by Kody Boye
“You’re serious? Aren’t you?”
“Yes, Harmony. I am.”
“The dress has been set, the fabrics ordered, the designers working overtime. Just because you think she needs to look like a sunset doesn’t mean that the dress should—”
“It should,” Mother Terra interrupts.
Harmony and Stylus stop their argument to look at her.
“Revered Mother?” the dress designer asks. “Are you sure you—”
“I am sure,” Mother Terra replies. “We want to improve relations with the general public, and giving them something they’ve never seen before, and that seems outside tradition, could do just that. Make any adjustments you and your people need. Use any resources required. Just make sure that dress is done the night before her wedding. Understand?”
“Yes, Revered Mother,” Harmony says, and skitters away before she can be told anything further.
“And you,” she says, turning to Stylus, “you are excellent.”
“Such high praise from a woman like you,” the young man says, bowing at the waist.
Mother Terra sets her hands on my shoulders, then leans forward and whispers, “Are you ready?”
I can only tremble in response.
The truth is: I’m not ready. I never have been and never will be.
But I have to be.
This wedding is three days away.
How will I ever face the man I’m meant to marry with courage in my heart?
I don’t know, and understand that I won’t until that day comes.
For that reason, I rise, thank Stylus for his time, then turn and make my way out of the room and into the elevator.
I struggle to keep my emotions in check the entire way up.
Fourteen
The night before I am supposed to be engaged, I am wracked with anxieties and insecurities. Torn between feeling relief over the fact that this is almost over but also terrified over what may come, I toss and turn within my bed and sweat profusely over the idea that something may go wrong.
Mother Terra said that the engagement was to take place within a public setting, and be seen before not only the photojournalists and the writers, but the people of the Glittering City.
Just what, possibly, could go wrong?
These thoughts, and more, bombard me, and I’m unable to stop them no matter what I do. What barriers I erect within my mind are knocked down, what doors I close slammed open, what rivers I cross traversed easily by boats powered by the cruel and utter malice of the world.
I think of Emily and the words they’d said, the things they’d did, the things they’d wanted, the suffering they’d imposed upon her, and watch as before my vision a single noose appears.
Kelendra, it seems to say. Come to me.
I try my hardest to keep from letting this bother me—to keep from letting this ominous vision instill within my mind thoughts so horrible that I would want to end my own life—but am unable to refuse its entrance.
That girl—she’d had her whole life ahead of her. Then they’d taken it all away.
I inhale a deep breath of the cool air that permeates the apartment and draw the covers up under my chin as I consider what tomorrow morning may bring. I know not whether it will be casual or cultured, simple or classy or even something so spur-of-the-moment that it will appear to some to be a simple outing, but I know it will seal my purpose within the public eye far more than anything else ever has.
My arrival here was just the beginning, the picture the catalyst to set into place the chain of events that would introduce me to public life. Call me Kel, it said, when it should have added, the girl who is afraid.
Afraid.
“Very afraid,” I whisper.
I close my eyes and try to fight back the images assaulting me.
Of glamour, of fame, of everything wicked within this game—I see, in the distance, one speck of light, and realize that it is the unsure future I will hold with a man known only as Daniel Cross.
I fall asleep with the knowledge that he is likely just as afraid as I am, only to be awoken what seems like short moments later.
“Kelendra,” a voice very close to me says. “Awaken.”
I open my eyes to find Revered Mother Terra standing over me, the lights bright and her features cast in urgency.
“What… time is it?” I ask, pushing myself upright.
“Time for you to awaken,” she says.
I catch sight of the timepiece on her wrist—which glows a bright and ominous 7:30—and though I want to argue that it is still too early and that I was blessed with very little sleep, I decide that it would be best to leave that be and instead toss the covers from my person before rising from the bed.
I am quick to get ready, and even quicker to follow as she leads me out of the room and then into the hallway beyond.
“What’s going on?” I ask as the door is secured behind us, only lifting my eyes to look at her profile in the dawn of the coming day when we begin to make our way down the hallway. “Why are we up so early?”
“You’re to meet with wardrobe and makeup before meeting Daniel for a leisurely stroll within the Glistening Park.”
“For pictures,” I say, morosely at that.
Mother Terra spins to face me as she presses the button to hail the elevator. “Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” she says, her sarcasm harsh and biting.
“I’m sorry. I’m just not used to getting up out of bed so early.”
“Understandable,” she replies. “But duties call, and they must be answered.”
The only thing I am able to do is nod as we enter the elevator and begin to descend.
Within moments we are standing in the lobby, which at this hour is devoid of people. It almost feels like a plague has struck this place, wiping everyone and their presence clean, and leaving in its wake the scent of the chemical cleaner I’d smelled within the infirmary.
“Are you sure we—” I begin.
“Are on time?” the Revered Mother interrupts. “Yes. I’m sure.” She reaches down and takes my hand, rather forcefully at that. “Come, now. To the Gold Room.”
