She’s exceptionally pretty, with parchment pale skin and masses of dark brown hair wound into an updo dotted with pearls.
In a single swift motion, she slashes her hand and scrawls her name.
She is the only other girl to get a reaction out of Bram. He presses his mouth into a thin line, as if he’s trying to stop himself from saying something.
The dark-haired girl doesn’t even look at him, as if he’s the least important part of this for her.
The queen stands from her throne and looks over all of us once more.
The room, which had been so still and perfect before the queen’s announcement, appears as if a storm has blown through it. Mothers are sweaty and sick with worry. Girls’ hands and dresses are stained with red. There’s a slowdrip, drip, dripas blood runs in rivulets off the spindly table where the contract lies.
Twenty-four of us have signed up.
Twenty-three of us will leave this competition with nothing.
The queen cuts through the crowd, flanked by four stony-faced footmen in midnight-blue livery.
They swing open the double doors to the throne room as she peers over one shoulder and arches a brow. “Follow,” she commands.
Chapter Six
Kensington Park has been transformed into an enchanted garden. Dotting the lawn are floral displays as big as people, and baskets artfully arranged and overflowing with blooms. Gardeners have been hard at work on the eaves of the palace, giving the illusion that flowers are spilling from the roof and windows. Sparkling chandeliers hang from the branches of ancient trees, their crystals jingling in the gentle breeze.
Below the stone steps of the palace, in the middle of the festivities, is a maypole, a thin post about as tall as a streetlamp, topped with a rainbow of ribbons trailing down the side and fluttering in the wind.
Lords and ladies of London high society mingle in their tails and silks, draped in diamonds and wearing hats piled high with organza flowers. It’s a Pact Parade tradition, this garden party. The ton gather to drink champagne and wait for the girls of the season to emerge and show off their new bargains. It marks the official start of the season, the gunshot that signifies the beginning of the marriage hunt.
The crowd goes still and silent as we step outside. We shouldn’tall be appearing at once like this. There’s a ripple of shocked gasps as people spot the two dozen girls with blood smeared across the skirts of their white Pact Parade gowns.
“Welcome, on this most joyous day.” The queen’s voice carries unnaturally through the crowd. “I’m pleased to announce that my son, Bram, Prince of Wales, intends to find a wife this season. Twenty-four girls have put themselves forward for consideration and, in their devotion, have vowed to never marry should they not be selected.”
The crowd gasps. Bram stands still beside Queen Mor, his face unreadable.
“As a mother, it is my dearest wish that my son end up with his perfect match, and I’m sure we can all agree that twenty-four girls is simply too many to become properly acquainted with over twelve weeks. Therefore, we will be whittling down our accomplished group of twenty-four to six.” She lets the announcement settle, as if relishing our fear. Panicked glances go through the girls.Only six?
“Determination and grit are two vital qualities that any girl who marries my son will need to possess, and so, as is tradition in my homeland, the debutantes will compete in a maypole dance to prove their mettle. The final six left standing will be invited to move onto palace grounds and compete for Prince Bram’s hand. The rest will return home, your season ended.”
“You didn’t tell us that!” Sara Middlebrook exclaims, her face screwed up in panic and anger.
Queen Mor levels her with a glance. “Why would I need to?”
She turns back to the crowd, her serene smile back in place. “In the spirit of sportsmanship, the winning girl will be gifted the May Queen tiara I won on my very own betrothal day.”
A footman steps forward holding an intricate floral tiara, set in a rainbow of gems, on a red velvet pillow.
“Shall we?” The queen gestures for us to join her as she steps down onto the lawn and over to the maypole.
The crowd gathers around us in a wide circle. There’s a full bandstand off to one side, covered in white roses.
The queen turns to us with a final, sickly sweet smile. “Cheaters will be disqualified.”
The band kicks up an overly cheery tune, and I take a violet ribbon in my hand, Lydia’s favorite color. The pretty, dark-haired girl is directly in front of me, and Emmy Ito is at my heels.
We start skipping around the maypole, but the problem with the ground is evident almost immediately: a wet English winter has left the great lawn of Kensington Palace too soft.
The other girls’ silk slippers sink right into the sodden grass, and after only one rotation the maypole field has been turned to slick, wet mud.
Deidre falls first, only four turns in. One of her shoes gets stuck in the muck, and she turns around to fetch it, falling right into Greer, who hops over her deftly.
