“I’m sorry. I seem to have forgotten myself,” Asa said, not sounding sorry at all. “Thank you for the practice.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Nomi curtsied, her heart falling. Their dance was over, and with it, any opportunity to ask about Serina.
Nomi followed Angeline back to the Graces’ chambers in silence, wondering if she’d get another chance. Praying she would.
When Nomi reached her bedroom, Angeline made short work of the shimmery black dress, now a little bedraggled. “Don’t worry,” the handmaiden said cheerfully. “I’ll have it cleaned and sewn up straightaway so it’s ready for the Premio Belaria.”
Then she helped Nomi into a soft cream tunic and flowing pants.
“Thank you, Angeline,” Nomi said. “May I have a few minutes to myself, please?”
The girl bowed. “Of course. I’ll wait outside.”
As soon as she was alone, Nomi slumped into a chair, elbows on the dressing table, and put her head in her hands. Over and over, the dance lesson played through her mind. She should have found a way to ask Asa about Serina.
Nomi’s frustration bubbled to the surface. She’d hoped to rest for a bit, but she couldn’t lie down. Not while she was thinking of Serina. She stood, clumsily, and knocked a small pot of lip shimmer to the floor. She sighed and picked it up, opening the dressing table’s top drawer to put it away.
As she opened the drawer, she gasped. A book sat half-hidden under a silk scarf and two sticks of kohl.
Nomi slammed the drawer shut, looking around her room in wide-eyed panic. When she was sure no one was watching—the room’s curtains had been drawn and Angeline remained outside—she opened the drawer again slowly.
It was still there. Her fingers caressed the smooth leather, and a tremor passed through her as she drew it out.
A Brief History of Viridia.
Nomi wrapped her arms around herself. A book was a dangerous thing to have—Serina’s removal proved that. So where had it come from?
Before she could stop to think about what she was doing, Nomi stuffed the small volume between her mattress and frame, deep enough that it wouldn’t be disturbed when Angeline changed the sheet. Nomi’s heart pounded madly. She slid to the floor and leaned against the bed.
She felt suddenly like an acrobat balanced on a swaying rope, the world dangerously far below. Someone was playing with her, and she didn’t know the game.
THIRTEEN
SERINA
“ORACLE WANTS TO see the freshies. Come on.” Cliff crossed her arms over her chest and loomed. Serina finished the last bit of bread from her meager lunch and scrambled to her feet. Cliff seemed to be the official handler for new prisoners. She was always the one telling Serina and the others what to do.
Jacana, Gia, and Theodora climbed to their feet after Serina and followed Cliff out of the lava tube. Many of the other women were working—some were collecting oranges and lemons, while others scrounged through the small patch of woods. Cliff caught Serina studying one of the girls, her arms laden with citrus and other plants.
“We’d die without that little bit of extra food,” Cliff said. “There are also a few berries that won’t kill you, though they taste like acid, and boars that roam the island. Won’t be for too much longer, though,” she added, pushing the girls toward a path through the foliage. “They can’t breed and birth fast enough before we hunt them. Anyone with a chance at fresh meat takes it.”
“Do you fish?” Gia asked. It turned out the blond girl was from a boat family. She’d been caught dressing as a boy to sell her family’s fish in the market when her father had taken ill.
Cliff rubbed the sunburned skin at the back of her neck. “Beach Camp and Southern Cliffs do. Everywhere else, the currents keep fish from getting close enough to shore. Jungle Camp catches a few in a bit of fresh water near where they live, but it isn’t much. They’re as hungry as anyone else,” she ended grimly.
Serina’s brow furrowed. “What happens if a crew loses the fights time after time?”
“They find enough food on their own. Or they starve,” Cliff said with a tone of finality.
They emerged from the patch of trees to another lava field. A grunt and the smack of skin against skin drew Serina’s attention. A few yards to their right, on a wide stretch of grassy earth the lava had missed, several women faced off. Oracle and the woman with the red strip of hair down her shaved skull stood off to the side, watching.
