it; I know you do. You love me as I love you.”
Slowly, I shook my head, fearing another syllable out of my mouth would start everything up again.
“Kiss me,” she demanded.
“What?”
“Kiss me. If you can kiss me and still say you don’t love me, I’ll never mention this again.”
I backed away. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”
I didn’t want to confess how literal that was. I wasn’t sure how many boys Daphne had kissed, but I knew it was more than zero. She’d let the fact she’d been kissed come out a few summers ago when I was in France with her. So there. She had me beat, and there was no way I was going to make an even bigger fool out of myself in this moment.
Her sadness shifted to anger as she backed away from me. She laughed once, no humor in her eyes.
“So this is your answer, then? You’re saying no? You’re choosing to let me leave?”
I shrugged.
“You’re an idiot, Maxon Schreave. Your parents have completely sabotaged you. You could have a thousand girls set before you, and it wouldn’t matter. You’re too stupid to see love when it stands right in front of you.”
She wiped her eyes and straightened her dress. “I hope to God I never see your face again.”
The fear in my chest changed, and as she walked away, I grabbed her arm. I didn’t want her to be gone forever.
“Daphne, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said coldly. “Feel sorry for yourself. You’ll find a wife because you have to, but you’ve already known love and let it go.”
She jerked free and left me alone.
Happy birthday to me.
CHAPTER 3
DAPHNE SMELLED LIKE CHERRY BARK and almonds. She’d been wearing the same scent since she turned thirteen. She had it on last night, and I could smell it even as she was wishing she’d never see me again.
She had a scar on her wrist, a scrape she got climbing a tree when she was eleven. It was my fault. She was a bit less ladylike at the time, and I convinced her—well, challenged her—to race me to the top of one of the trees on the edge of the garden. I won.
Daphne had a crippling fear of the dark, and since I had fears of my own, I never teased her for it. And she never teased me. Not on anything that really mattered anyway.
She was allergic to shellfish. Her favorite color was yellow. Try as she may, she could not sing to save her life. She could dance, though, so it was probably even more of a disappointment that I didn’t ask her to last night.
When I was sixteen she sent me a new camera bag for Christmas. Even though I’d never given any indication that I wanted to get rid of the one I had, it meant so much to me that she was aware of my likes, and I switched it out anyway. I still used it.
I stretched beneath my sheets, turning my head toward where the bag rested. I wondered how much time she’d spent picking out the right one.
Maybe Daphne was right. We had more history than I’d recognized. We’d lived our relationship through scattered visits and sporadic phone calls, so I never would have dreamed it added up to as much as it truly did.
And now she was on a plane back
to France, where Frederick was waiting for her.
I climbed out of bed, shrugged off my rumpled shirt and suit pants, and made my way to the shower. As the water washed away the remnants of my birthday, I tried to dismiss my thoughts.
But I couldn’t shelve her nagging accusation about the state of my heart. Did I not know love at all? Had I tasted it and cast it off? And if so, how was I supposed to navigate the Selection?
Advisors ran around the palace with stacks of entry forms for the Selection, smiling at me like they knew something I didn’t. From time to time, one would pat me on the back or whisper an encouraging remark, as if they sensed that I was suddenly doubting the one thing in my life I’d always counted on, the one thing I hoped for.
“Today’s batch is very promising,” one would say.
“You’re a lucky man,” another commented.
But as the entries piled up, all I could think about was Daphne and her cutting words.
I should have been studying the figures of the financial report before me, but instead I studied my father. Had he somehow sabotaged me? Made it so I was missing a fundamental understanding of what it meant to be in a romantic relationship? I’d seen him interact with my mother. There was affection between them, if not passion. Wasn’t that enough? Was that what I was meant to be aiming for?
I stared into space, debating. Maybe he thought that if I sought anything more, I’d have a terrible time traversing the Selection. Or perhaps that I’d be disappointed if I didn’t find something life-changing. It was probably for the best that I never mentioned I was hoping for just that.
But maybe he had no such designs. People simply are who they are. Father was strict, a sword sharpened under the pressure of running a country that was surviving constant wars and rebel attacks. Mother was a blanket, softened by growing up with nothing, and ever seeking to protect and comfort.
I knew in my core I was more like her than him. Not something I minded, but Father did.
So maybe making me slow about expressing myself was intentional, part of the process intended to harden me.