“And this?” He lifts his free hand toward Podaxis, but I take a step back. His eyes widen as if he only now sees that what I carry isn’t another bag. He snatches his hand back just as another flash of the bulb illuminates the side of my face. “Saint Lazaro’s Holy Fire, what is that?” the boy asks.
I press Podaxis to my chest before my friend tries to snip the boy’s fingers. “None of your concern.” With that, I stalk away, prepared to curse the next person who even tries to talk to me before I can gather my bearings.
Luckily, no one else interrupts me and I’m allowed to take in my surroundings. I’m in the room I’d glimpsed the first night I came here, a carpeted aisle flanked by pews. I suppose this is whatever the churchy part of a church is called. It’s quiet and sparsely populated. The light is dim with only stained-glass windows and the open door behind me to let in the daylight. The walls are pale while the pews and beams overhead are of dark wood. At the front, I see an altar set with cloth, candles, and a small brazier in which burns a small but steady fire. Behind it is a relief carved in wood of angels, cherubs, several toothy animals, and at the center, a man with his hands outstretched, his feet buried in flames. This must be the famed Saint Lazaro the church is so fond of. I keep expecting to see something sinister lurking in the shadows—iron shackles, a poorly concealed torture device hanging from the rafters—but there’s nothing. Just like the outside of the church, the inside is modest. Benign. Not what I expected from a church with such a violent reputation.
I turn my attention to the pews and see the frontmost are occupied by what I assume to be the other contestants. On one side of the aisle sit six girls, two in each pew, and on the other I find three more. Two sit together while the third sits a row back, alone. I’m guessing the couples are the contestants with their chaperones, and I’m relieved to see at least one other came without a female companion. Each girl sits silent and demure. A couple heads turn my way, and one even smiles, but for the most part, the reception is as chilly as a midnight sea.
I choose the empty pew between the two occupied ones and do my best to sit like a lady. It takes all my restraint not to fuss and fidget with my clothes. I haven’t been this over-layered since Father sent me to try and woo the Lunar Prince. Nadia dressed me in full undergarments this morning—silk hose, a linen chemise, petticoats, and a stiff corset—followed by a green tartan walking skirt and a white lace blouse with ridiculous puffed sleeves. The shirt is buttoned all the way to the top, unlike how I prefer to wear my menswear, and an emerald-green silk necktie forms a neat bow at my collar. It’s a miracle I can even breathe. Tucking a finger beneath the necktie, I try to tug it a little lower—
“Stop fidgeting,” Podaxis whispers. He sits next to me on the pew. Although, despite his admonition, he doesn’t seem comfortable either. His beady eyes dart around, front claws clacking nervously together.
“Can I at least take off my gloves?”
“No! You heard Nadia. Gloves are required in formal situations.”
“Is this formal?”
He hesitates. “How should I know?”
I glance around. From what I can see, the other girls wear gloves too. “Clam blasted rules of propriety,” I mutter.
One of the two women in the pew before me whirls around with a curious expression. I catch sight of dark eyes in a heart-shaped face before she turns her gaze to Podaxis. Her hair is dark and pinned beneath a green hat decorated with white peonies. A sweet smile warms her expression as she turns more fully toward us. “You were so clever,” she says in the type of voice one normally only hears east of Third. A snob, then. When I say nothing, she adds, “To bring a pet, that is.”
Podaxis gasps. “A pet!”
“Actually, he’s a person,” I say.
She ignores us both. “Father bought me a pixie fennec last week and I so badly wanted to fight harder to bring her. But arguing is a sin, as we both know.” She looks at me gravely, as if I’m supposed to understand a word she just said. I know nothing about sin, and I know even less about whatever the shells a pixie fennec is. I know a fennec is a type of fox, but where does the pixie part come in? Is she talking about something that’s actually a fae creature—a person—or is it just a smaller variety of the animal?
I’m not even certain I want to know the answer.
“I’m Vanessa Courter,” she says, not bothering to introduce her chaperone, an older woman with brown hair sprinkled with gray. When I don’t reply, she asks, “And you are?’
“Maisie.”
“What church are you from?”
“I’m not from a church.”
She shrinks back slightly. “I see. But you are a follower of the Almighty, are you not?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, this time more irritated by the girl than my clothes. “I was raised to believe in the All of All and the magic of the Twelfth Court.”
“You’re pagan then.” I can tell by the change in her tone that she considers it a bad thing. Even her chaperone casts a disdainful glance over her shoulder. “Oh, and you’re full fae. I can tell by your ears.”
I look to hers and find only rounded corners. “Aren’t you at least half fae to be a contestant?”
She lifts her chin. “My mother is fae, but she was born seelie and never once shifted into her carnal form.”
Carnalform? I snort a laugh, which she pays no heed to.
“She entered society as soon as the isle was unified, so we are quite civilized.”
“How…nice,” I say.
“Do you seek salvation then? Is that why you wish to marry Brother Dorian?”
“Salvation?” This conversation is getting less and less pleasant by the second.