Jacana shuffled to a halt. Serina froze too.
Cliff nodded toward the fighters. “This is where we train. Ember leads most of the training, but if Oracle gives you advice, listen.”
Serina gasped as one of the women punched the other in the stomach. Their whirls and dodges looked like a strange kind of dance; the heat and brilliance of the sun made their movements dizzying.
Ember hiked over to where the little group stood, watching.
Cliff raised a brow. “Oracle wanted to see the freshies?”
Ember surveyed the new girls. Serina noticed a nasty scar just under her chin, shiny white and puckered. It looked like someone had tried to slash her throat.
“Pull back your hair,” the woman ordered.
Cliff dug several pieces of twine from her pocket and handed them out. Serina cringed as she tied her oily hair up.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Ember said, starting toward the field.
Gia made a noise in her throat. “You’ve got to be joking,” she said, voicing Serina’s own disbelief. Surely, they didn’t have to train… not yet.
Ember paused to level a glare on the girl. “Everyone fights for rations eventually. The sooner you start training, the less likely you are to die.”
Theodora swallowed. She was the tallest of the freshies, with arms that moved loosely at the joints, like a marionette. Her long, thin fingers picked at the hem of her shirt, a nervous habit Serina had noticed before.
Ember gestured to the makeshift ring. “Now get in there.”
No one else protested. Serina took a place next to Jacana, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm. She’d been told that other women were her competition all her life. Her mother had pounded the message into her: Never trust another woman. Never trust that she won’t try to take your place as a Grace, or your chance for a husband. You must always be the most beautiful, most poised woman in the room.
But the only thing she knew how to fight for was attention.
“Petrel, Mirror, work with them,” Ember said, pointing to Serina and Jacana. The other two fighters faced off with Gia and Theodora. Ember joined Oracle and Cliff, standing at the edge of the clearing.
One of the fighters shot Serina a grin. She had straight, shoulder-length hair and pierced ears, marking her as a former resident of Sola. “I’m Petrel,” the girl said. “Don’t let us scare you too much.”
“Too late,” Serina muttered before she could stop herself.
To her surprise, Petrel laughed. The other girl, Mirror, grinned. Freckles covered every inch of her exposed skin, and her black hair was cropped close to her skull. Her gaze caught everything.
“Everyone has cut their hair,” Jacana said quietly.
Petrel nodded. “Yes, most of us have. It’s easier to manage, and the rules here are not so defined. Or, well—” She broke off, as if considering. “Maybe it’s just that they are different.” The lightness in her voice dimmed a little. “Everywhere has rules, right?”
So far, Serina couldn’t grasp what the rules were here. And that was more terrifying, she found, than living in a society where everything was forbidden. If she didn’t know the rules, how would she know if she’d broken them?
“Get on with it,” Ember shouted, ending the introductions.
Petrel raised her hands, curling them into fists. “Keep your hands loose, like this. Raise them chest level, arms ready but not tense. You understand?”
Serina didn’t, but she lifted her hands and made an effort. Beside her, Jacana did the same.
/> Suddenly, a fist shot toward Serina’s face. She landed on her back in the grass, pain exploding along her jaw. For an instant, she stared at the hazy blue sky, rimmed with cloud. Then she struggled to her feet, rubbing her mouth.
“Petrel, work on her footwork.” Oracle’s voice fed the panic thudding in Serina’s chest. “She knows how to dance. Start there.”
Serina’s gaze snapped to Oracle’s face in surprise. How did Oracle know she could dance?
Petrel’s fist connected with Serina’s stomach, and she fell again.
“Sorry,” Petrel said cheerfully as Serina picked herself back up. “Stand with your legs farther apart. Bend your knees more. Keep loose.”
The training lasted all morning. First Petrel knocked Serina down, again and again, the whole time spouting nonsense about Serina’s stance and response times. Then the other fighters took a turn. And then the freshies fought each other. All the other girls knocked Serina down too. Even Jacana did; she was small and timid but, as Serina had noted before, surprisingly fast. It made sense now, given her history.
