by Katie Zaber
I’ve changed since transported to Capo. So much of my personality has been chipped away while I’ve been coping to survive. I had tried to preserve the last morsel but even now, I’m unsure if it exists. Opening these doors will change me even further. As soon as I step over the threshold, I begin a new persona and leave the past behind. I might as well accept the name Mealla and forget Megan ever existed.
Unless I discover a way home. That’s my overall goal. The king has to know how or know someone who can perform the spell to transfer us back to Earth. He traveled there before, he must know how to do it again. The darker question is if I would trade our ticket home and in exchange, he keeps the throne undisputed. Are our past lives on Earth so important that I’d trade endless citizens to slavery, torture, and death for four girls’ freedom of this world? Could I be that selfish? Is it fair to make an important decision without Sarah, Dana, and Ciara? Would they be mad I trapped them here when I could have struck a bargain to return home?
If they knew the stakes, I’m sure they’d agree with my choice. Sarah would argue four lives don’t equal a kingdom’s worth of people. Ciara would say don’t be greedy. And Dana would warn me not to become my father.
Girls, please don’t be dead.
As I approach the two guards stationed in front of the golden doors, they cross their right hand over their chest, palm in front of their left shoulder, and then back down to their sides. I think it’s a salute or sign of respect. They each wear a gold torc with a centered band of jade.
I give them a closed-mouth smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with your customs. What is the appropriate response?”
“A smile works,” says the younger guard. He has copper hair and a crew cut. I believe he held open the door earlier when Manadhon escorted Kilyn and me to my room. “You are a princess. You don’t show respect to anyone except the King.”
I place my right palm against my chest, looking both guards in the eyes. “Respect is earned.”
They tilt their heads, staring in astonishment that I would humble myself by saluting.
“You’re different,” says the older guard. Hints of grey hide among his black hair. Crow’s feet surround his eyes and his smile is welcoming.
Both appear to be honest military men. I can picture them after their shift returning home to spend time with their wives, playing with their kids. Neither is threatening, but both give the sense of security. However, I believe they are here to protect the King, not me. That’s Manadhon’s sole job.
“I hope different is good,” I reply.
They return courteous smiles, awaiting my signal to open the doors.
For a moment, my anxiety takes over. My heart pounds in my chest. I want to run back to my room or dash through the castle and escape.
As I turn to run, Manadhon grabs my hand before I can flee into the depths of the castle. “Don’t be afraid. No one will hurt you.”
If I open my mouth to speak, I’m afraid I’ll vomit. I take a couple calm breaths and center myself. The irony of Manadhon being my kidnapper and bodyguard isn’t lost on me. The last twenty-four hours have been odd. I would never have expected to end up here, under his protection. I suspect he has a dual role—bodyguard and assassin—if my father commands. With a signal from him, he would strike me dead. Manadhon standing by my side doesn’t reassure me, but at least he’ll protect me from everyone except my father.
“Don’t drink too much,” the handsome young guard says. His creamy complexion is becoming rosy, blushing slightly. “They will offer you milvin, a traditional drink to welcome you. Be careful how much you consume. Stay sober.”
I nod. “Thank you for the advice.”
Well, that’s a huge red flag. If people want information or leverage on someone, an easy way is intoxicating that person. I’ve done that to Chelsea. She can’t keep her mouth shut if she tries after tossing back a few shots.
“Ready?” Manadhon asks.
That’s a loaded question.
Am I ready to change my life, change this world? Am I ready to usurp my father and become the Queen this kingdom needs? Am I ready to take Manadhon’s arm as he directs me toward what strangely feels like fate?
Goosebumps cover my skin. I take one last deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Manadhon chuckles. That surprises me. Mister Monotone is capable of laughter? He nods to the guards, stepping behind me before they each grab a door handle. They push open the doors, leaving me in the middle of the threshold.
An instant roar welcomes me as hundreds stop the festivities to applaud, gawk, and point. Some of their eyes gleam with national pride, yelling in excitement to greet their new princess. A few faces scrunch with disapproving stares. Most share in the joy and laughter, smiling, raising their glasses in a toast. All eyes in the room are on me, except my father. He watches the crowd’s reaction from his golden throne across the golden room, opposite me.
