“It’ll have to do. We don’t have time,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. “Get Ivory and meet me at the door. We’ll be the last ones there at this rate.”
At a loss, I followed Mr. Port from the kitchen, and he ducked into the small bathing chamber Eleanor and I used. I continued up the stairs to his private quarters, suspicion settling in my blood. After knocking on her door once, his daughter ripped it open with a huff. Her mousy hair was pulled into a neat chignon, her round face scowling. “What?”
The nineteen-year-old’s attitude always grated on me. She had never worked for anything in her life, and it showed. “Your father needs us downstairs. We’re heading to the square.”
“Why?”
I shrugged and gave her my back to head down the stairs. I didn’t know the answer to her question, and I wasn’t about to share my suspicions. She elicited another small huff and stamped her foot before the door slammed and her angry footsteps followed.
Mr. Port was by the door, tapping his foot on the grimy stone, and upon our entrance, he opened the door. “Quick, let’s go.”
“Where, Daddy?” Ivory whined beside me, but Mr. Port didn’t answer. He always gave his daughter what she wanted; something had the man frazzled. My stomach settled with iron.
He set off at a brisk pace; one we struggled to keep up with. Leading us toward the village center, he darted through the growing crowd. I caught bits of excited conversation as we passed several villagers. Their words weakened my legs and sent my heart racing. They were talking about the king and amaiden.
Too late. I was much too late. He was here. And we shouldn’t be.
Eleanor.
I increased my pace until I pushed past Mr. Port, then he was hurrying to keep up. When I burst through the edge of the crowd and into the village square, my heart sank. A line of young women stood before the wishing fountain. All the unmarried maidens of Toreshire, including Eleanor.
Shit.
We shouldn’t be here.Sheshouldn’t be here.
I made to go to her side, but a strong hand gripped my arm. Mr. Port pulled me to the end of the line, placing Ivory and me side by side before darting back to the onlookers. I peered down the line of women, some as young as sixteen. At twenty-five, I was easily the oldest—it was unusual for a woman to remain unmarried so long, another reason for the gossipmongers to talk. Eleanor’s beaming gaze met mine, and she offered me a small wave, but my returning smile was brittle.
I knew where she was. Now I needed to get us out of this somehow.
Many of the girls shuffled in place—all just as excited as Eleanor to be part of this ridiculous spectacle. The midday sun shone down on us, reflecting against the bronze coins in the fountain beside me. I really wish I’d tossed a coin in; the Gods might have saved us from this.
I scanned the square and knew I wouldn’t be able to grab Eleanor and sneak away. We had the attention of every villager who’d come to watch, which seemed to be most of them. The square was abuzz with chatter, everyone excited at the prospect of one ofourwomen being chosen.
The sun burned and sweat dripped down my back as my breaths shortened.
What do I do?
I dug my fingernails into my palms, willing the small spark of pain to ground me. We couldn’t run, but she couldn’t be chosen.
What do. I. Do?
The entire square fell silent as Mr. Lyle, Toreshire’s leader, entered to the right, shooting repeated glances to the man beside him. How he’d been selected as village leader was beyond me—as anxious as they came, that one.
The short man who had him so on edge strutted toward our line, dressed far too lavishly for Toreshire. His fine black tunic, complete with silver embroidery sparkling in the sun, strained against a rounded stomach that spoke to a life of luxury. Despite being slicked back, it was clear his gray hair was thinning. Shiny black boots clicked against the cobblestone with each step toward us.
Was this the king?
Every eye in the square followed the finely dressed man until he reached the other end of the line. He surveyed us all withshrewd eyes. I stared him down, praying to all the Gods Eleanor wouldn’t stand out among the girls.
“Is this all of them?” he asked Mr. Lyle, his nasally voice full of condescension.
“Y-yes, my lord.” Mr. Lyle wrung his hands and sweat dripped from his brow.
Not the king, a lord—perhaps Lord Zyome, the leader of the Northern Territory. I’d not seen him before. He never left his home, let alone traveled to one of the smaller villages under his charge, but this man wasn’t wearing his signature yellow.
The lord’s tsk echoed around the silent square, then he boomed, “All girls born on Summer Solstice step forward.”
No. No. No.