Serina’s knuckles cracked. The blisters on her feet bled. The taste of blood filled her mouth from a split lip. The only thing she could manage was to pull herself up and stand, swaying, ready for her next beating. The girls she fought were knives; she was dough—a soft, pliant body, useless as anything but a punching bag.
If Nomi had followed the rules, Serina would never have been sent here. The thought sent a bolt of anger coursing through her. Serina thrust her fist at Mirror’s face, only to have the girl block the blow and send her to the ground again.
When the training ended, Serina could do little more than stand on wobbling legs, bruised fists loose at her sides, as the other girls dusted themselves off and headed back to the cave. Petrel swung an arm around Serina’s shoulders and dragged her along.
“Come on. Let’s get you some food. First time’s always a beast. Oracle has us go hard on the freshies to see what you’re made of,” she said. “It’ll get easier.”
“I doubt that,” Serina rasped, her voice as sore and halting as the rest of her. She didn’t share Val’s newfound optimism over her prospects. He’d been right the first time. She was a dead girl.
And it’s Nomi’s fault.
Serina shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought. It felt like a betrayal.
“When you’ve recovered, walk,” Petrel suggested. “Stay away from the guard stations and the other crews. Everywhere else is okay. Walk as much as you can, run when you feel ready. Climb with your hands and feet bare… the volcanic rock will help you form calluses. You need to toughen up.”
Serina laughed. What an understatement.
Petrel smiled again. “What’s your name?”
“Let’s call her Softie,” one of the other fighters yelled from the front of the line.
Her companion laughed.
“No. How about Wallop, since we walloped her.”
Serina couldn’t bring herself, in that moment, to care what they chose for her name. She was soft. Defeated. Weak.
Ahead the line slowed to a stop. Oracle waited for them to catch up. She glanced around the small group, all sweat-stained and sagging in the heat, Serina the most disheveled of them all. In her whole life, she’d never spent a day without clean, brushed hair, nice clothes, and a perfect smile. What she must look like now, her mouth swollen, jaw bruised, and hair a wild tangle.
Oracle leveled her with a stare that seemed to see everything, seemed to understand all of Serina’s hopes, dreams, desires… and all her failures. As she spun away, Oracle shouted over her shoulder, “Call her Grace.”
FOURTEEN
NOMI
THE BOOK WAS burning a hole through Nomi’s bed. She could feel its sharp corners keeping her awake at night, tempting her as Angeline slept. In the dark, Nomi’s heartbeat spoke in black ink and silken paper, her mind filled with a craving that grew more painful the longer she resisted. She wanted so much to steal a moment, steal a glance, but she left it where it was. It wasn’t worth the risk. She never forgot Serina’s face as she pretended to read the book of legends, or the sound of her scream as they dragged her away.
Nomi shook her head a little, trying to put the book from her mind. The trouble was, if she wasn’t thinking about the book, she was thinking about Asa. Did he help with all of the dance lessons, or just when the Heir was away? Would he be at the big horse race coming up? When would she see him again? She was determined to find a way to speak to him about Serina. She couldn’t afford to waste any more chances.
At that moment, she and the other new Graces were ensconced in one of the more private sitting rooms, with dim light and ceramic bowls of warm water set in front of the upholstered chairs. The new Graces were supposed to be learning how to give foot massages by practicing on one another.
With a firm grip, Nomi slid her thumbs, slicked with oil, up the center of Cassia’s foot.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you might actually be getting better,” Cassia said, letting out a little sigh as she dropped her head back against the seat.
Nomi fought the urge to rake her fingernails down the girl’s foot. But she smiled wryly and said, “It’s about time I got something right,” as if she actually cared about such things.
Maris made a noise in the back of her throat. “I hate feet.” She was practicing on her handmaiden, who kept giggling because Maris wasn’t pressing hard enough. “I can’t believe we’re expected to do this. It’s disgusting.”
The handmaiden’s foot jerked as Maris hit another sensitive spot. “Sorry,” she muttered.
