City of Deception (The White City Series Book 1)

by Alexa Mackintosh

  she says.

  “I’ll be in the palace a few months?” Angelica smirks. “You already know that.”

  The thought is still settling in. No family or friends for months. No rebel activity until told.

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  “I brought over one of my dresses for you. My mother already made alterations,” Angelica says, offering me a folded bundle the color of the trees in summer. “I also brought matching clips and ribbon for your hair.”

  “I can’t borrow these. What if I ruin them or tear the dress?” I want to wear my clothes even if they are out of fashion.

  “I won’t take no for an answer. The green dress will accent your eyes. Take off what you’re wearing, or I’ll peel it off,” Angelica says.

  I open my mouth to speak, but Angelica’s agile fingers slip under the edge of my blouse and jerk it over my head. She can become forceful when fashion is involved.

  Slipping out of my skirt, I allow Angelica to tighten the corset that I wear. I rarely wear one, but like so many things today I don’t fight the change. When she finishes, I pull the smooth dress over my tight undergarments and petticoat. I stand still as Angelica’s fingers dance up my spine, fastening the tiny, black buttons.

  My mother enters as we finish.

  “Thank you for your help, Angelica,” my mother says. Angelica takes the cue to leave. When my mother and I are alone, I sit on a shipping crate which serves the dual role of table and seat. She brushes my hair, now a mess though she fixed it a few, short hours ago, and arranges it using the clips and ribbons Angelica left behind.

  She no longer smiles.

  Alexa Mackintosh

  I wish I could promise her I’ll be back in no time and that she will not have long to miss me, but I can’t. As I sit here on this crate, I know this may be one of the last times I ever see my mother. She will never forgive me if she learns the true reason for going to the palace.

  “I can’t keep you here forever. You have been given an opportunity most girls dream about. Enjoy yourself with the Mersiovskys and repay them for the kindness they have bestowed on you,” my mother says, a tear collecting against her dark lashes. I stand, and she hugs me.

  I hold her tight as I savor the scent of her clothes. I want to remember the heady, floral scent of her soap mixed with a lingering hint of baking bread forever.

  As we separate, a knock at the door surprises us. “I’ll see who it is,” my mother says. “Start applying the makeup I laid out on the bed.”

  I do as she says, though I’ve never worn makeup except when we go to meetings at town hall. I unscrew the stone lid of the blush, but before I can use it, my mother calls for me. Entering the kitchen, I find a man standing by the stove.

  “Miss Natalia,” the man greets. He travels with the Mersiovskys as no one in the town owns a waistcoat as fine as his. “I am Dr. Mercier, physician to the Mersiovskys. I wonder if you would have a few minutes for me to examine you. We want to ensure your health is optimum for the trip to the capitol.”

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  “Certainly,” my mother answers, though we know that I will be late for the party. “It seems sensible and for my daughter’s best.”

  I’ve never been to a top tier doctor in all my life, as the brother of a local shopkeeper has always been the town physician. He never finished medical school, but he went for a few years and knows enough to care for our town. We used to have an infirmary twenty miles away, but it closed years ago.

  The idea of this doctor, a complete stranger, examin- ing me scares me. My legs jitter and my shoulders tense against my will as I take a seat at the kitchen table.

  The doctor washes his hands at the sink. My nerves re- veal themselves, and he starts to ask me questions. He asks about my life, my favorite things, and trivial questions.

  He searches through his bag and removes a strange in- strument. The metal contraption fits neatly in his palm and the gears on top start to revolve after he presses a button on the side.

  “What is that for?” my mother asks, reentering the kitchen. She has been in and out of the room half a dozen times, darting about preparing herself and my stepsisters. I think she watches out of interest. She used to be an as- sistant at the infirmary and acquired basic medical knowledge.

  “It tests blood for traces of common pathogens and other irregularities. This exam is to ensure she will not

  Alexa Mackintosh

  pass any diseases to the Royal family,” the doctor answers. “May I see your wrist?”

  Rolling back my sleeve, I let the flesh around my wrist show. He places the device against my skin and waits. At first, it stings, but the pain subsides. He withdraws the device after several seconds and sets it on the table. A small blotch of blood surfaces, but he wipes it away and places a strip of bandage over the area. As he finishes the examination, which has encompassed five minutes at the most, the device beeps and vibrates.

  The doctor grasps the machine and studies it. For a fleeting second he hesitates before saying, “You’re com- pletely healthy, Miss Alkaev.”

  “That’s good news,” I say, not sure what to answer.

  “I wish you the best,” the doctor says before gathering his things and leaving.

  “Your boots are by the door. Hurry, you’re already go- ing to be late,” my mother says to me.

  s

  The footpath is barely visible as I run through the vil- lage, the sun having set some time ago. I try to pull my dress gracefully up to my ankles and run in it, but it is impossible. Gathering the puffy skirt in my hands, I yank it up to my knees. It allows me to run faster without get- ting the hem of the dress covered in mud. The ground is mostly frozen, but several of the ruts in the road are thawed enough to allow mud to stick to my boots.

