by Tabitha Vale
She glanced up from her papers and saw that Brielle, balancing on the edge of her bed, was giggling, clutching her envelope to her chest as if she meant to hug it. Emma, standing against the closet doorway, looked mildly satisfied, if not the same as usual. Maydessa, who also hadn't left her bed, was still reading her papers. Braya held back a snort—of course she'd want to read every word, even if that meant forestalling her results a couple minutes.
Maydessa must have sensed Braya's gaze. She broke from her intent reading and her eyes slid over to Braya. She considered her for a moment, before narrowing her eyes. “Who...who did you...”
Maydessa didn't finish the question. She was frantically leafing through the papers without any care to whether she tore them or wrinkled them. After scanning the last page, her eyes widened and her reaction was immediate. Maydessa deflated, sinking back into her pillows. Her light brown eyes sought Braya once more, and the unreadable expression brushed over her features made Braya cautious. When she finally spoke, her voice came out different. Low, dark, measured. “You got Latham.”
It wasn't a question but a statement.
“Who will be your husband, Maydessa?” Brielle asked meekly.
“Julian,” Maydessa answered after a pause. She was putting her papers away now, folding them neatly and trying to conceal the look on her face, the look that made it seem like she was trying to force something down. “Um, but...congrats, Braya.”
Braya was astounded by the profession, but even more so, dazed by the utterly subdued manner in which Maydessa had accepted the news.
“I think it's because of yesterday,” Brielle heaved a sigh, watching sadly as Maydessa locked herself in the closet.
“What do you mean?” Braya asked, confused.
“After Latham gave you that rose, instead of her, I think she snapped inside,” Brielle explained carefully.
“In other words,” Emma added, “She needs everything in perfect order. Yesterday was the opposite of that.”
“So that's why she's acting like that?” Braya's brows knit together. Why did Maydessa have to take everything so seriously?
“I feel bad,” Brielle pouted.
“It wasn't your fault,” Emma scoffed. “We weren't the ones who gave her Julian.”
“Julian's so nice, why can't she learn to like him?” Brielle asked uselessly.
“I bet she's resigned herself to becoming a Maid. She wanted into a Crown family no matter what,” Emma commented, staring thoughtfully at the closet door.
“I bet it was because her family used to be Crowns,” Brielle said, her voice hushed as if she was revealing a secret. “You know, when Maydessa was only nine years old, her mother got fired from the Handkerchief Society. Tore the family apart. She was raised by her father after that. I don't think Maydessa can ever get over that.”
Braya scowled. “How do you know all that?”
“Oh,” Brielle blushed, looking apologetic. “She and I went to the same elementary, middle, and high school. She doesn't act like it...she pretends we don't know each other. But our whole school knew what happened to her.”
Emma made a sound as she shook her head. “God, makes it harder to hate her now.”
It could explain why Maydessa disliked her. Oh, well.
Braya decided not to make anything of it. So, the girl had a rough life. Boo hoo. Braya's life wasn't so peachy at the moment, either. It was interesting—Braya had never heard of anyone being fired from a Crown job before—but for some reason, it did nothing to make her feel better about being denied the career she deserved.
After an elongated silence passed over the three of them, Brielle and Emma went back to their business.
Braya climbed out of bed and padded to the bathroom to wash up. She donned an intricate white dress with tight lace patterns along the middle, long sleeves that swelled around her wrist in a deep U-shape, and a frill-edged skirt short at one hip and cutting across her legs in an elegant sweep to touch her ankle on the other side, leaving one leg mostly exposed and the other completely hidden. It was light and graceful, and Braya thought it very tasteful for the engagement party in a couple hours. She made sure to take a lot longer getting ready than she normally did—she needed something to keep her mind occupied so that she wouldn't dwell on the imminent party and the implications it held.
“Braya,” Brielle whined playfully. “Why do you always have to look better than the rest of us?”
