by Audrey Grey
I curtsy, dropping low to hide the twinge of regret I feel for hurting him. For some reason, the last few sentences from my mother’s first sanctioned poem, written when she was my age, echoes inside my skull:
For I am flesh and I am bone. Forged in flames; set in stone.
For I am free.
Free to be a girl no longer.
“A girl no longer,” I whisper. Then we are off across the plush lawn. A Lord and a Lady, playing our part.
The first upload happens just after I enter my apartment. Too late for the tour, we head straight to the Hawthorne Castle Apartments, the building reserved strictly for Shadow Trial finalists. It’s an older building, wrapped in thick ivy and missing much of the finery of Laevus Court, but still impressive with its bold colonnades and gilded statuary. After all, visiting Gold Barons and their families used to stay here.
My apartment is on the second floor, just past the grand marble staircase. A thick rectangle of dust motes swirls in the light from the opened window looking out onto the Royal Gardens. The stables sit to the east, the pungent smell of horse manure and rotting hay drifting on the sedate breeze. The sun skims off the Palladium River in the distance.
Flame is here, hunkered over the apparatus she has managed to set up inside my wardrobe—for quick hiding, she explained. She’s more surly than usual, due to the fact the encryption that will allow communication with Nicolai is taking longer than it should. I stopped counting her vulgar, expletive-filled outbursts at one hundred. Otherwise, we are doing an expert job of ignoring the other.
As my attendant, she is rather lacking. But as the techy mastermind keeping me off the Royalist grid and connected to Nicolai, I supposed she’s earning her keep.
I’m near the window, enjoying the sun on my cheeks, when a tiny jolt goes off in the center of my brain. My lips and the tip of my nose buzz. The sensation is strange yet familiar, a word you say over and over again until it simply becomes an unrecognizable string of syllables. The pressure behind my eyes releases and I’m left with a dull, achy feeling, like a bruise inside my brain.
My first upload.
I smooth my hair, dress in the outfit Merida sent over—a backless, ivory-colored riding suit with poof sleeves and a high collar that would give the Censor a stroke—and curtsy for Flame. “How do I look, Fienian?” Although better than the previous moldy costume, it is also bolder, corsetless, and flagrantly modern.
Flame glances up from her toy. “Like a Royalist strumpet.”
“Perfect. How soon until we’re back online with Nicolai?”
“We could make it now. That is, if you don’t mind hanging by your neck from the Tower by Shadow Fall.”
“No, thanks.” Squinting, I take a closer look. “So, what are you doing, exactly?”
Without looking up, Flame says, “Piggybacking onto their system using a Trojan horse encryption. When I’m done, I’ll be able to control their input and Nicolai will have a detection free mode of transmission. Any other moronic questions?”
“Nope. Fresh out.”
Flame fixes me with an annoyed stare. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
I throw up my hands. “Leaving.”
“Wait.” She procures a flat dirk from her sparse décolletage and hands the weapon to me. I roll the short handle between my palms. It is impossible to ignore the way my heart flutters at the dagger’s cold heaviness.
“But they searched us,” I point out stupidly.
She snorts, taking the weapon from me. “No, strumpet, they poked and prodded like prudish ninnies.” She peels back the neckline of my bust and frowns. “What kind of suit doesn’t have a dirk-pocket?” Before I can respond, she has slashed the seams from the hemline and slipped the flat blade inside. “Now you’re perfect.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “Try not to do anything terrorist-y while I’m gone.”
The others are waiting for me in the saloon. By now there have been hundreds of uploads, their minds a low static hum inside my head. Getting used to it will take some time.
Merida has changed into a dusky, rose-colored suit that drapes in a way that makes every movement look like an elaborate dance. Daring and fun, it’s pulled together with just a hint of coral lipstick. Appraising her outfit on me, she gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Like it was made for you. Have you, you know, felt it yet?”
“Yes,” I say, shivering at the memory of the upload.
“It’s like someone’s wriggling around inside your head.”
I don’t point out they actually are inside our head. Best to not think about it.
