Happily Ever After (12 page)

“A
RE YOU SURE
?” I
ASKED.

“Absolutely,” the courier said.

“Not a single tear?”

He grinned. “Not a one.”

I paused outside America’s door, unsure why my heart was beating so fast. She had no feelings for me; she’d made that quite clear. And that was my primary reason for choosing her first. This was going to be an easy date.

I expected a maid to answer the door, but when it rushed back, America was standing there, fighting a sarcastic smile.

“For the sake of appearances, would you please take my arm?” I asked, offering it to her. She sighed and took it, following me down the hall.

I’d expected her to start complaining, to say she really
should have won, but she was silent. Was she upset? Did she really not want to go with me?

“I’m sorry she didn’t cry,” I offered.

“No, you’re not,” she teased. With that, I knew she was fine. Maybe she was distracted somehow, but joking seemed to be our language. If we could find our way there, we’d be okay.

“I’ve never gambled before. It was nice to win.”

“Beginner’s luck,” she shot back.

“Perhaps,” I agreed. “Next time we’ll try to make her laugh.”

Her eyes went to the ceiling in thought, and I could guess where her mind was. “What’s your family like?”

She made a face. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. Your family must be very different from mine.” She had siblings, her house was small . . . people cried over pastries. I couldn’t begin to imagine life in her family.

“I’d say so. For one, no one wears their tiaras to breakfast.” She laughed, a musical sound, so fitting for a Five.

“More of a dinner thing at the Singer house?”

“Of course.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. I liked her wit. It felt a bit similar to mine when she let it show. And it made me curious if two people from two different worlds could grow up and be surprisingly the same.

“Well, I’m the middle child of five.”

“Five!” Goodness, that must be loud.

“Yeah, five,” she said, incredulous at my surprise. “Most
families out there have lots of kids. I’d have lots if I could.”

“Oh, really?” Another similarity, and a very personal one.

Her bashful
yes
let me know it was an intimate detail for her as well. Maybe it shouldn’t have felt awkward, but it did, discussing a future family with someone I was meant to have a chance with while knowing that I didn’t.

“Anyway,” she continued, “my oldest sister, Kenna, is married to a Four. She works in a factory now. My mom wants me to marry at least a Four.”
What’s wrong with a One?
“But I don’t want to have to stop singing. I love it too much.”
Oh, that makes sense. The guy at home must be a spectacular Five.

“But I guess I’m a Three now,” she continued, sounding sad. “That’s really weird. I think I’m going to try to stay in music if I can. Kota is next. He’s an artist. We don’t see much of him these days. He did come to see me off, but that’s about it.”

There was something in her tone that hinted at pain or regret, but she moved on too quickly for me to ask about it.

“Then there’s me,” she said as we drew near to the stairs.

I beamed. “America Singer, my closest friend.”

She playfully rolled her eyes, the blue in them catching the light. “That’s right.”

There was a strange comfort in those words.

“After me there’s May. She’s the one who sold me out and didn’t cry. Honestly, I was robbed; I can’t believe she didn’t cry! But yeah, she’s an artist. I . . . I adore her.

“And then Gerad. He’s the baby; he’s seven. He hasn’t quite figured out if he’s into music or art yet. Mostly he likes
to play ball and study bugs, which is fine except that he can’t make a living that way. We’re trying to get him to experiment more. Anyway, that’s everyone.”

“What about your parents?” I asked, still trying to paint a full picture of her.

“What about your parents?” she countered.

“You know my parents.”

“No, I don’t. I know the public image of them. What are they really like?” she pleaded, pulling on my arm. Childish as it was, it made me smile.

But I was distracted. What could I possibly tell her about my parents?

I’m afraid my mother is sick. She has headaches a lot and seems tired. I can’t tell if it’s because of the way she grew up or if something happened later. I’m sure I’m supposed to have at least one sibling, and I can’t tell if it’s tied to that or not. My dad . . . Sometimes my dad . . .

We stepped into the garden and the cameras waited. Instantly, I felt on guard. I didn’t want them here for this. I didn’t know how far into the truth about myself or herself we might go, but I knew it wouldn’t happen with an audience. After waving the crew away, I looked at America and realized she was distant again.

“Are you all right? You seem tense.”