I want to shrink and become invisible.
To say the gold room is stunning would be like calling the Sistine Chapel an elementary school mural. Any fairy tale ballroom ever described is inadequate compared to the magnificence of the Golden Ballroom. Everything is gold, every minute detail. I think the King used King Midas as an inspiration to turn everything he could touch into gold. Or maybe the room inspired the tale of King Midas. We may never know.
A solid gold whimsical throne, twice his height, makes his other white modern throne look bland. Curves, twists, and knots swirl in different directions, ending in round points high above his head. Almost like an abstract sculpture from an art gallery.
Tables, chairs, the walls, and ceiling are all the same shade of shiny bright gold. Aerial acrobats wearing body paint twirl from the ceiling on threads of thick gold. Even the cutlery, plates, and cups are gold.
Guests dressed in gold disappear into the background. Their outfits are not nearly as shiny as the objects in the room. Those dressed in colors like my emerald green dress draw attention to themselves like beads of smooth sea glass, strewn about fine gold sand.
Ciara would love this—except the surrounded-by-Fae part. This ballroom is her fantasy. It’s funny how other people’s fantasies become my version of Hell. Instead of my life being A Happily Ever After fairy tale, my version is the old school horrific Grimm’s Fairy Tales version that doesn’t end up with me happy—or alive. Like those stories, I’m sure my story will end rather quickly and grim. I’m Cinderella enchanted by the ballroom, but instead of discovering my prince, my evil, supposedly dead father sits on a gold throne. He smiles, daring me to walk through the room of Fae to meet him.
Daring me to leave humanity at the door and become Fae.
Father stands. Two guards flank him instantaneously as he glides across the room. A sea of people part like practiced choreography, smooth and graceful. He wears a golden suit with a single black-button gold jacket and black cuffs. A matching gold vest and a black tuxedo shirt with a golden tie give off a suave appearance. Gold pants with a thin black stripe run down each leg, finishing with black leather shoes. On top of his head sits a thin gold crown with no markings. Very subtle. The combination of gold on gold with his red curls make his sapphire blue eyes burn brighter. Not with anger as I’ve seen earlier, but with excitement, possibly joy.
I meet his gaze and start my approach. I keep my eyes focused on him and no one else. It makes walking into the center slightly easier. Is it his intention to help or to make it appear so?
“Mealla, you are radiant.”
He takes my hand, raising it above my head, and gives me a spin for all to see. My dress clings to my body, unmoved, but my cape flutters as I spin. The whole time, my focus remains on him, but I allow a full smile. He stops spinning after the third twirl and lowers my hand to his mouth, planting a kiss before letting it fall to my side. The scent of his cologne brings me home and his voice echoes in my memories. I no longer know how to feel. He looks so proud, so full of love, but I can’t help feeling it’s an
empty promise. A lie for his kingdom to behold and one for me to believe. This wouldn’t be his first lie or trick.
“You look snazzy yourself,” I say.
He beams. “Princess Mealla, I have waited a long time for this moment. Welcome home.” Did he just admit he brought me here? He turns to address the crowd. “No speeches tonight, only fun.”
They applaud and whisper as I follow the king to his elaborate throne. Next to his is a similar, smaller gold throne. I assume my seat. It really makes me think he planned this. Why else would he have a throne ready?
I don’t want to sit. I want nothing but to hurl. I purse my lips together and scan the room. I’d estimate four hundred people, if not more, are mingling in the gigantic room. Apprehensive, I try to move my lips into a smile, but only end up biting my lip as I take in the elite of Paradise Kingdom. People drink and stuff their faces with hors d’oeuvres served by waiters made to look like golden gods. Laughing, flirting, spying, gambling, and charming, a sea of lies engulfs the room as the guests spread out to fill its empty niches. The main floor or center I walked across fills with couples waiting to dance. On each side is an expansion. If you were to view from above, it would look like an open box with flaps. Three flaps house tables and chairs, the last an extensive buffet. The main center of the box is the dance floor. Our chairs sit in front of the buffet side, behind a golden table, with a full view of the room. Behind our seats is a fake wall, also gold. Its purpose is to create a flow. Guests enter to the right of my seat and then exit to the left of the king’s. It keeps the room organized. The smells from the buffet waft to my nose, encouraging my stomach to rumble. I haven’t eaten today, and I didn’t have much of a meal yesterday. Roast meats, sautéed vegetables, sweet aromas that make me think of pies compel me to investigate. I should eat something before the drinking begins. I want to stay sober, which will be impossible on an empty stomach.