Merida giggles. “But the weirdest part is thinking about who’s inside you. I have four younger sisters, and they all plan to give me their uploads, so now I can’t help wondering if every upload I feel is one of them mucking around.”
Rhydian holds the door while Riser shepherds us out. It will take a little getting used to, being treated like a lady. Riser’s fingers rest on my back, skimming lightly across my naked shoulder blade. “I like the dress, Lady March.”
I turn, smile, ignoring the way my skin goosebumps beneath his fingertips. “Why, thank you, Lord Thornbrook.”
I have to admit, we are playing our parts beautifully.
We take a carriage through the gardens on the way to Laevus Castle. I find the bumpy ride calming. Riser is lost, staring out the open door. If he’s nervous or overwhelmed, then he’s doing a good job hiding it.
Shadow Fall is due any second, so at first I think the shadow that slinks over our carriage is from the asteroid. But this shadow is fleeting, followed quickly by another. Peering out, I see the court’s starcrafts in the sky, more like silver tear-drops, as they converge over Laevus Castle, too many to count, before lowering out of sight.
“The court’s back from Hyperion,” I say, all too aware of the fear their presence invokes. They’ve come especially for the Culling tonight.
The real Shadow Fall hits just as the carriage stops in front of the grand steps. Two Bronze attendants holding lighted torches help us out and up the stairs. Peacocks meander lazily under the portico, pecking at the legs of the silent Centurions posted along the wall. Each Centurion holds a torch and a pistol.
Once inside, I hardly have time to take in the grandeur because our attendants are rushing us. Even so, it takes seemingly forever to wind through the maze of corridors, stairwells, and around the servants lighting candles. Finally we are deposited in a sitting room strewn with silk cushions and a simpering fire and told to wait.
My first objective is to orient to my surroundings. As soon as I do, I can begin a proper search for the Mercurian. The futility of my situation is not lost on me. There are literally thousands of acres of land and countless rooms to search. Because of the risk of it being found, my father had to be vague in the letter. And I assume he was going to provide more guidance in the Simulation. Unfortunately, none of that helps me now.
This room, I think, feels somewhat familiar. From scraps of memory I build a rough map inside my head of where we are. Somewhere in the east wing, on the fourth floor. And if I’m right . . .
The observatory sits exactly where I remember it. A long hallway lined with portraits of the Royal Family leads there. Torches adorn the wall to my left, and with each flame I pass, my shadow stretches out to almost touch the winding wrought-iron stairs that lead up to the telescope domed in glass.
I pause just before the stairs and glance at the last painting. Inside the enormous, gold baroque frame, Prince Caspian sits erect on a white marble throne, heavy Gold crown slightly askew, his black robe nearly swallowing him. The artist managed to capture the ironic curve of his lips and the confident sparkle that warms his pale-champagne eyes.
“See something you like?” a male with a rich voice asks.
“Oh!” I whip around. “No . . . I mean . . . !” I glare at the trespasser. He has smooth, clean features. Elegant sandy-blond eyebrows. Full cheekbones and lips, strengthened by a long, straight nose. Light gol
den eyes and sun-burnished skin make the man’s flaxen hair appear brighter.
And he wears an ironic smile.
The man nods to the portrait. “I’m—”
“Prince Caspian,” I interject, forgetting every bit of grace I’ve been taught. “I know.”
He lifts a royal eyebrow. “And you are . . . ?”
“Oh! Um . . . Everly. Lady Everly March.” I offer a hand to shake before remembering the proper protocol for greeting someone above my station is a curtsy.
Damn it to Fienian hell! He’s not just above my station. He’s a Gold. Royalty. That requires a sweeping bow of some sort.
By the gods, girl, Nicolai groans inside my head. I can hardly watch.
Well, that was fast, I respond. Flame said it would take a while to encrypt.
There are a few kinks that need ironing out, but I assumed by the way things were going it was an emergency.
I snort. “You’re the last person I need help from . . . oh.” Realizing I am talking aloud, my mouth clamps shut.