“She's got more money to buy nicer clothes,” Emma quipped, posed at the door, calm and uninterested.
“Plus, she's just so pretty,” Brielle smiled, taking Braya's hands in hers. “You're going to have beautiful children!”
Braya blanched. Children? She would not think of it. She clamped it down. Sooner or later she would have too many thoughts, questions, worries to keep at bay that they were going to burst through and drown her. But children? No, no, that thought definitely had to banished forever.
The four of them walked down to the Great Hall when it was time. Braya was a bundle of nerves, Maydessa was sulkily silent, Brielle claimed she was so excited that she had to check the current Moon Tamer scores every minute—via her arm—and Emma was as stoic as ever.
The Great Hall was swathed in white; nothing was untouched by the gentle, sweet tones of ivory and cream. The drapes were tied back so that the tall, tapered windows could spill bright light through the hall, illuminating all of the surfaces and picking up the glimmering details of the table settings. The Grooms were lined up in the center of the hall, smiling softly as the Brides filtered in. The guests—the Brides and Grooms that entered the program later, which unfortunately included Aspen, Asher, and Page—were gathered toward the back of the hall, seated at tables and watching the procession with unmasked curiosity.
Braya caught Asher's gaze—subdued by magenta—and he smirked at her. She quickly glanced away, hoping he wouldn't seek her out during the party. This was already going to be hard enough, giving herself over to a man, without Asher interfering.
Latham approached her, his wide, charming smile as bright as the room. He was holding a bouquet of white flowers, and handed them to her with a kiss to her cheek. “These are white carnations, a whole dozen of them. They hold so many good meanings to commemorate our union. Innocence, faithfulness, pure love, and good luck. Look, they match your dress quite well.”
Braya accepted the flowers, a smile crossing her face unbidden. “You know so much about flowers. Thank you.”
“It might prove useful in our marriage,” he laughed pleasantly, but Braya's stomach knotted. “Come, Braya,” he murmured, his arm falling to the small of her back as he guided her to a vacant table. The other Brides and Grooms were joining up and doing the same thing. There were eight chairs at their table, and she noticed they had name cards. Emma and Troy, Brielle and Phillip, and Maydessa and Julian soon joined them.
Once everyone had seated, Braya was surprised to see Leraphone emerge from the table where the staff was placed. Her blue frizzy hair looked more like a cloud than ever, with the filtered white sunlight adorning the edges of it. She held a microphone, and called for everyone's attention. A hushed excitement passed over the crowd as all eyes focused on the blue frizz.
“Welcome, my beautiful and handsome young students!” They clapped lightly in response, a few cheers rising up. “You've finally made it to this point. Your matches have been made, your final tests are coming up, and in just one week you'll be married!” More applause followed that statement. Braya clutched the bouquet of carnations to her chest. Latham had one of his hands in hers, and while it was comforting, she also found it to be a heavy reminder of how severe her situation was. Leraphone, in her wispy countenance, never made eye contact with her as she spoke to the group, and it made Braya uneasy about what they might discuss tomorrow. She tried to catch Aspen's gaze, but his was firmly locked on the blue frizz.
“Soon you'll all be having beautiful children and spreading your grace through our city. Now, please
celebrate your engagements and congratulate each other on your accomplishments,” Leraphone concluded her speech with an awkward bow where her hair flopped over her forehead, and then shuffled her way back to her table.
There were cakes and snacks, finger sandwiches and salads on the tables, and Braya wasn't surprised that Emma had already started on the sandwiches during Leraphone's speech. Classical music filled the room, and lively chatter grew louder by the minutes.
“Can we dance?” Brielle pleaded with her betrothed. Phillip looked uninterested, but nodded with an indulging smile. They moved from the table to a cleared space for dancing.
Latham leaned into her, and she couldn't help admiring the way his black blazer jacket and big, boxy glasses made him appear mature and controlled in a way the other Grooms did not. “Would you care to dance, sweet Braya?”
