I spot my mother, surrounded by laughing women in the corner of the room, the widest smile on her face I’ve seen in months.
The chandelier reflects off the small tiara nestled in her curls. The stones are paste. We sold the real ones off a decade ago.
It seems my status as one of the prince’s suitors has granted my mother immediate acceptance back into her old social group. The familiar rage at the fact that we could all be discarded, then reaccepted like it was all nothing, rises in me, but I brush it away. This is only a game, and the sooner I accept that, the easier the next few months will be.
At that moment, a trumpet sounds, the band lowers their strings, and the ballroom stills.
Prince Bram enters the room, flanked by Prince Emmett, both nearly a head above everyone else in the crowd. They wear matching black coats embellished with sky-blue sashes and badges of the eight-pointed star, the order of the royal family. Their high white cravats are flawless, their shoes perfectly shined. Emmett and Bram aren’t biological brothers of course, but they do resemble each other. Prince Emmett’s hair is a few shades darker, his cheekbones higher, his lips fuller. Their expressions are different, too—Bram’s lips upturned in a wide, friendly smile, and Emmett’s turned down in a bored frown. Together, they’re a complete set, Bram the sun, Emmett the moon.
The attention of every girl in the room is divided between them. It’s been a point of discussion among all of us for years, in hushed tones when our mothers weren’t listening:Are you a Bram girl or an Emmett girl?Bram, sunny, kind, and safe, tends to appeal togirls who share similar qualities. It’s Emmett, with his bitten lips and sad eyes, who plays in the fantasies of the risk-takers. I always thought the conversations were silly, but here, hit with the force of the princes’ presence, I’m starting to understand.
Prince Emmett lingers at the edge of the crowd while Bram strides to the center of the now-empty dance floor.
“I’d like to thank our gracious hosts, the Count and Countess Twombley, for so generously facilitating tonight’s festivities.” He gestures to where they stand, and they bow humbly.
“And I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the six beautiful, accomplished young ladies whom I will have the pleasure of getting to know this season.”
He gestures for us to join him in the center of the room.
Marion curtsies, and it seems the right thing, so the rest of us do it too, and suddenly the whole room is clapping and Prince Bram is smiling as he says, “I look forward to our time together, and to making one of you my wife.”
Every person in this ballroom is staring at us, some with pity, some with jealousy, some with judgment, like there’s already a betting pool for which of us will take the prize. At one of the seedier gentleman’s clubs, there probably is. I wonder what my odds are. Yesterday’s competition took so much out of me, I didn’t have time to consider what this would feel like. But now, dressed up and on display, I feel desperately out of my depth.
The music strikes up again, and Bram extends his hand to Marion for a dance. She’s the closest to him, so it could be nothing but convenience, but it smarts nonetheless. I watch as Olive’s face crumbles into devastation, while Greer looks confused. Only Emmy’s and Faith’s faces remain as unreadable as ever.
A quadrille kicks up, and soon the ballroom is a swirling confection of silks and chiffon.
My mother has disappeared to gossip somewhere with her friends, and my father is off smoking cigars with the men. I feel a swell of pride that I gave them this acceptance. But the room is stifling with so many bodies, and I can hardly stand to watch Greer try to soothe Olive, who is now fully in tears. I don’t miss it when Greer rotates their bodies just slightly so that Olive’s tear-streaked face is in the eyeline of Prince Bram.
I scan the ballroom, looking for the other girls from yesterday, the ones who didn’t make the top six, but they’re nowhere to be found. I wonder if they were uninvited, or if the disappointment was too much to bear publicly.
Fiona Devon and Althea Jones sidle up to me. I would have called us friends once, before they ignored me pointedly for months. Neither presented themselves as Bram’s suitors, so they’ll have a typical season of husband hunting. “Hi, darling,” Althea trills. “What did you bargain for?” She cuts right to the chase, no pretense of politeness or apology.
“You first.” I smile sweetly. That is the point of tonight’s ball, after all, to spread the news of every girl’s new bargain. It always seemed unfair to me that the boys can make their bargains whenever they want, though plenty of them will this season, clever little business bargains that ensure their inheritance, shore up their estates, or expand their already impressive wealth.
Althea, like a lot of girls in this room, clearly bargained to become more beautiful. She blinks her now-thick eyelashes. “Oh, just a little tune-up here.” She gestures at her flawless skin. “My hands and feet will be cold forever, but it’s really not so bad. Thesegrand houses are always so drafty anyway.” She elbows Fiona, the quieter of the two, in the ribs. “Fiona’s is hilarious. Tell her, Fee.”
Fiona laughs shyly. “Her Majesty improved my singing voice, but now I’ll forever vomit at the sight of frogs.”
“After four hundred years, I think she must be running out of ideas,” Fiona adds. “And what about you?”
“I didn’t make one.”
“Didn’t make one?” Fiona repeats in confusion.
“I’m sorry... if you’ll excuse me.” I turn and skirt along the edge of the wall, wondering if I can sneak out to the garden for a moment of silence, to compose myself. My whole life, whenever I felt confused, I’d think to myself,Whatwould Lydia do?Or whenever that failed,Whatwould Greer do?But Lydia would be hiding, and Greer is in the corner with Emmy, laughing over a champagne tower, so I’m completely without a North Star.
I’m walking toward the open doors to the veranda when Viscountess Bolingbroke pops up in front of me like a banshee.
“Just where are you going?” she demands.
“Privy,” I answer, and redirect my steps.
It’ll be less welcome than the fresh air of the garden, but as a moment alone goes, it’s better than nothing.
She nods and looks down at the watch pinned to her waistband. “You have five minutes. His Majesty will expect to dance with all his girls tonight.”
The sounds of the ballroom are muffled in the carpeted hallway. I’m grateful for the silence, a moment to breathe.