She shrugged. “You get confused by crying women, I get confused by walks with princes.”

I smirked. “What about me is so confusing?”

“Your character. Your intentions. I’m not sure what to
expect out of this little stroll.”

Was I so mysterious? Perhaps I was. I’d mastered smiles and half truths. But I certainly didn’t want to appear that way.

I paused and turned to her. “Ah. I think you can tell by now that I’m not the type of man to beat around the bush. I’ll tell you exactly what I want from you.”
I want to know someone. Really know someone. And I think I want that person to be you, even if you leave.

I stepped toward her and was suddenly stopped by a crippling pain. Yelling, I bent over and backed away. Those few steps were practically unbearable, but there was no way I was going to lie curled up on the ground, even though that was my instinct. I felt like I might vomit, and I fought that as well. Princes did not vomit and roll in the grass.

“What was that for?” Was that my voice? Really? I sounded like a five-year-old girl with a smoking problem.

“If you lay a single finger on me, I’ll do worse!”

“What?”

“I said, if you—”

“No, no, you crazy girl. I heard you the first time. But just what in the world do you mean by it?”

She stood there wide-eyed again, covering her mouth as if she’d made a horrible mistake. I turned at the sound of the guard’s footsteps and raised one arm while desperately holding myself with the other, dismissing them.

What had I done? What did she think I was . . . ?

I pulled myself together if only because I needed to know.

“What did you think I wanted?” I asked.

She lowered her eyes.

“America, what did you think I wanted?” I demanded.

Everything about her demeanor gave her away. I’d never been so insulted. “In public? You thought . . . for heaven’s sake. I’m a gentleman!”

Though it was blindingly painful to do so, I stood a bit taller and walked away. Then something struck me.

“Why did you even offer to help if you think so little of me?”

She said nothing.

“You’ll be taking dinner in your room tonight. I’ll deal with this in the morning.”

I moved as quickly as I could, eager to be away from her, hoping I might outrun the anger and humiliation. I slammed the door to my room, furious.

A second later, my butler knocked. “I heard you come in, Your Majesty. Can I get you anything before bed?”

“Ice,” I whimpered.

He scurried away, and I fell into bed, consumed with rage. I covered my eyes, trying to process it all. I couldn’t believe only minutes ago, I was about to open up to her, really share.

This was supposed to be my easy first date!

I huffed and heard my butler leave a tray on my bedside table and quickly exit.

Who did she think she was, a Five assaulting her future king? If I had the inclination, she could be seriously punished.

She was definitely going home. There was no way I would keep her here after that.

I stewed over the situation for hours, thinking of what I should have said or done in the moment. Every time I relived it, I was irate. What kind of girl did that? What made her think she could attack her prince?

I went over it a hundred times, but by the last time I thought it through, the irritation turned to some sort of awe.

Did America fear nothing?

Not that it was a theory I would test, but I wondered how many of the others, if placed in a situation where they thought I might take advantage of them, would allow it? For bragging rights, or maybe just because they worried what I would do if they didn’t.

But she stopped it before it could even happen, not worried at all about what I might say. Even though she missed the mark completely, she stood up for herself. I genuinely admired that. It was a trait I wished I had myself. Maybe if I was around her enough, some of that would rub off on me.

Damn it. I had to let her stay.

On the opposite side of Maxon’s pursuit of America there was the boy who held her heart first. It never stopped surprising me how quick people were to judge Aspen for his mistakes but forgive Maxon, though I thought his motivations for things were sometimes a bit more selfish.

People have asked if I preferred one of the lead boys over the other, but that’s never been possible for me. Maxon and Aspen both have pieces of my husband in them, so it’s two different people embodying things I find attractive. For Maxon it is his playfulness, but for Aspen it is passion.

I always hoped that through Aspen’s novella others would be able to see what I knew all along: Aspen never stopped loving America, was kicking himself for being so stupid, and was ready to give anything to get back to her. Aspen is selfless in so many ways, and for goodness’ sake, the boy is hot. My worry was always that he would be one of the few who didn’t make it to a happily ever after. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that he did! Even if it wasn’t how he’d expected.

—Kiera

“W
AKE UP
, L
EGER
.”

“Day off,” I mumbled, pulling the blanket over my head.