The Gold Room—which is aptly named for the golden doors we enter through—is also lifeless, and holds only a semblance of its usual charm at this hour of the morning. Distantly, I can see Stylus lazing about, one elbow propped against his makeup desk while he attempts to catch some quick sleep.
“Stylus!” Mother Terra snaps.
The man awakens immediately, and nearly falls out of the stool he is seated within. “Yes, Revered Mother?” he asks, obviously startled.
“I thought you were preparing for Miss Byron’s engagement photos.”
“I was, ma’am. I just—I was so awfully tired, and I figured that, since you were taking your time, it would only be sensible to—”
The man silences instantly as Mother Terra offers a glare that could easily kill.
Swallowing, Stylus clears his throat and says, “But now that you’re here…” He then smiles as he centers his attention on me. “We can work some magic.”
As is the ritual, I settle into the stool and allow Stylus to examine his makeup palette for several long moments, his attempts to hide his exhaustion and his nerves more than obvious as he lifts, takes note of, then lowers various brushes. When he does turn to face me, it’s to say, “We’re going casual today.”
I blink. Casual? For engagement photos?
“I thought—” I start.
“These would be high-brow,” the young man cuts in. “No. They’re not. The Revered Mother and First Lady Rosanna have specifically stated that they want the engagement photos to look as natural as possible. You will be followed by photojournalists, after all; and though it is likely that these will end up on the front pages of newspapers and magazines, we want them to give you a sense of familiarity with the general public. Think pretty, but not too dolled up. Understand?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” The young
man smiles and gestures me to lean back. “Now, relax. I’ll make you pretty as a bell in no time.”
I do as asked, instinctively closing my eyes as he begins to set makeup upon my face—feeling, once more, that dreadful beast that is caged within my chest. I know not whether it will lash out and cause me harm, or panic, or even dread, but I know already that it has awakened. From its slumber is has risen and is gnawing at my insides, like butterflies would on a nervous date. I wonder, while I sit here, if Daniel is feeling the same way, and find solace in the fact that he likely is. I mean, it’s his engagement too. He’s bound to be feeling something, right?
I try to stave these thoughts off as Stylus continues to apply my makeup, but find myself thinking over them all the same.
I think of the park that we are to walk in, the people we are to meet, the photojournalists who will take our pictures and the writers who will take their notes for our stories. Beautiful One and Handsome One Meet! will be declared upon newspapers and in magazines everywhere, along with the phrase, And Fall in Love!
I’m falling—that’s for certain—but it isn’t in love.
No.
I’m falling, I’m loathe to think, into a pit of existential nerves, ones that threaten to reduce me to a semblance of my former self.
As I open my eyes to find myself transformed into a pretty girl with pink blush, shaded brows and green eyeshadow, I nod with determination I feel is born from the strength of my friend and rise when Stylus gestures me from the stool.
“Now,” he says. “Wardrobe.”
I am asked to dress into pants that are tight and form-fitting, blue in color and slightly wrinkled, and a shirt that hangs off one shoulder and down close to my knees. My hair is left down, and is allowed to wave of its own accord as Mother Terra draws forward to inspect me.
“Good,” she says, tilting my head up, then to each side. “Now we may leave.”
“Are you sure I’m—” I begin.
“You’re ready,” Mother Terra says. “Now come. We must not dawdle.”
I nod as she reaches down to take my hand—as she tightens her fingers around my wrist—and as she pulls me forward, so quickly that I cannot even thank Stylus, I wonder just how Daniel will look, how he will be dressed, how the proceeding events will occur and what will happen thereafter. I’ve never been privy to many engagements within my life. Most bonds within the Sandstone Hills were simply declared between two people, then arranged by Mayor Cynthia herself. There was no exchange of rings, like there was in the old days, but here? Now?
I shake my head.
There’s no telling what may happen in the coming moments, and for that reason, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and follow Mother Terra through the lobby and out into the streets.
The morning is warm, the air is humid, and the sun is just beginning to shine upon the horizon. While my eyes struggle to adapt to the sunlight peering over the high buildings, I glance about to try and make sense of where we are going only to find that there is a sleek black vehicle parked not far away, beside which stand two SAD agents. Both are adorned in full body armor and are equipped with automatic weaponry that could cut through a crowd should the need arise.
“Are you worried that something will happen?” I decide to ask as I take note of the fully-armored women awaiting our advance.
“You can never be too careful,” Mother Terra replies as we make our way toward the vehicle. When she turns to acknowledge me, she must see the concerned look on my face, because she reaches out, presses a hand between my shoulders, and says, “Just act like they’re not there. Natural.”
Natural.
Like there’s anything natural about having armed women follow you on a leisurely stroll through the park.
I shake this thought off as the SAD agents open both the rear and passenger-side doors for the two of us.
Mother Terra climbs into the front seat first, then I into the back soon after.
The SAD agents close the doors on the right-hand side of the vehicle, then round it—one on each side—before waving for the driver to begin making his way forward.