The drinking tip gives me a slight upper hand, which makes me relax a little. It’s not much, but it’s useful. I tap into my impulse to pretend, to be mysterious, and make my own new identity. It feels better playing a part, rather than simply being. I’m used to portraying a life of mystery. It’s harder to act when everything around you is an unsolved riddle. Harder to navigate which lies will work and which ones won’t in a society so different from my own. I have no clue what they want to hear.
Perched on an uncomfortable, cold seat, I wait in anticipation. Who will greet me first? Who will make the first move? Whoever does, they will make a huge power play. The other nobles and politicians will see the introduction as a ploy to achieve goals. The tension weighs heavy in the room, thick enough to cut as everyone waits. Music begins. The string instruments play a melody while percussion keeps time. Couples dance to the song, swinging across the ballroom floor. It releases a fraction of tension in the air, but it does nothing for my nerves.
A woman sharing a striking resemblance to my father catches my eye. I make a note of her fiery hair that’s tied back in a relaxed braid as she strides up in a suede, leather pantsuit, rustic but expensive. A three-buttoned single-breast suit jacket rests open to a gold laced-up blouse with ruffled cuffs. It’s something I’d love to wear, compared to a dress.
“So you’re my niece. My big brother didn’t mention he had children. He’s full of surprises, you know.” She offers me my first drink of the clear liquid in a simple, clear shot glass. “Don’t get intimidated. Your father overexaggerates every function. It will all be over soon. I’m your Aunt Carmia. Pleased to meet you. Unfortunately, I can’t stay long. My fleet is in harbor, waiting for departure.”
“Aunt Carmia? I love your outfit.”
She chuckles. “I only get away with this ’cause I’m not heir to the throne. I could never wear this style otherwise.” She leans in, whispering into my ear, “It’s far more comfortable than those stiff dresses.” She steps back, laughing, looking me up and down, inspecting me for a moment. “You will fit in.” She raises her glass. I imitate and we guzzle our cups of milvin. It goes down smooth, thick like honey. The slightly sweet and buttery taste masks its percentage of alcohol. “See you soon, Megan.”
I am shocked she knows my real name. “I hope so,” I say to myself.
Aunt Carmia stalks away, not giving me the chance to say goodbye or have the last word. She seems controlling and aggressive, but if she is the captain of a fleet of ships, she must be assertive to gain respect from her men. She called me Megan. I wonder if that was being friendly or a play against her brother. I can’t assume anything is as it appears.
Seconds after Aunt Carmia leaves, a woman with strawberry blonde hair and green eyes approaches. Her hair is impressive. Braids starting at the bottom of her head weave upward in a way that can only compare to Medusa. Her posture speaks of a lioness stalking her meal. Dressed in an iridescent flowy pearl sheath, she drags a train as long as a wedding dress behind her. Two delicate straps make a sharp square across her chest. A choker pearl necklace hangs tight around her throat. In the corners of her mouth, dimples form as she smiles, as if she practices smiling in her spare time. She holds out a small gold shot glass, much fancier than the one Aunt Carmia offered.
“Darling, my dear niece Mealla.” Dignity and pride boom in her voice and stature, both commanding respect. “May I welcome you first into our family, second into our home, and lastly into our kingdom. I’m so blessed to have a niece. There have been no women in the family except my sister and me for years. I’ll enjoy our time together.”
She shares my father’s sharp nose, but that’s where the resemblance ends. However, she looks like someone I can’t remember. A faint memory. It will nag me all night. I take the cup as graciously as possible. Her hands feel soft and dainty. I doubt she has done an ounce of work. Not like her sister Carmia, whose hands were rough and calloused. Aunt Carmia knows what work is. At least, manual labor versus careful manipulation.
“Thank you. I’m sorry, my father mentioned he had sisters but never said your names.”