“No one’s off today. Get up, and I’ll explain.”

I sighed. I was normally excited to get to work. The routine, the discipline, the sense of accomplishment at the end of the day: I loved it all. Today was a different story.

Last night’s Halloween party had been my last chance. When America and I had our one dance, and she explained Maxon’s distance, I got a minute to remind her of who we were . . . and I felt it. Those threads that bound us together were still there. Perhaps they had frayed from the strain of the Selection, but they were holding.

“Tell me you’ll wait for me,” I’d pleaded.

She said nothing, but I didn’t lose hope.

Not until he was there, marching up to her, dripping
charm and wealth and power. That was it. I’d lost.

Whatever Maxon had whispered to her out on the dance floor seemed to sweep every worry from her head. She clung to him, song after song, staring into his eyes the way she used to stare into mine.

So maybe I’d downed a little too much alcohol while I watched it happen. And maybe that vase in the foyer was broken because I threw it. And maybe I’d stifled my cries by biting my pillow so Avery wouldn’t hear me.

If Avery’s words this morning were any indication, chances were Maxon proposed late last night, and we would all be on call for the official announcement.

How was I supposed to face that moment? How was I supposed to stand there and
protect
it? He was going to give her a ring I could never afford, a life I could never provide . . . and I would hate him to my very last breath for it.

I sat up, keeping my eyes down. “What’s happening?” I asked, my head throbbing with every syllable.

“It’s bad. Really bad.”

I scrunched my forehead and looked up. Avery was sitting on his bed, buttoning his shirt. Our eyes met, and I could see the worry in his.

“What do you mean? What’s bad?” If this was some stupid drama over not finding the right colored tablecloths or something, I was going back to bed.

Avery exhaled. “You know Woodwork? Friendly guy, smiles a lot?”

“Yeah. We do rounds together sometimes. He’s nice.”
Woodwork had been a Seven, and we’d bonded almost instantly over our large families and deceased fathers. He was a hard worker, and it was clear that he was someone who truly deserved his new caste. “Why? What’s going on?”

Avery seemed stunned. “He got caught last night with one of the Elite girls.”

I froze. “What? How?”

“The cameras. Reporters were getting candid shots of people wandering around the palace and one of them heard something in a closet. Opened it up and found Woodwork with Lady Marlee.”

“But that’s”—I almost said
America’s closest friend
, but caught myself just in time—“crazy,” I finished.

“You’re telling me.” Avery picked up his socks and continued to dress. “He seemed so smart. Must have just had too much to drink.”

He probably had, but I doubted that was why this had happened. Woodwork was smart. He wanted to take care of his family as much as I did mine. The only explanation for why he would have risked getting caught would be the same reason I had risked it: he must love Marlee desperately.

I massaged my temples, willing the headache to clear. I couldn’t feel like this right now, not with something so big happening. My eyes popped open as I understood what this might mean.

“Are they . . . are they going to kill them?” I asked quietly, like maybe if I said it too loud everyone would remember that was what the palace did to traitors.

Avery shook his head, and I felt my heart start beating again. “They’re going to cane them. And the other Elite and their families are going to be front and center for it. The blocks are already set up outside the palace walls, so we’re all on standby. Get your uniform on.”

He stood and walked to the door. “And get some coffee before you report in,” he said over his shoulder. “You look like you’re the one getting caned.”

The third and fourth floors were high enough to see over the thick walls that protected the palace from the rest of the world, and I quickly made my way to a broad window on the fourth floor. I looked down at the seats for the royal family and the Elite, as well as the stage for Marlee and Woodwork. It seemed most of the guards and staff had the same idea I did, and I nodded at the two other guards who were standing at the window, and the one butler, his uniform looking freshly pressed but his face wrinkled with worry. Just as the palace doors opened, and the girls and their families went marching out to the thunderous cheering of the crowd, two maids came rushing up behind us. Recognizing Lucy and Mary, I made a space for them beside me.

“Is Anne coming?” I asked.

“No,” Mary said. “She didn’t think it was right when there was so much work to do.”

I nodded. That sounded like her.

I ran into America’s maids all the time since I guarded her door at night, and while I always tried to be professional
in the palace, I tended to let some of the formality slip with them. I wanted to know the people who took care of my girl; in my eyes, I would forever be beholden to them for all the things they did for her.