The whole while we move through the coagulated streets of the Glittering City, I am struck with a sense of awe. Though I’d been privy to the sights from above, it appears to be a completely different world from below—alien, in a way, that I could have never even anticipated.
I watch, in mute fascination, as we make our way down one of the many long streets, the people as they make their way along the concrete sidewalks, the automated cars as they ferry those privileged to their various destinations, and animatronic objects as they make their way throughout the skies, their purpose unknown to me but obviously monumental in some respect.
“Kelendra,” Mother Terra says from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror so she can look at me.
“Yessum?” I ask.
“We need to go over a few rules before we make our way to the Glistening Park. Are you ready?”
Though I’m tempted to say, As ready as I’ll ever be, I remain silent and simply nod instead.
“Good,” the Revered Mother says, straightening her posture and glancing up at the world before her. “Now then, without further ado.
“The first thing you’re to be aware of are the writers and photojournalists who have been invited to participate in this event. Though they have been instructed not to speak to or approach you at a length of more than three meters, it is likely that they will come in for close-ups. If this happens, do not be alarmed. Act natural, and pretend they’re not even there.
“Secondly, you are not to speak with them under any circumstance, regardless of whatever questions they may ask. These people are urchins, my dear, who feed on drama. Though most are well-behaved, some will go to any lengths to try and inspire a response from you.
“And last but not least: this is to be a casual outing. You are meant to spend time with your fiancé-to-be, and are meat to interact with him as you would anyone: politely. You are to smile, laugh, hold his hand, lean on his arm. He will lead you, not the other way around. He will also be the one to determine when to propose. When that moment comes, try not to react in a manner that would make it appear as though you are not happy. Remember: we want to put on a good show for the public. Our goal is to improve relations with those Unfortunates who do not understand or actively participate within the Process.
“Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes ma’am,” I reply, and swallow what seems to be the ever-growing lump in my throat.
“Good,” Mother Terra says, then turns and looks at the road before us. “We will be arriving shortly. Prepare yourself in whatever way you can.”
With a nod, I take a deep breath to replenish the stagnant air in my lungs, then lean back and close my eyes.
I am assaulted by thoughts of what might happen almost immediately.
A photojournalist, making his way toward me—
A writer, yelling that I am not truly as fortunate as they claim I am—
Daniel, his gaze and eyes lost as he stares at me—as he falls to one knee to pull from his pocket a ring.
“Kelendra Byron,” he’ll say.
“Marry me,” I whisper, though my words are lost to the sound of the hum of the vehicle’s engine and a short exhale from Mother Terra.
“Ah,” she says. “We’ve arrived.”
I lift my head.
I gasp, I stare.
The Glistening Park rises before us like a forest spoken of only in legend. Gorgeous, vibrant, succulent, and so beautiful that it is almost impossible to comprehend, the trees stand like titans reaching out to the skies and extend their many branches as if in greeting. They capture my attention as we draw beneath them—as the car comes to idle alongside the curb—and while waiting for Mother Terra to give further instruction, I look up at the leaves and imagine myself as one of many, just waiting to be plucked free and fall. From the Heavens I will drift, and to my own personal Hell I will fall; an
d while considering this, I realize that this is it: the final straw, the last hurrah. Soon, my marriage will be set in stone, and with it the beginning of my new life.
“Kelendra,” Mother Terra says, drawing me from the depths of my thoughts. “Are you ready?”
I struggle to nod, and struggle even more to turn my head as a SAD agent approaches and opens the backseat door.
She extends a hand.
I reach out and take it.
In moments I am standing out in the crisp, humid air, and breathing the scent of greenery.
“Where is Daniel?” I ask Mother Terra as she steps out of the car, unsure how the young man could have possibly arrived before us given the hour of the morning.
Mother Terra points.
I turn my head.
In the distance I see the silhouette of a man against a nearby tree. Flanked by SAD agents, he raises his head to regard me, then lifts his hand to wave.
“Is that—” I start.
“Him?” Mother Terra interrupts. “Yes. That’s him.”
“Are you—”
“Coming with you? No. I’m not.” She reaches out to brace one hand along my arm and the other to turn my head to face her. “This is your story now, Kelendra. How you write it is up to you.”
With a nod, and with trepidation I have never felt before in my life, I break away—feeling, innately, that chain connecting us break away, that rope fray before snapping. It is perhaps the second greatest emancipation I have felt, beyond that of being separated from my mother, and causes me panic I cannot even begin to comprehend.
I have to keep reminding myself that this is not the end of my life. This is only the beginning.
I swallow the lump in my throat and begin to approach Daniel Cross, my soon-to-be fiancé and husband.
He, in turn, begins to approach me.
The SAD agents on both sides follow.
When we come face-to-face with one another, I see he is dressed in denim pants similar to mine, and a sleeveless shirt that shows off well-defined arms, developed from working on machinery I can only begin to imagine.
“Hey,” he says.
