I can hear the shouts now, the taunts. More hands bang against the sides of the vehicle, almost rocking it, jeers and shouts aimed in my direction.
And they call me ugly. Some of these people need to look in the damn mirror.
When the van stops, even the guards hesitate, sharing glances between each other as though debating who has the pleasure of going first.
I’m pulled to my feet. None of them look at me. Not one of them spare me a single word as the doors are pulled open.
The whole world narrows.
Flashes, shouts, screams.
Anger.Hatred.
Such pulsating, vibrant hatred that I can almost taste it, sour and prickly on my tongue as the guards drag me out, making a show of it, much to the delight of the crowd. They push against the makeshift barriers someone thought to put up, screaming in my face, shrieking insults and vitriol as I’m pulled along towards the palace. It feels like it’s miles away, and I wonder if they’ve done it deliberately. More of a spectacle.
I let them do it, let them almost drag me, unable to see beyond the twisted faces surrounding me.
This is so much worse than what I imagined.
A grunt escapes my throat as something hits my face, hard. The guards pause, scanning the area, and I stare down at the apple core on the ground.
Another hit connects with my cheekbone, and my head whips to the side. I suck in a breath at the spike of pain.
More follows. I wait to see if the guards will do something, anything, but they just look ahead, prodding me along.
No, I realize, glancing around.
They’re falling back, shoving me ahead of them with harsh hands, leaving just enough space for the public to have full access. Protecting themselves or throwing me to the wolves, it’s the same thing.
And the people screaming in my face take full advantage.
I lose track of the number of items that hit me as we walk towards the palace. People are pressed against the barriers all the way up the steep flight of white stone steps, shouting and laughing as I’m splattered with rotten fruit and vegetables.
I keep my head down, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a response, even as my ears ring and stinging slaps ring out against my skin. It’s only when something smashes against my forehead that I stagger, and the guards finally decide to step in.
They lift me up the last few steps as I shake my head, trying to get rid of the fuzziness. The ornate entrance doors are opened for us, and they pull me through, the sounds of the crowd dying away behind us as someone pushes them shut.
I don’t get a second to pull myself together. They pick up the pace, yanking me forward, dragging me down a hallway filled with huge pieces of art in gilded golden frames. Members of the royal family stare down at me in silent judgement, and I almost laugh when I catch sight of Ella’s perfect face amongst them. Prim and delicate, seated on a throne next to Crispin.
Jesus. She works fast, considering they’re not even married yet.
I’m expecting a courtroom. Maybe a judge, a jury. But instead, I’m dragged into a long, high-ceilinged room, as ornate and overdone as the rest of this fucking place.
There is no judge. No jury to be seen.
No. Instead, my sister and her fiancée sit in matching thrones at the end of the room. Watching me as I’m escorted towards them. Rows of courtiers line the walls, every one of them ridiculously overdressed, whispering and giggling to themselves as I’m paraded past them.
At least none of this lot seem to have any rotten fruit at hand. Their eyes flick over me with distaste, lips curling back in disgust as they murmur about my hair, the sack of a dress I’m wearing.
One loud woman complains about the smell. My whole face heats in response, humiliation prickling the back of my neck.
But everyone silences as we reach the end of the room, and I’m pushed down onto my knees. They hit the stone floor solidly, and I bite back a wince as I shuffle in place before looking up.
Prince Crispin stares down at me. Broad shouldered, he slouches in his throne, tapping his fingers on the arm as he looks me up and down. Slack-jawed with morbid fascination, as though I’m a creature he’s just discovered on the bottom of his shoe. Next to him, Ella is the picture of devastation. Tears fill her eyes as she watches me, and when I stare back, she bites her lip and presses the back of her palm over her mouth as though the sight of me here on my knees is far too much forherto possibly be expected to bear.
I wait. Everyone waits, as the Crown Prince of Sorelle continues his staring.
After a minute, Ella slides her eyes towards her fiancée. She coughs, delicately, and he straightens in his seat, reaching out for her hand. She clasps it in both of hers, and he raises it to his mouth, pressing his lips against it. The crowd murmurs in approval.
