The One (The Selection, #3)(21)

King Clarkson took Maxon’s arm and pushed him away, leaving me behind. Over his shoulder, Maxon mouthed the word Sorry, and I gave him a little smile.

I wasn’t afraid of the king. Or the rebels. I knew how much Maxon meant to me, and I was sure that it was all going to work, somehow.



CHAPTER 11

AFTER ENDURING MARY’S SILENT SMIRK as she made me back up, I went to the Women’s Room, happy the rain was still coming down. It would always mean something special to me now.

But while Maxon and I could escape for a little while, once we were out of our bubble, the tension of the ultimatum the rebels had placed on the Elite was thick. All the girls were distracted and anxious.

Celeste wordlessly painted her nails at a nearby table, and I could see the slight tremor in her hand from time to time. I watched as she cleaned up her mistakes and tried to carry on. Elise held a book in her hands, but her eyes were trained on the window? lost in the downpour. None of us could quite manage to finish even the smallest task.

“How do you think it’s going out there?” Kriss asked me, her hand paused over the needlepoint pillow she was working on.

“I don’t know,” I answered quietly. “It doesn’t seem like they’d threaten something huge and then do nothing.” I was penciling out a melody I’d had in my head on some sheet music. I hadn’t written anything original in nearly six months. There wasn’t much point to it. At parties, people preferred the classics.

“Do you think they’re hiding the number of deaths from us?” she wondered.

“It’s possible. If we leave, they win.”

Kriss did another stitch. “I’m going to stay no matter what.” Something about the way she said it seemed to be directed specifically at me. Like I needed to know she wasn’t giving up on Maxon.

“Same here,” I promised.

The next day was much of the same, though I’d never been disappointed to see the sun shine before. The worry was so heavy that it was all we could do to stay put. I ached to run, to put some of the energy into something.

After lunch, our return to the Women’s Room was staggered. Elise was reading as I sat with my sheet music, but Kriss and Celeste were missing. Maybe ten minutes later, Kriss walked in with full arms. She sat down with drawing paper and a collection of colored pencils.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Whatever keeps me busy.”

She sat for a long time with a red pencil in her hand, hovering over the paper.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she finally said. “I know that people are in danger, but I love him. I don’t want to leave.”

“The king won’t let anyone die,” Elise offered comfortingly.

“But people already have died.” Kriss wasn’t argumentative, only worried. “I just need to think about something else.”

“I bet Silvia would have work for us,” I offered.

Kriss gave a single chuckle. “I’m not that desperate.” She put the tip of the pencil down, making a smooth curve across the page. It was a start. “Everything will be fine. I’m sure of it.”

I rubbed my eyes, looking at my music. I needed to switch things up.

“I’m going to hop over to one of the libraries. I’ll be right back.”

Elise and Kriss each gave me a cursory nod as they attempted to focus on their tasks, and I stood to leave.

I wandered down the hall to one of the rooms on the far end of the floor. There were a few books on those shelves I’d been wanting to read. The door of the parlor swung open quietly, and I realized I wasn’t alone. Someone was crying.

I searched for the source and found Celeste, hugging her knees to her chest, sitting on the wide perch of a windowsill. I felt immediately awkward. Celeste did not cry. Up until this moment, I hadn’t even been sure she was capable.

The only thing to do was leave, but as she wiped her eyes, she caught sight of me.

“Ugh!” she whined. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I was looking for a book.”

“Well, get it and go. You get everything you want anyway.”

I stood there blankly for a moment, confused by her words. She heaved a sigh and pushed herself up from her seat. Snatching one of her many magazines, she flung the glossy pages at me, and I caught it clumsily.

“See for yourself. Your little speech on the Report pushed you over the top. They love you.” Her voice was angry, accusing. As if I’d planned this all along.

I turned the magazine right side up, finding half of the page full of pictures of the four remaining girls with a graph beside our photos. Above the image, an elegant headline asked Who do YOU want as Queen? Next to my face, a wide line shot out, showing thirty-nine percent of the people were pulling for me. It wasn’t as high as I thought it should be for whoever won. but it was much higher than the others!

Quotes from those polled edged the graph, saying that Celeste was positively regal, though she was in third. Elise was so poised, it said, but she also only had eight percent of the population pulling for her. By my picture were opinions that made me want to cry.

“Lady America is just like the queen. She’s a fighter. It’s more than wanting her; we need her!”

I stared at the words. “Is . . . is this real?”