I looked down at Lucy and could see she was wringing her hands. Even in my short time at the palace, I had noticed that when she got stressed, her anxieties manifested themselves in a dozen physical tics. Training camp taught me to look for nervous behavior when people entered the palace, to watch those people in particular. I knew Lucy was no threat, and when I saw her in distress, I felt a need to protect her.

“Are you sure you want to watch this?” I whispered to her. “It won’t be pretty.”

“I know. But I really liked Lady Marlee,” she replied, just as quietly. “I feel like I should be here.”

“She’s not a lady anymore,” I commented, sure that she would be torn down to the lowest rank possible.

Lucy thought for a moment. “Any girl who would risk her life for someone she loves certainly deserves to be called a lady.”

I grinned. “Excellent point.” I watched as her hands stilled and a tiny smile came to her face for a flicker of a second.

The crowd’s cheers turned to cries of disdain as Marlee and Woodwork hobbled across the gravel and into the space cleared in front of the palace gates. The guards pulled them rather harshly, and based on his gait, I guessed Woodwork had already taken a beating.

We couldn’t make out the words, but we watched as their crimes were announced to the world. I focused on America and her family. May looked like she was trying to hold herself in one piece, arms wrapped around her stomach protectively. Mr. Singer’s expression was uneasy, but calm. Mer just seemed confused. I wished there was a way to hold her and tell her it was going to be all right without ending up bound to a block myself.

I remembered watching Jemmy being whipped for stealing. If I could have taken his place, I would have done it without question. At the same time, I remembered the overwhelming sense of relief that I had never been caught the few times I had stolen. I imagined America must be feeling that way right now, wishing Marlee didn’t have to go through this, but so thankful it wasn’t us.

When the canes came down, Mary and Lucy both jumped even though we couldn’t hear anything but the crowd. There was just enough space between each lashing to allow Woodwork and Marlee to feel the pain, but not adjust to it before a new strike drove the burn in deeper. There’s an art to making people suffer. The palace seemed to have it mastered.

Lucy covered her face with her hands and wept quietly while Mary put an arm around her for comfort.

I was about to do the same when a flash of red hair caught my eye.

What was she doing? Was she fighting that guard?

Everything in my body was at war. I wanted to run down there and shove her in her seat while at the same time, I was
desperate to grab her hand and take her away. I wanted to cheer her on and simultaneously beg her to stop. This wasn’t the time or place to draw attention to herself.

I watched as America hopped the rail, the hem of her dress flying in the fall. It was then, when she slammed into the ground and regrouped, that I saw she wasn’t trying to take refuge from the nightmare in front of her but instead was focused on the steps it would take to get to Marlee.

Pride and fear swelled in my chest.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mary gasped.

“Sit down, my lady!” Lucy pleaded, pressing her hands against the window.

She was running, missing one shoe, but still refusing to give up.

“Sit down, Lady America!” one of the guards standing by me yelled.

She hit the bottom stair to the platform, and my brain was on fire from the pounding blood.

“There are cameras!” I shouted at her through the glass.

A guard finally caught her, knocking her to the ground. She thrashed, still putting up a fight. My gaze flickered to the royals; all their eyes were on the red-haired girl writhing on the ground.

“You should get back to her room,” I told Mary and Lucy. “She’s going to need you.”

They turned and ran. “You two,” I said to the guards. “Go downstairs and make sure extra protection isn’t needed. No telling who caught that or might be upset by it.”

They sprinted away, heading for the first floor. I wanted to be with America, to go to her room this very second. But under the circumstances, I knew patience would be the best. It was better for her to be alone with her maids.

Last night, I had asked America to wait for me, thinking she might be going home before me. Again, that idea came to the forefront of my mind. Would the king tolerate this?

I was aching all over, trying to breathe and think and process.

“Magnificent,” the butler breathed. “Such bravery.”

He backed away from the window and went back to his duties, and I was left wondering if he meant the couple on the platform or the girl in the dirty dress. As I stood there, still taking in all that had just happened, the caning came to an end. The royals exited, the crowd dispersed, and a handful of guards were left to carry away the two limp bodies that seemed to lean toward each other, even in unconsciousness.