“Excuse me?” Caspian’s refined voice drips with amusement.
“I was talking . . . to myself.”
There’s a near imperceptible groan inside my head, and then I feel Nicolai leave.
Caspian studies me for a moment longer, as if I’m some strange creature that needs cataloguing. Then his lips curl back into his ironic smile and he laughs, taking my hand and squeezing it firmly. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady March.”
“Sorry,” I say, “I haven’t been to court in a while. I’m a—”
“Finalist,” Caspian finishes. “I know.”
It’s hard not to stare at Caspian. He’s exactly how I imagined. Warm, approachable, regal. A quick, easy smile. He’s good looking, in a safe, pleasant sort of way, his broad shoulders straining against a buff leather jerkin cinched with gold taffeta ribbons only he could pull off. His Chosen brand, the same one I used to wear, rises from his high collar, the phoenix’s wings shimmering as if afire.
The connection between us is immediate and impossible to ignore. He’s staring at me as if he feels it too. We were matched, once, our DNA a perfect fit, so I imagine even with all of my reconstruction, parts of us still are. I clear my throat. “The others are probably looking for me.”
He runs a hand through his thick, shoulder-length hair. My guess is courtly custom calls for it to be pulled back, but sometime during the day his ribbon fell out—probably during jousting or some other noble sport they have on Hyperion—and he hasn’t yet noticed. “Yes, of course.” He takes my hand, palm down, brings it to his lips. “A pleasure, Lady March.”
I perform a small, wanting curtsy. “My Liege.”
As I turn to go, there’s a loud grating noise, and the telescope above shifts to another position. We both pause to stare.
Caspian bounds up the winding stairs. From below, I can just make out Caspian as he lovingly runs his palm over the telescope’s long, sleek cylindrical body. “She’s never done that before,” he says, frowning. Part of his face disappears as he looks through the lens. When he’s done, he wears a strange expression. “Would you care to see where it landed?”
Somehow it doesn’t feel like a question. My boots pad softly on the stairs. The telescope seems larger than I remember, and impossibly beautiful, surrounded on all sides by clear glass. Torchlight runs down its golden length.
I peer through the lens at the sight I know by heart. “The Great Orion Nebula,” I whisper. It sits within the sword of Orion. A blooming pinkish-red flower of hydrogen gas fills the lens, the bright white center a stellar nursery of baby stars. “The Pleiades Star Cluster sits just above it.”
“So, you love Astronomy too?”
“I used to love it.” My hands mesh awkwardly together. “Then I grew up.”
“Well, I’m also an expert at giving up things I love.” He chuckles darkly. “But I haven’t had to part with this . . . yet.” His hand scrapes through his hair. “I was actually on my way here when I found you . . . ?”
“Looking for this.” I tap the telescope. “To calm my nerves.”
My voice falters. Caspian has gone quiet, his eyes slowly, carefully searching my face, his mouth curled as if I’m something on the tip of his tongue, a word to be remembered. Does he recognize something in my demeanor? My face?
Frowning, Caspian turns to gaze out the dark window so only his profile is visible. “There was a girl I knew a long time ago, named after the brightest of the seven sisters. She wore both the Orion Constellation and the Pleiades on her face. Did you know, Lady March, mythology states Orion was half-mad with love for the seven sisters, so when he died Zeus placed them in the sky for him to eternally gaze upon?”
“No,” I lie. We are venturing into dangerous territory, and I can almost feel my freckles burning like the stars we talk about.
“She wrote a poem for me once, this girl, about how horrible it was for Orion to have to look at something every day he could not truly have.”
What he doesn’t know is the meaning behind that childish poem. How my father was Orion and my mother the seven sisters, unable to be tethered to anything but her cause.
I study my nails. “What happened to this budding poetess?”
Even from my side view I can see I have made a mistake. Our tenuous rapport has vanished, his wide shoulders suddenly tight with tension. “A little advice, if I may, Lady March?”
“Of course.”
“We never talk about courtiers no longer present.”
