Then I’d also have to confess she’s found me. That it was all my fault. That I’ve agreed to kill for her.
When these realizations strike, I deem it better to wait until the deed is done, until I can confidently say I’m free of her, that I’ll never have to kill again. That’s when I’ll write.
Until then, one kiss is all that stands between me and freedom. One life ended, and mine can finally begin.
Morning dawns on the first day of the bridal competition. I try to keep my more hopeful thoughts fixed firmly in my mind while I make my way from the Vulture’s Prose to Salvation Street. It doesn’t take long before I’m cursing under my breath as I’m forced to navigate dainty steps in the heeled walking shoes Nadia managed to find for me. I much prefer my flat-soled leather boots that I normally wear but Nadia would hear none of it. Instead, she all but shoved me into the narrow black shoes and ordered me to leave my boots behind. In the large carpet bag I carry is another pair—silk dancing slippers—as well as my freshly altered clothes. Nadia nearly fainted when I insisted everything fit into a single bag that I’d be carrying myself. The best part was when she tried to get Podaxis to shift into his seelie form and act as my servant.I often wonder what you look like in seelie form, she mused this morning as she assessed Podaxis from under her lashes, resulting in much incomprehensible stammering from my friend.
Thank the shells Nadia has no clue I’m a princess. She would have employed every actor we know in making my presentation to the church. In the end, I insisted on no fanfare and my single carpet bag of belongings.
“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” Podaxis says. He’s tucked under one arm while I clutch my bag in the other. “Are you sure they’ll even let me inside?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“I’m not competing.”
“Well, I can’t bear to do this without you, so you’re going to be whatever they let me bring. You’ll be a statue of my nonexistent great-uncle George if you must.”
“I don’t see how my presence is supposed to help you at all.”
I shrug. “I might need help spying. Or…you know. Just a friend.”
“Once again pulling the best-friend card when it’s the least convenient for me,” he mutters.
We reach Salvation Street and already I’m a sweating mess. Whether it’s from anxiety, the weight of my overfull bag, or the discomfort of walking in heels and a stuffy corset, I know not. All I know is not even the sugary sweet aroma of Lumies beckoning from across the street manages to soothe my nerves. Although, for a moment I am tempted to just throw this whole plan overboard and gorge myself on sweets until I’m blissfully unconscious. The notion only lasts a second, though, because I know what’s at stake.
My life.
As I reach Saint Lazaro, I once again find a crowd out front. A group of men and women hover about the sign and try to steal glances inside the church. The front doors remain open, but there’s nothing to see from the sidewalk, especially with the man standing in the doorway. He wears the same robes as the priest I spoke to the night I rescued Dorian. What was his name…Father Viktor? This man, however, is not he. He’s several inches taller and twice as wide.
With a deep breath, I stride up the stairs and approach him. “I’m here for the pageant.”
He assesses me with a penetrating stare. I can’t tell whether he’s pleased or repulsed, although the latter is the most expected, considering the church’s reputation. As he continues to stare at me, I realize I recognize that leering gaze. It’s Brother Billius from the previous sign, the one whose contest never had the chance to begin. The black-and-white photograph may have done him a favor, for he isn’t much improved in full color. His hair is thin and sandy brown, eyes watery and blue. His round belly is probably the only thing I like about him. “The Blessing Ceremony is open for the public, but it isn’t until tomorrow evening,” he says in a slightly nasal tone.
I furrow my brow. “No, you misunderstand me. I’m competing in the bridal contest.”
Brother Billius’ eyes widen with surprise. A blush heats his round cheeks as he assesses me a second time, taking in everything from my dress to my bag and shoes. When his gaze returns to mine, he retrieves a leather notebook and pen from within his robes. “So sorry, you don’t look quite like the others. May I have your name, dear child of the Almighty?”
I open my mouth to answer but stop myself. Should I go by Pearl or Maisie? Zara is the one who signed me up for this madness. Does she know about my alias? If so, would she have used it?
I gulp. “Maisie.”
Billius scans his notebook, then asks, “Surname?”
This takes me aback, and I blink at him a few times. “I don’t have a surname.”
“Why not?”
Trying not to let my irritation show, I turn my head to the side so he can see the pointed tips of my ears just below my shell comb. “I’m full fae. Surnames are a human practice, everyone knows this.” Even I do, and I spent most of my life as a seal.
“I’m sorry, dear child, but I can only find a Maisie Halfwit on my list.”
“Halfwit!” I echo. My cheeks burn and I regret not having punched Zara in the face when I had the chance. “That’s obviously not my name.”
He grimaces. “Identification then?”
Again, I’m at a loss.
“Passport, residency card?”
