Cinderella Is Dead(19)
“I know I will be chosen,” she says, her voice trembling.
“That’s exactly my point. Do you even know what that will mean for you?”
“My parents aren’t stupid. They’ve made sure I’ll come out ahead.”
She’s implying her parents either paid money to have her picked by someone specific or that a suitor has already purchased a claim on her.
“Do you think your money makes a difference?”
She glares at me. “I would expect someone like you to say money doesn’t matter.”
Erin tugs at my arm again.
“Money won’t keep your future husband from using you as he sees fit. And your privilege won’t keep you safe. You and I are exactly the same in the eyes of the king and the suitors.”
Her face pales a little. Regardless of her abrasive front, we share the same fears. A small crowd has gathered around us, a mixture of alarm, hope, and uncertainty in all their faces.
A trumpet blares. Everyone looks around, unsure of where to go or what to do as a throng of guards marches in, their boots pounding the floor, sending a shudder through the entire room. They push the girls into a line, positioning them so they all face the front of the room where a three-tiered platform stands, the king’s empty throne at the very top. It’s a massive seat made of gold, inlaid with rubies. A giant lion’s head is carved into the backrest, its mane designed to give its occupant the appearance of having a golden halo.
A squat guard takes Erin by the shoulder and shoves her into line. I step between them and push the man’s arm down.
“Don’t touch her.”
“Sophia,” Erin says, her eyes pleading. “Don’t.”
“Listen to your friend, little girl,” the guard says. A man nearly a foot shorter than me has the nerve to call me little.
He grabs me roughly by the elbow, shoving me into line next to Erin. I yank my arm out of his grip and scowl at him. He smells of sweat and cigar smoke.
“Feisty now, ain’t we?” He smiles, exposing every one of his yellow and rotting teeth.
“Leave me alone,” I say.
The man raises his eyebrows, and the corner of his mouth turns up. He grabs my arm again, this time digging the tips of his fingers into my skin. If I act quickly, I can break his nose and run away before he has a chance to catch me. I ball up my fist and draw my arm back. The trumpets sound again, and he hesitates for a moment before letting go of me and walking away in a huff. I push away the tears, refusing to let them fall.
The atmosphere changes as the guards direct a line of girls across the grand ballroom. A palpable sense of fear descends as those who were excited to arrive soon realize that this is no happy social gathering. It isn’t even a well-disguised trap.
Erin stands silently, a big forced smile plastered across her face, her hands shaking. I purse my lips. I have to get us out of here. My arm throbs in time with my frantic heartbeats. Glancing around at the other girls, I finally spot Liv.
She wears a plain cotton frock, no makeup other than a bit of rouge on the apples of her cheeks. Her hair is draped over her shoulder, and a crown of baby’s breath encircles her head. She stares at the floor, and I watch her chest rise and fall in the rhythm of someone who is quickly losing her ability to pretend that everything is fine. She looks lovely, but as she glances up, I see only sadness in her eyes. She shakes her head, and I know that something has gone wrong. She hadn’t been visited by a fairy godmother, and her parents couldn’t afford to make other arrangements. Her gaze moves down the length of my gown and back up again. She smiles and presses her hand against her chest.
I swallow hard. I know what Liv will be facing if she isn’t selected, and my heart aches for her. The king might grant her a pass to work in Hanover or maybe even Chione, but that isn’t a solution as much as a punishment. The people there run workhouses where forfeits labor day and night with a small amount of compensation sent directly to their heads of household. I desperately try to find what Luke had called “an out” but can’t think of a single thing that doesn’t end up with us in prison—or worse.
A guard stands at attention and clears his throat as a set of doors at the side of the room open and a procession of men files in. “His Majesty’s honored guests,” he announces.
The suitors.
“The Marquess of Eastern Lille,” the guard says.
The marquess marches in. He always dresses audaciously and makes a point of showing off whenever he can, but he has outdone himself this night. His suit is the color of freshly bloomed marigolds and is so tight it looks like it’s been painted on. The fabric creeps into all his creases, and I see outlines of things that make me wish I could poke my eyes out. In the brim of his three-pointed hat is a plume of brightly colored feathers. His shoes are made from some kind of animal skin but have been dyed yellow to match his suit. He climbs to the tier just below the throne and stands there like a very awkward bird. The Marquess of Eastern Lille is the highest-ranking man in Mersailles besides King Manford himself.
“The Earls of Hanover and Kilspire, and the Viscount of Chione,” says the guard.
These men and their entourages are less officious than the marquess, but they still think themselves better than the rest of us. They are smiling, some of them laughing, and all of them dressed in their finest attire. They walk in and take their places on the second level of the three-tiered platform.