“Right. I . . . I shouldn’t have pried.” I know if I don’t exit now, it will only get more awkward, but I can’t seem to move.
“Everly!” Merida peers from below. When her eyes shift to Caspian, she falls into a panicked, half hazard bow. “My Liege, apologies for interrupting—”
“No!” I quickly stammer, racing down the stairs. “I was just leaving.”
Caspian calls out from the top of the stairs, but I bow, rather clumsily, and flee with Merida. Once back in the sitting room, we burst into schoolgirl giggles.
Mid-laugh, Riser takes my arm and herds me into the corner, forcing me to face him. “You shouldn’t disappear like that.”
“Excuse me?” I snap.
Easy, there, Nicolai says. He sounds more than mildly amused. Remember the plan. I don’t think wooing involves biting each other’s heads off.
Unfortunately for Nicolai, my words—or lack thereof—on the rail have already made wooing nearly impossible. I peel Riser’s fingers from my arm. “Maybe you should stop trying to be my keeper.”
The muscles in his jaw tense. “You could have been hurt.”
The veiled concern in his voice settles deep in my core. For a moment, I want to tell him not to worry. That I hate the thought of him being upset. But I need to push him away, to keep distance between us. “Would you rather I stay here so we can work on the plan?” Pushing off my tiptoes, I close the space between us. “How about this? Does this make you happy?”
“This isn’t about us. It’s about the uploads. Making sure you make it past the Culling.” His voice is low, soft as it rolls across my cheeks. I focus on his green eye. The one that means what he says.
The one I could fall for.
My chest tightens as invisible fingers strum each rib, all the way up to my throat. I realize my fingernails are carved into my palms. No! They want this. My emotions are not real, not mine. Fight it, Everly! Don’t let them control you.
This isn’t real.
I shrink back. “You think a stupid kiss will accomplish all that?”
He chuckles darkly. “Everly, the only thing I know is when the time comes,” he leans down, “it will be anything but stupid.”
Before I can say anything else to make him understand how that will never happen, the doors to the Great Hall grate open. Thankful for the interruption, I turn, fully expecting something extravagant. A feast, perhaps. Tables laden with food and wine. The perfect way to show off the Emperor’s w
ealth and privilege.
What I see instead makes me go cold.
Riser’s reaction startles me out of my surprised stupor. His hand jumps to his waist, where his dagger would usually be. Our eyes meet, and he orders something indecipherable over the shouts and scuffling sounds. Hands dig deep into my shoulders, and I am flung violently backward as Merida cries out.
“Stop!” I yell.
I see two—no three—men tussling with Riser.
And then a blindfold constricts my eyes, squeezing tight, and everything goes black.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The effect of having my vision stolen from me is debilitating. I pull air through my nose, out my mouth. Work to calm my mind. There’s no doubt I’m standing on a table. My eyes are blindfolded. The feeling of panic permeates the room.
Nicolai, what’s happening? Nicolai! But I know by the empty feeling inside my head he isn’t there.
A lot of help you are.
The smell of candle wax and fear burns my throat. Judging by the other blindfolded finalists I glimpsed standing on tabletops, this is a hazing of some sorts. In that small second, with their faces covered, I didn’t recognize any of the finalists. But most were Golds once, before the Emperor in his paranoia had them labeled Fienian Sympathizers and their families stripped to Bronze.
The room fills with jeers and laughs at our expense. It appears the kids at court haven’t changed much since my last time here. The thought makes me queasy. I can almost hear their taunts. Feel their daggers raking the hair and flesh from my scalp.
The girl beside me yells in surprise. I find out why a second later as hands grab my left leg and twist it up until it’s balancing on my other knee. Waving my arms, I find my balance and use my core to stabilize.
Tittering, as more finalists are forced to lift their legs. “Welcome to the Island,” says a female with a high, lazy voice. “I’m Countess Delphine Bloodwood, and tonight after the Culling, my fellow Chosen and I will each be forced to pick two of you Bronze worms to mentor, so now’s your chance to prove your worth.”