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  Out of breath and gasping because of my corset, I ar- rive on the outskirts of the town square. I hesitate in the shadow of the town hall as I regain my composure, fix my clothes, and scrape caked mud from my boots. Silently, I pray my mother doesn’t hear about my actions.

  As soon as I glance around the edge of the building, amazement fills me. A massive, square tent triple the size of our town hall has been set up in the square. I guess the Mersiovskys arranged it for the village could never afford a tent that large.

  Walking closer, I hear music and the clapping of shoes. I approach the soldiers guarding the entrance, and one of them draws back the tent flap. Warm air and the twin- kling of thousands of tiny lights greet me. The little lights hang throughout the structure from the trusses above. Tables piled with food take up an entire corner of the tent along with a band playing a fast-tuned song on a small stage.

  I have never witnessed a grander party in the village, and I cannot believe it’s in my honor. To the villagers, I am some sort of new Royal destined for fantastic things, but truly I am still the girl I was this morning.

  At first, I’m not sure what I should do, but as I haven’t eaten in several hours, I meander over to the food. Secur- ing a small plate of victuals and a drink, I take a seat and enjoy my meal. People congratulate me and wish me safe travels, interrupting my meal multiple times.

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  A voice breaks through the murmurs of the crowd as I finish the last few morsels on my plate. “I think we should talk.”

  I swallow before raising my head. “Dmitri, I wondered if you would speak to me or be too embarrassed with your family here. No, that’s right! You lied about your name, did you not, Prince Orion?”

  No matter if we were friends when he left, we aren’t now. He was kind before, but I will never see him in the same way again. He has the Mersiovsky blood in his veins, and for that alone I loathe him. I don’t even mind that he lied about being a First. I care what family he comes from.

  Before Prince Orion can speak, someone asks, “May I have the next dance?”

  I turn and meet the gaze of Prince Ivan. “I only know one kind of dance.”

  “Tha
t is good enough for me,” he answers, but his cold eyes contradict him. He views me as nothing but a simple- ton, country girl. Others have looked at me before like he does. But why? I have heard the highest praise of the prince. After all, I’m here to put him on the throne.

  As we start onto the dance floor, I wonder if I can dance as I haven’t practiced for several years. I try my best to remain level headed as we swirl around the floor and other dancers make way for us.

  Soon, Prince Ivan and I are left alone on the floor. We do not speak to each other as neither knows what to say.

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  I’m sweating profusely, terrified I’ll embarrass myself in front of him. Though a prince with little military ac- complishments, every rebel with military knowledge praises him. He radiates intensity, something that sets me on edge.

  Relief fills me when the music stops, and we part ways. The crowd cheers, but I am happier when they stop, and I disappear. I move in and out of the people and slip out- side.

  The cold hits me the moment the guards pull the tent flaps aside. Stepping away from the entrance, I find a cor- ner lit by a street lamp. My hands are sweaty and shaking. I tuck them in the folds of my dress and take a deep breath.

  As the minutes pass, my nerves start to settle. “Do you need a moment alone or might we talk?”

  I spin to face Prince Orion. “I rather like the silence.” It takes a second to remember to add, “Your Highness.”

  He steps towards me stopping an arms-length away. “If there is anything my family can do to make the transi- tion easier, ask and I will see it is done.”

  “You asked me to leave my home. Nothing will make that easy.”

  He’s silent as he leans against the pole holding up the street lamp. He wears his crown, a strange sight after all the days he sat at our kitchen table in his plain clothes. The crown sits crookedly on his head.

  “You should go back to the party, Your Highness.”

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  He tucks his hands in the pockets of his winter waist- coat. “It’s much nicer out here.”

  I shiver. “It’s cold. How can this be better?”

  “You tell me. You came out first.” A moment later he adds, “The company is far better out here. At least on my end.”

  It takes a second for me to realize it’s a compliment. “The company isn’t terrible for me either. Inside was overwhelming.” I blow against my fingers. “We’ll freeze if we stay out here.” I don’t want to go in, but I don’t want to be outside in the cold or alone with him.

  “Let me walk you home. You can avoid the crowd there.”

  “There’s no need. I-”

  He holds out his arm. “I owe you an explanation and an apology. Please, hear me out before you pass judgment?” “Pass judgement? Your family is the reason my village suffers. It’s the reason so many died in a massacre. Do you think I’m ecstatic to find out you’re a prince? I don’t even

  know what to call you!”

  He sighs. “Fair enough, but please listen? As for my name, you can still call me Dmitri. I’ve always found Orion pretentious anyway.”

  I hesitate before taking his arm. I’m supposed to win the Royals trust on this mission, and keeping my friend- ship with him makes my job easier. We are silent for the first few minutes as we make our way down the street.

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  When we are halfway to my house, he asks, “Why don’t you want to come to the palace?”

  “There’s several reasons, all of which I don’t care to explain.”

  We lapse into silence again.

  “It was your idea to come here and choose me?” I hate to think my simple friendship with Dmitri is the reason I have this mission and not Angelica.

  He shakes his head. “Yes and no. I told my father about you and your family when I returned to the palace. He suggested you become the ward.”

