I narrowed my eyes at her. She meant that by the time she got the phone call last night, she was halfway through her schnapps and Jeopardy and had forgotten to tell me right until this moment.
I cleared my throat, a weird feeling swirling in my stomach. I had a decent radar for danger, but that wasn’t the vibe here. Still, I was anxious to know what this was all about.
Mr. Wainwright shot the matron a disparaging look, a look he did very well, before he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He leaned closer and held it out to me.
Warily, I reached out and took the paper, marveling at how thick and heavy it was. I’d never seen paper like it before. Since they’d cut back on cutting trees down, paper of any kind was rare to see, but this quality … almost never.
My hands shook as I opened it because for the life of me, I had not a single clue what was happening here.
The writing inside was hand-lettered in a sweeping, spectacular calligraphy.
Dear Violet Rose Spencer,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been randomly selected from a ballot of over fifteen million displaced children to attend the prestigious Arbon Academy. Our college has a long tradition of producing the finest leaders, professionals, and royalty the world has ever seen.
This is the opportunity of a lifetime, offered once every five years.
Your tuition, room, meals, and essentials are all covered under your scholarship, and you will graduate with the chance to secure a job in whichever field you desire.
Our representative will oversee your passport and travel arrangements.
We look forward to having you at Arbon Academy.
With kindest regards,
Lord Winston Morgan
Dean of Arbon Academy
I read it twice.
“Is this a fucking joke?” I asked the man, my voice wavering as I swung between anger and confusion.
The matron gasped. “Violet. Language!”
Yeah, for sure. Because the previous however many years of chastising me in regards to language hadn’t worked, but one more shot would be the ticket.
Mr. Wainwright didn’t seem to care. “I promise that this is not a joke, Ms. Spencer. Do you remember entering a ballot? It would have been about this time last year.”
The matron leaned over her desk. “Yes, you had to go in for blood and a cheek swab, remember? To ensure that you were in good enough health to take part in it.”
The blood part sent the memory hurtling to the forefront of my mind. Meredith had all but held me down while they did the draw. It was the needle that I hated, not the blood. I was certainly no stranger to seeing my own blood.
“The Princess Ballot,” I said softly.
Mr. Wainwright glared at me then. “We discourage the use of that name. The fact that some of the previous ballot winners have married into royalty is a mere coincidence of circumstances. We make no promises regarding your future beyond providing the best education and opportunities.”
I snorted. “Okay, sure. Except thatallof the ballot winners have ended up marrying a royal, so yeah. Pretty sure calling it the Princess Ballot is appropriate.”
In all fairness, it wasn’t only women who were selected in the ballot. But the number of men who’d been selected, and ended up as a prince was low. Also, “prince or princess ballot” just didn’t have the same catchy ring to it.
He didn’t answer, but there was a flicker of something in his dark eyes. The look bothered me, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint why that was. I turned my eyes back to the paper. ThePrincess Ballotwas famous around the world, and not for one second had I ever expected that I would be chosen. Being chosen was like winning the lotto. As the letter said, over fifteen million people between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two entered.
Arbon Academy was the most exclusive, prestigious, and out of reach school in the world. Its location was a closely held secret—somewhere in Europe—and it was the college of choice for royalty and the children of billionaires. How did I know all of this? Everyone knew this. Arbon was both the most tightly held secret and also the most gossiped about college in the world. No one knew details, but damn did they love to guess.
Fifteen million.
“Ms. Spencer?”