She glares daggers at her brother, her nostrils flare ever so slightly before returning to a more graceful expression. Only then does she speak softly, loud enough for just us to hear. “Why, I’m your Aunt Meloda. Your father should have informed you.” She raises her hand to my cheek—I try my best not to flinch. “Poor thing, hurled into the middle of this, completely unprepared.” She grabs my free hand, bursting out a smile. “Walk with me, dear. I’ll give you tips. Make introductions. But first, drink.”
I gulp down the sweet, buttery fluid, which leaves a bitter taste from Aunt Meloda’s cup. It’s clear, so I will find someone to bring me water. Even though it went down pleasantly enough, it’s strong liquor. Not as high in percentage as whiskey, but after ten shots, I’ll be tipsy. My father pays no attention, engaged in conversation, his back turned.
“Sounds lovely. My father seems preoccupied. I feel lost, to be honest. First, could we find a server? I need something to eat and a glass of water.”
***
After an hour, but what felt like five, my aunt makes her way to a corner of the room we have yet to explore. I lost two cups of water that seemed to be fuller than when I was first given them, and ate a delicious plate of appetizers while Manadhon stayed a step behind me, his eyes glued to me, a never-ending presence.
I played the part of a tipsy princess, laughing at the aristocratic dry jokes that never in a million years would compel me to laugh. Like old buzzards, they circle around me, acting charming, even proclaiming how much they support my heroic father and me. They called him a hero. I thought he was a coward. Some even mentioned how he ended a war, saving lives. Somehow, I don’t believe it.
Aunt Meloda returns to her sons between introductions and personal queries. Her favorite subject is her sons, particularly Mek. She boosts how handsome, strong, muscular, and courageous her baby boy has grown. How she remembers his infant cries as if it were yesterday. She doesn’t say much about her younger son, Liam, besides calling him studio
us.
Their ginger features zero me in as we approach the brothers. Both tower over my father. The taller of the two has the same strawberry blond hair as his mother, but he wears it cut short. The shorter has the same shade, but his hair is a mess. Messy hair is scrawny, tall, and gangly. He must be Liam. I could never picture him fighting. He keeps to himself, drinking in peace. His brother, Mek, wobbles where he stands. He slurs his words. I watch him grab a girl giggling at him, bringing her close and kissing her long, arched neck. One of his friends hits him on the shoulder, trying to alert him to his mother’s approach, but he doesn’t take the hint.
“You fool. I can’t leave you alone. And you, you didn’t have the mind to stop him?” Aunt Meloda doesn’t look mad at Mek but disappointed in Liam. Mek pushes the girl away and tries to stand straight—he instead sways back and forth.
Liam shrugs, uncaring. “He has to learn to take care of himself.”
Green eyes pierce him and his mother’s face reddens. “You’re no help at all. Mealla, I’m sorry for my son’s rude behavior. Liam is never this defiant. And Mek, poor thing, the wine went straight to his head.”
Oh good, she’s delusional. “No worries. It happens to everyone. He should learn to pace himself.”
Aunt Meloda’s right eyebrow raises, but before she can speak, Mek belches. She cringes, appalled. Liam laughs. This family dynamic is disturbing. I’m sure Sigmund Freud would have one hell of a time dissecting their relationships. I don’t happen to care.
“I’m getting hungry, so I’m going to take my seat and relax. Thank you for your tips and introductions.” I leave my drink behind on the table. It’s once again full and I don’t think a single person noticed.
“Lunch tomorrow?” Aunt Meloda asks before I can leave.
“Sounds wonderful. Maybe a late lunch. I will need my rest after tonight.”
“Of course. I look forward to it.”
Her words seem scripted, rehearsed. As if she practiced how to act, how to appear loving, friendly, and semi-normal. She’s someone to watch. Kilyn warned me that Mek was next to inherit the throne. By befriending me, she may believe she’ll find a weakness, a chink in my armor that will make her son be crowned king. I have mixed feelings about tomorrow’s lunch, but the more I learn from her, the more prepared I’ll be. I can only imagine the stealthy questions she’s thought of. Questions about my childhood, my mother, my sister, and my goals. It won’t be lunch, but a five-star interrogation.