  “Your father agreed to this? Isn’t it all a little lavish?” “The tent and party are not my standards; it’s what my parents wanted. I would have preferred to send someone to collect you quietly, but my parents wanted a public af-

  fair.”

  His statement affects me strangely. I’ve never consid- ered the princes may not agree with the actions of the Emperor and Empress. I’ve always seen the Royals as a tightly woven group, not a disagreeing family.

  “As for my name, I never really lied about it. My friends call me Dmitri after my grandfather. As for my false last name, Tibalt, it means prince of the people. I did give a few hints about my identity. After all, there is a Tybalt in Romeo & Juliet.”

  We arrive at my house, and I unlock the door.

  “Warm up and then go. I need to finish getting ready for tomorrow.” I can’t believe I’m letting him in, and know

  Alexa Mackintosh

  my rebel friends would wonder why the prince is in my kitchen. Even as my old boarder, they must have ques- tioned. I still don’t believe someone didn’t know who he was when he arrived. How could Dmitri dupe every rebel in my village?

  The fire burns low. I rake the coals and fetch a few pieces of wood. As I go to place the wood on the fire, I hear a deafening crash.

  Turning, I spot an overturned table. It’s the small table that sits a foot out from the wall over in the corner. The vase that sits atop is on the floor in a thousand pieces.

  Prince Dmitri glances down at the mess. “Sorry, I bumped into the edge.” He hesitates before setting the ta- ble upright and bending down to pick up pieces of the vase. He is used to servants cleaning up. He’s never cleaned up anything in his life.

  “I’ll take care of it. Please take a seat.”

  My mother will die of shame if she walks in and sees the prince cleaning up. I fetch a broom and trash bin and bend down to sweep up the pieces. I’m used to cleaning up other people’s mistakes.

  He takes a seat at the table and watches me work.

  It doesn’t take long to dispose of the mess and gather the pieces. However, a sharp piece cuts the palm of my hand. It barely stings, but by the time I finish picking up the big pieces, blood drips down my hand.

  Dmitri notices and reaches for the cabinet where the medical box is kept. It’s still strange to think of him as a

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  boarder and prince. I want to see him as a friend, but all I see is one of the people I’ve hated over half my life.

  “Let me have the box.”

  He hands it over without complaint. I snap off the box’s lid and search for the bandages. I find the roll of white cloth underneath an assortment of herbal balms and a vial of poisonous flower petals. My mother must be mixing a new batch of poison for a client. Though I gave the prac- tice up, she did not. That is why I asked for the box; I sus- pect Dmitri would be smart enough to recognize poison. Too many questions would come of him seeing it.

  He reaches for the bandages as soon as I pull them out. Instinctively, I step away. He is the enemy, and while my heart might disagree, my mind knows the truth.

  “Are you hungry? I didn't get a chance to eat during the party. Being a prince makes it impossible to get a mo- ment alone when in public,” he says.

  “I ate some, but I could eat more.”

  “Why don't you get something from your pantry?”

  He pulls off his coat and places it on the floor before the fire. “Come and join me once you find something.”

  I purse my lips. “There is nothing here. Tomorrow is the day my mother goes to the shops. You know that.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you if I did. I should have re- membered.”

  “I am used to being judged, Your Highness. I take little offense.”

  “Don’t call me ‘Your Highness.’ I’m still Dmitri.”

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  He steps out the door, only to return a minute later with a guard in tow.

  “Go to the tent and bring back a plate of food for two. Discreetly,” he orders. The guard complies without ques- tion
while another guard steps into view. I only see two guards. That gives us a little privacy.

  He shuts the door and gestures to the coat. “Please sit.” Hesitantly, I sit, curling my legs beneath me and rais-

  ing my hands towards the fire to warm them.

  “I look forward to seeing you in the palace,” he says, taking a seat next to me.

  I don’t reply. Silence seems to be my main form of com- munication tonight. If I say all that I wish to, he will never speak to me again. I have nothing kind to say.

  We don’t speak even once the guard returns with a plate piled high and two bowls.

  “Dessert was being served, Your Majesty, so I brought some of it as well for you and Miss Alkaev,” the guard says. “You shall address Natalia as Lady Alkaev from now on. She is above you in status now, and you shall treat her

  as such,” he says.

  I don’t feel like a lady. I feel like an imposter.

  He hands me a bowl as the guard turns and leaves. He begins to eat, but I stare at my food.

  He glances over. “Is something wrong?”

  I dip my spoon into the bowl and eye the frozen food curiously. “What is this?”

  “You’ve never eaten ice cream?”

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  “Ice cream is a luxury for First or special Seconds and Thirds. I've heard of it, but never tried it.”

  I scoop up a bite and put it in my mouth. “Well?” he asks.

  I smile like a fool. “If this is the food in the White City, I see why you wish to return to the palace. It’s cold but so sweet.”

  He grins back at me, and for a second it feels like he is the Dmitri I knew, not Prince Orion.

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  We share our meal with a little conversation, and against my better judgment, I find myself captivated much as I was all those months ago. He doesn’t bore me with small talk. No, instead we discuss everything from literature to politics to music to, as a want-to-be baker my favorite subject, food. His smooth words are evidence of how his family successfully carries out their murders and crimes.