“Strength and power.”
I suffer through the feast, watching but not seeing, hearing but not listening. Even the food, more food than I’ve ever seen, tastes plain in my mouth. I should be stuffing my face, enjoying what’s probably the best meal of my life, but I can’t. I can’t even speak when Maven murmurs to me, his voice calm and level in assurance.
“You’re doing fine,” he says, but I try to ignore him. Like his brother, he wears the same metal bracelet, the flame maker. It’s a firm reminder of exactly who and what Maven is—powerful, dangerous, a burner, a Silver.
Sitting at a table made of crystal, drinking bubbly gold liquid until my head spins, I feel like a traitor. What are my parents eating for dinner tonight? Do they even know where I am? Or is Mom sitting on the porch, waiting for me to come home?
Instead, I’m stuck in a room full of people who would kill me if they knew the truth. And the royals of course, who would kill me if they could, who probably will kill me one day. They’ve pulled me inside out, swapping Mare for Mareena, a thief for a crown, cotton for silk, Red for Silver. This morning I was a servant, tonight I’m a princess. How much more will change? What else will I lose?
“That’s enough of that,” Maven says, his voice swimming through the din of the feast. He pulls away my fancy goblet, replacing it with a glass of water.
“I liked that drink.” But I gulp down the water greedily, feeling my head clear.
Maven just shrugs. “You’ll thank me later.”
“Thank you,” I snap as snidely as possible. I haven’t forgotten the way he looked at me this morning, like I was something on the bottom of his shoe to be scraped off and tossed away. But now his gaze is softer, calmer, more like Cal’s.
“I’m sorry about earlier today, Mareena.”
My name is Mare. “I’m sure you are,” comes out instead.
“Really,” he says, leaning toward me. We’re seated side by side, with the rest of the royals, at the high table. “It’s just—usually younger princes get to choose. One of the few perks of not being the heir,” he adds with a terribly forced smile.
Oh. “I didn’t know that,” I reply, not really knowing what to say. I should feel sorry for him, but I can’t bring myself to feel any kind of pity for a prince.
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t. It’s not your fault.”
He looks back to the feasting hall, casting his gaze out like a fishing line. I wonder what face he’s looking for. “Is she here?” I murmur, trying to sound apologetic. “The girl you would have chosen?”
He hesitates, then shakes his head. “No, I didn’t have anyone in mind. But it was nice to have the option of a choice, you know?”
No, I don’t know. I don’t have the luxury of choice. Not now, not ever.
“Not like my brother. He grew up knowing he’d never have a say in his future. I guess now I’m getting a taste of what he feels.”
“You and your brother have everything, Prince Maven,” I whisper in a voice so fervent it might be a prayer. “You live in a palace, you have strength, you have power. You wouldn’t know hardship if it kicked you in the teeth, and believe me, it does that a lot. So excuse me if I don’t feel sorry for either of you.”
There I go, letting my mouth run away with my brain. As I recover, drinking down the rest of the water in an attempt to cool my temper, Maven just stares at me, his eyes cold. But the wall of ice recedes, melting as his gaze softens.
“You’re right, Mare. No one should feel sorry for me.” I can hear the bitterness in his voice. With a shiver, I watch him throw a glance at Cal. His older brother beams like the sun, laughing with their father. When Maven turns back around, he forces another smile but there’s a surprising sadness in his eyes.
As much as I try, I can’t ignore the sudden jolt of pity I feel for the forgotten prince. But it passes when I remember who he is, and who I am.
I’m a Red girl in a sea of Silvers and I can’t afford to feel sorry for anyone, least of all the son of a snake.
ELEVEN
The crowd toasts at the end of the feast, their glasses raised to the royal table. On they go, lords and ladies in a rainbow of color trying to wiggle their way into favor. I’ll have to learn them all soon, matching color to house and house to people. Maven whispers their names to me in turn, even though I won’t remember them tomorrow. At first it’s annoying, but soon I find myself leaning in to hear the names.
Lord Samos is the last to stand, and when he does, a hush falls. This man commands respect, even among titans. Though his black robes are plain, trimmed with simple silk, and he has no great jewels or badges to speak of, he has the undeniable air of power. I don’t need Maven to tell me he’s the highest of the High Houses, a person to be feared above all others.
“Volo Samos,” Maven murmurs. “Head of House Samos. He owns and operates the iron mines. Every gun in the war comes from his land.”
So he’s not just a noble. His importance comes from more than just titles.
Volo’s toast is short and to the point. “To my daughter,” he rumbles, his voice low, steady, and strong. “The future queen.”
“To Evangeline!” Ptolemus shouts, jumping to his feet next to his father. His eyes blaze around the room, daring someone to oppose them. A few lords and ladies look annoyed, angry even, but they raise their cups with the rest, saluting the new princess. Their glasses reflect the light, each one a tiny star in the hand of a god.
When he finishes, Queen Elara and King Tiberias rise, both of them smiling at their many guests. Cal gets up as well, then Evangeline, then Maven, and after one dumb moment, I join them. The many houses do the same at their tables and the scraping of chairs on marble sounds like nails on a stone. Thankfully, the king and queen simply bow and walk down the short set of steps leading away from our high table. It’s over. I’ve made it through my first night.
Cal takes Evangeline’s hand and leads her after them, with Maven and me bringing up the rear. When he takes my hand, his skin is shockingly cold.
The Silvers press in on both sides, watching us pass in heavy silence. Their faces are curious, cunning, cruel—and behind every false smile is a reminder; they are watching. Every eye scraping over me, looking for cracks and imperfections, makes me squirm, but I cannot break.
I cannot slip. Not now, not ever. I’m one of them. I’m special. I’m an accident. I’m a lie. And my life depends on maintaining the illusion.