Flustered as he kissed her hand, Braya nodded.
Latham turned out to be a good dancer, and his large stature made it easy for her follow his movements without having to put much effort into it. No matter what he attempted to discuss with her as they danced, whether it was something of scholarly interests or something as menial as how rich the cake was, Braya couldn't concentrate on him. She was too worried about her meeting with Leraphone tomorrow. Two weeks really was too long for her to go without seeing Bellamine, and Braya only hoped that Harmony had managed to support her sister while she and Aspen were away.
“Is that your brother?” Latham asked. “Talking to the two guys next to him.”
Braya glanced in the direction of the guests, who were now mingling with the engaged group, and noticed that her brother was caught in conversation with Asher while Page hovered next to him, silent. It looked odd with Aspen cloaked in white standing among so many males dressed in darker shades. She gritted her teeth, “Yes, it is.”
“You two look alike,” Latham remarked. She looked up to see him gazing intently at her, and she averted her gaze immediately. He still made her feel something pleasant inside, and she didn't like that. “Except for your hair. Yours is much darker.”
“Right,” Braya agreed. “Um, do you mind if I go speak with him? My brother, I mean.”
Their dance paused, and he nodded cordially. “I have no problem with that.”
Braya thanked him and marched her way around the makeshift dance floor to where Aspen was chatting with Asher. What did that stupid foreign Mud think he was doing? Did he know that was her brother? Of course he did, why would he be speaking to Aspen of all people? He must have seen her with them over the past two weeks, or remembered his name from when he'd forced her to tell her family's details.
“Aspen,” she said, forcing a small smile. “Do you mind if I spoke with you for a moment?”
His perceptive magenta eyes met hers, and she had to push back the shudder they invoked in her. He always seemed to be a step ahead of her. Can you honestly tell me you believe the men here are just born like that? They're like...dehumanized. Shells of humans, and nothing more. Asher's words were flooding her mind again as she was reminded how her brother was different than the rest of the males. “Sure, Braya. Please excuse me, Asher, Page.”
“Aspen, I'm worried about Bellamine,” she whispered, ushering him into a space where no one could overhear them.
“As am I,” his smooth, water-toned voice answered. “Charlotte cannot be trusted with her alone.”
“Mother wouldn't do anything,” Braya snapped. “It's the disease I'm concerned about.”
Aspen looked at her for a long moment. “We've already discussed this before. You keep defending Charlotte and I have nothing to tell you. When is your meeting with Leraphone? Tomorrow, am I right?”
She nodded. “I think that's why I'm feeling like this. I'm so anxious about it.”
“Just don't worry,” he consoled. His eyes flashed past her shoulder and he shifted his expression. “I don't think this is the right time to talk. Enjoy your party for now, Braya.”
Aspen sidled away just as Asher appeared beside her. She nearly jumped at the sight of him—mostly because of those magenta eyes that did not suit him as well as his natural blue did—but quickly regained her composure and fixed him with a withering glare.
“What are you doing here?”
“My, my,” he teased, “Testy when you're away from your sweetheart for too long? I merely wanted to ask you to dance.”
“You can forget it,” she moved to shove past him, but his hands found her upper arm and his touch instantly had her pause. The direct contact of his skin on hers welcomed that familiar rush of aching allure beneath her skin and she was swept up by his magenta eyes. “Dance with me,” he ordered, his breath cool against her face.
They made their way to the dance floor, and Braya couldn't help noticing that Latham and all the rest of her table were watching her with confusion. She felt a flash of panic. Was this not proper, dancing with another man at her engagement party? Asher was dressed well enough, so she hoped no one else would notice—after all, there was no way for her to get out of it unless she wanted to twitch into painful unconsciousness in front of everyone.
