I was something of a pariah. Like an exile who’d been banished to her own personal version of the Scablands.
But there were a few students who went out of their way to try to make me feel welcome, to make me feel . . . special. In particular, one determined girl called Delta, younger than me by only a year or two. She’d been assigned to escort my entourage between each class hour, asking if we needed anything, if I knew where I was to go next, if I was enjoying myself.
Zafir jumped a little each time she appeared, as if startled by her enthusiasm. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him so unnerved.
“I don’t trust her,” he warned between clenched teeth when she scurried away through the lunchtime crowd to get me an apple I’d never actually requested. I’d simply commented that hers looked delicious. I was certain she would have offered it to me if she hadn’t already taken a bite.
“She’s harmless, Zafir. Just trying to be helpful. It’s sweet, really.”
“Don’t confuse sweet with cloying. The latter can be difficult to swallow.”
Brook sat down beside me, carrying a tray overfilled with two bowls of stew and a plate of steamed potatoes. Since Zafir and I already had our food, I assumed it was all for her. She skewered one of the potatoes with her fork and dunked it into the stew. “The girl?” she asked. When Zafir nodded, she said, “I don’t trust her,” she announced, right before stuffing the entire potato in her mouth.
Sydney joined us then, her own plate filled with fresh vegetables and a strip of herbed whitefish. That was another thing different about the Academy; they served food here, prepared to order.
Brook curled her lip at Sydney’s light fare but held her comments, probably because her mouth was too full.
“So? How do you think it’s going?” Sydney breathed in a hopeful tone. I almost hated to answer her question . . . especially in front of Brook and Zafir.
I was grateful to see the new system working. To see kids who’d once been divided, schooled under the same roof, and those born to parents of the Serving class attending school at all.
To hear Englaise spoken everywhere.
But I wondered how long the protesters would remain out front. I wondered how long they’d remain peaceful.
I shrugged. “It’s fine,” I answered. “It’ll be . . . an adjustment.”
“What’s it like?” Sydney asked, smiling reticently. “Living in the palace, I mean. Being the queen.”
It was an interesting question, and I thought about it as I pushed my fork through my bowl. “It’s . . . an adjustment,” I said again, smiling self-consciously.
Brook nudged me, winking conspiratorially. “Yeah, an adjustment,” she repeated, as if it were some sort of inside joke. It wasn’t, and she was the only one at the table grinning.
Sydney frowned at her, and I wondered if she thought Brook was somehow unhinged. I was starting to wonder myself.
“It’s weird,” I went on. “There are parts I like, things that are easier . . . especially for my family. Others . . .” I lifted a piece of seasoned beef from my stew and thought of my riding lessons. “Others I can do without. But I like what I’m able to do, the changes I can make.” I tasted the meat, savoring the flavor, simpler than the foods we had at the palace, closer to those my parents had prepared in their restaurant. “What are people saying? About me? About the way things have changed?”
Brook leaned closer now, and the color in Sydney’s cheeks bloomed. Her shoulders lifted as I held my breath, worried about what she had to say. “Mostly, it’s good,” she finally replied. “Mostly, they’re relieved not to have to carry their Passports wherever they go, or to live in fear of lifting their eyes at the wrong moment. The gallows were torn down during the last lunar cycle, and the Central Square is now a place of music and dance, where street performers gather.” Her gaze dropped to her plate then. “Surely you know that others aren’t as pleased with the new order of things. My mother says their reach is marginal. But she says that even marginal can be damaging when strategically placed.”
I thought about that, about Brook’s father, and his small band of followers. Marginal was probably a good way to describe them.
Strategic was probably better.
Delta came back, carrying a crisp, red apple in both of her hands, holding it out to me as if bearing a gift. Her smile was so infectious, I nearly giggled as I took it.
“Please, Your Majesty, if there’s anything else I can get you, anything at all . . .” Her offer dangled between us.
“You really don’t have to” was all I said, not wanting to be waited on here, of all places. “And, please,” I insisted. “Call me Charlie.”
“Pssh,” she scoffed, waving her hand at me. “I could never.” And then she skipped away, a satisfied smiled on her face.
Inwardly, I sighed. I would be glad to get back to the palace, to the life I was becoming familiar with. To my routine and my family.
Zafir reached down and snatched the apple that I held halfway to my mouth. I turned in time to see him chucking it into the trash. “Sorry, Your Majesty. You can’t be too careful.”
I hadn’t meant to slip away from Zafir and the others.
Or maybe I had. Probably, I had.
All I’d really wanted was to have a few moments of peace before leaving for Capitol Hall. . . . A few moments during which I could collect myself and gather my thoughts. It didn’t really matter, though, I supposed as I stood in front of the washroom mirror examining my reflection: my silvered hair, my wide blue eyes, my skin—so pale and luminous, casting a light of its own. I doubted I’d have long before they realized where I’d gone to.