Cassia lowered her feet into the bowl of water. “I think it’s sensual.”
Nomi wiped off her hands, her own level of disgust somewhere in between the other girls’.
“My turn,” Cassia said. She patted Nomi on the head like a dog as she stood up. They switched places. Nomi sank into the soft chair and set her bare feet on the toweled footstool.
But before Cassia could start, Ines’s shadow filled the doorway. “The Heir has returned,” she announced. Nomi’s heart jolted.
“He’d like to see you, Cassia,” Ines added.
Nomi let out a breath. Thank the stars she wasn’t first this time.
Cassia swept toward the door, throwing a smug grin over her shoulder. Maris made a scoffing noise in her throat as Cassia left.
Nomi leaned forward to stretch out her spine before collapsing back into the cushioned chair. She closed her eyes and tried to block out thoughts of Serina, Asa, Malachi’s return… everything. She’d had so few opportunities growing up to just sit in a comfortable chair and breathe. Her parents both worked at the textile factory and Renzo was in school, so it had fallen to her to keep the house clean, go to the market for food, prepare their meals, and wash up afterward.
Maris’s handmaiden giggled again. Maris threw down her pumice stone in disgust. The man by the door shifted his weight.
“Are you okay?” Nomi asked quietly. She glanced at the pale, white-clad man at the door briefly, wondering what he thought of them.
Maris used a towel to mop up the oil on her hands. “I wish we could walk on the beach, or swim,” she grumbled. “I feel like I’m waiting for a storm that’s hovering just offshore, and it never gets any closer.”
Nomi smoothed her hands over the tops of her own feet, trying to rub the remnants of oil from her fingers. She said, “The Heir’s birthday is only a few weeks away. After that…”
After that, they’d be required to fulfill their full duties as Graces. Nomi shivered.
They sat in silence for a long time, neither of them eager to move on to the next task. Nomi had almost drifted to sleep, exhausted by her own thoughts, when Maris stood up with a jerk. “I’m covered in this oil, and the smell is making me sick. I’m going to take a bath.”
“I should probably wash up too,” Nomi said. The trade winds had died the night before, and her skin was sticky from the warm,
humid air, her mind thick with fears of Malachi’s birthday and what she’d be expected to do.
Nomi and Maris strolled through the quiet, opulent rooms, their handmaidens following silently. Even Angeline was quiet when they were in the common areas. The Superior’s men dotted each room, part of the furniture and yet not—Nomi could never forget that they reported everything to the Superior.
When they reached the pool, Nomi and Maris removed their clothes with the help of their handmaidens. At Nomi’s nod, Angeline slipped outside, with Maris’s handmaiden following suit. Even the male servant stepped outside the room, though he lingered just beyond the doorway. Maris plopped into the water with a little groan, sending ripples across its surface. Nomi joined her.
“Do you like it here?” Maris asked. Her black hair shone against the surface of the water like an oil slick.
Nomi hugged herself, the movement causing ripples to fan out across the bathing pool’s surface. She watched them hit the curved marble edge until the last one died. If Cassia had asked, Nomi would have said yes. But for some reason, with Maris, she felt safe telling the truth. “I hate it,” she whispered so the man outside wouldn’t hear her. “I miss my sister, my family.… My brother and I were born minutes apart. We’d never spent more than a day without each other in seventeen years. And my sister—” Her voice broke. She couldn’t talk about Serina.
Maris stared for a long time at the shadow of the man in the doorway. “My mother used to tell me that raging against a life you can’t change only hurts you.” Her voice hitched. “But she was lucky. She died young.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nomi said. Something about Maris’s fixed glare made her heart beat too fast. Nomi realized she was scared. Scared Maris would say something she shouldn’t. Scared she herself might too.
Maris’s voice flowed across the water, inexorable. “I could have been happy here. But my father, he… he ruined everything.” Her mouth snapped shut.
Before Nomi could ask what she meant, a handful of the Superior’s Graces entered the bathing room. Maris pasted a smile on her face, and it was as if the girl she’d been only a moment before had evaporated.
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