The melody filtering through the room was somewhat slow, so Asher gathered her close to him and Braya was loath to admit how much better they fit together than she did with Latham. Asher was smaller than the other man, more nimble. The top of her head met his nose, and she was aware of him as he inhaled her hair. His one arm was gripping her around her lower back while the other clutched her hand. Her free arm was extended over his shoulder, and the intimacy of their dance had Braya growing weaker to that simmer of heat playing along her skin, peeling away her resolve like an apple's skin.
“How is it, Bray?” Asher's lips were so near her ear that she shuddered. His tone was like velvet, and she liked it, wanted more of it. And she answered, so that he would reply.
“Nothing special.”
“Is that so?” Heat thrummed across her back, and she hated that she enjoyed it. “Is it anything like Prince Latham's dance?”
“It can't compare,” she uttered, not entirely sure if she meant it. Her head dipped back, and she was astounded to see that his eyes had transformed back into their original, icy blue.
“Did he ever make you feel...” he trailed off, staring so far into her eyes that she felt like he was digging for something personal, something that she was hiding. “Like this?” The hand he held hers in released her and came up to graze the side of her face. His fingers sent individual streams of feathered strokes against her skin, and she felt a row of tremors snake up her back. His breath heated her face, and the heavy scent of flowers and soil became acutely present.
She couldn't respond to him. He was twirling her before she had the chance, dipping her, clinging to her. And then their faces were inches apart once more, and his eyes a snowstorm of blue, shining in the light, drank her in as she breathed heavily. “Does he confuse you like this? Does he make you all flushed, like I do?”
His right eye was golden, a brilliant shift from the cold blue. She widened her eyes in realization.
“You're jealous.” She searched his face with wide eyes, but he wasn't responding. “Asher,” she hissed. “Knock it off. People will notice your eye.”
He blinked at her, as if surprised, and then released her without warning. She stumbled back, and he grabbed her hand. “Follow me.”
She cast a helpless glance back at her table, but no one was watching her anymore. She supposed it was better that they hadn't seen the way she'd been dancing with Asher, but she also cursed her bad luck. Here she was with a lunatic who had one blue eye and one gold eye, and no one was paying any attention!
Asher dragged her through the Entrance Hall and forced her to jog after him until they'd exited the manor. As they entered one of the outer corridors that surrounded the massive statue of the embracing Bride and Groom, she finally got him to release her and she halted in her tracks, out of breath.
“Asher! You're jealous of Latham,” she heaved. “You're
jealous. Why?”
“Why not?” He countered, his golden eye eerily bright in the shadowy corridor. “Why can't I be jealous? Why can't I be jealous that the beautiful girl I like gets to marry some other guy? That big oaf gets to marry you! It's just not right. I like you, I'm the one who's supposed to win you.”
She was caught by his words like a punch to the stomach. “What do you mean you like me? Stop being mental. It's not as if I want to marry him. It's just—you—” She floundered, throwing her hands up in the air. “Then you! You just had to make that huge display in there with all the touching and heavy breathing. What will those people think of me? What will Latham think?”
“Since when have you cared? Do you really like the guy? Because believe me, he doesn't like you!”
“Why?” She shouted. “Why can't he like me? 'Cause he's some robotic shell of a human being?”
“Exactly!”
“Aggh!”
“Come on,” he growled. “We're going to the chapel. Follow me.”
“But the party—”
“Follow me.”
****
If she hadn't been so mussed up about the way he'd embarrassed her during their dance, Braya might've been flattered by his jealousy. But what did it mean to be liked by a boy? Was there something she was obligated to do for him? Was she supposed to like him back? She had no idea what kind of rituals went into that kind of thing and she didn't want to find out.
Braya did like knowing, though. Now whenever she looked at Asher, she felt like she had something against him, that she knew something personal about him that he hadn't wanted her knowing. In that same vein, she was reminded of how he'd shut her out when she'd asked about his family last time, and she wondered if he'd liked her back then. Maybe now he would respond differently.
They were strolling the dark, dank corridors of the chapel, Asher carrying one of the lanterns, both of his eyes blue again, when she decided to ask.