The Beautiful Ones Page 11

  A door opens before I can think too deeply on it. I find Ceyonne peeking out of her apartment and offer a forced smile that I hope isn’t seen as such.

  “I thought I heard someone leave,” the girl offers.

  “It was me,” I reply, stepping forward. I take note of the expression upon her face and her attire—which is little more than sleeping shorts and a T-shirt—and frown. “Are you all right?” I ask. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m okay,” she replies, though she doesn’t sound honest at all.

  “You don’t have to lie to me, Ceyonne.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  The girl sinks her teeth into her lower lip—a gesture that might have earned us a slap on the wrist in our previous lives—and then expels a breath out her teeth. She considers herself for only a brief moment before stepping into the hall and saying, “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t reply. Rather, I turn to look back at the city and try and gather my thoughts. Though I understand that I can’t help her if she isn’t willing to help herself, I feel a sense of guilt over not being able to offer her any further words.

  Ceyonne comes to stand beside me in the moments thereafter, her dark eyes scanning the streets below, her lips pursed into a frown. When she does speak, it’s to say, “How have you been doing?”

  “All right,” I reply. “I’ve learned how to use the appliances.”

  “You have?”

  I nod. “Whether or not I can cook on them,” I continue, “is another story entirely.”

  Her laugh is crystalline—perfect in that it cuts through the veil of sorrow and reveals through its gap an echo of happiness.

  “That’s great,” Ceyonne says. “I haven’t even bothered to touch it since we arrived.”

  “What have you been eating?” I frown.

  “Junk, mostly. You know they make food that comes in bags? Dear God.” She presses a hand to her heart. “If only my mother knew how much fruit I was eating.”

  “I can try to cook for us, if you like.”

  “I’d rather do something else today,” she says.

  “Like what?” I ask with a frown.

  “Take a walk outside the Spire.”

  My eyes widen. “No,” I say. “We can’t.”

  “Who says?” the girl replies. “We haven’t been told we can’t leave.”

  “But we don’t know our way around.”

  “We won’t go too far,” the girl says. “Besides—it’s not like they can keep us here forever.”

  “I suppose not,” I say, not in the least bit thrilled over potentially getting in trouble. Still—I’ll do it, if only for Ceyonne. “Should I wait for you to get ready, or—”

  “You can come in,” she says, then turns and leads me toward her apartment door.

  Inside, I seat myself on an exact replica of my bed and watch as she makes her way about the apartment, gathering a few pairs of simple clothes from the dresser before turning to face me. “You’re not wearing makeup,” she says.

  “I didn’t think to,” I reply. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

  “No. This is good. If we don’t wear makeup, we’re less likely to be recognized for who we are. Especially you.”

  I blush. “You don’t think—”

  “That someone will try and take your picture? Oh, I’m sure they will.” The girl reaches up to wrap her intricate braids into a bun atop her head. “We won’t go far,” she then continues. “Maybe we’ll just go and sit by the ponds, bask in the rays, talk. You know, girl stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Girl stuff.”

  She smiles, dresses into fresh clothes, and turns to face me after a moment of considering herself in the mirror above her dresser. “You ready?” she asks.

  I nod, rise, and follow her into the hall.

  Once we are in the elevator, Ceyonne considers its panel for several moments before pushing a button marked with a bold number one.

  “You think that’ll take us to the bottom?” I ask.

  “It has to,” she replies. “The man in the red and black suit pushed the number twelve, so that must be the floor we are on, which means that the one should take us to the bottom.”

  “And once we get there? How do we not get caught?”

  “By who?”

  “Whomever is sitting at the desk.”

  “Oh. That.” Ceyonne smiles. “We just walk by and don’t look back. I mean, it’s not like we’re dressed up or anything.”

  In simple pants and shirts, we look rather plain—nothing like the Beautiful Ones we are. Perhaps this will allow us a moment of peace in a world that is so consistently focused on us as Beauties and not as actual people.

  As the elevator comes to a halt on the bottom floor, I inhale a quick breath and brace myself for the worst.

  The door opens.

  Light filters in.

  Ceyonne takes my hand without an ounce of hesitation, then begins to lead me across the lobby as if she owns the place.

  The whole while we cross, I’m tempted to look up and around—to see if anyone has taken notice of the two renegade Beauties—but keep from doing so for fear that we will be caught. I doubt our punishment would be severe, given our standing, but I don’t want us to be the ones to serve as examples to the other girls who might try and do the same.

  At the door, Ceyonne pauses, takes a quick breath, then opens it.

  Outside—in the sweltering, humid air—my companion of the last four days laughs before spinning about to face me. “See?” she asks, taking hold of my hands. “I told you everything would be just fine.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “You did.”

  “Come on. Let’s go sit by the fountain.”

  She leads me there as she did across the lobby—fearlessly, and without regret—and gestures me to seat myself along the fountain’s foundation.

  While Ceyonne tilts her head back to bear her neck to the sun, I consider the pristine blue-green waters within the fountain and smile as I take note of the shadows dancing amongst the rocks within it.

  “Look,” I say, pressing a hand against Ceyonne’s arm.

  “What is it?” she asks, opening her eyes.

  “Fish.”

  The inquisitive creatures draw forward as my fingers skim the surface of the water, their extravagant fins flaring in greeting along their sides and atop their backs. Their mouths bob open and closed several times, as if wanting food.

  “I wish I had something to feed them,” I offer to no one in particular.

  “Yeah,” Ceyonne replies. “They look hungry.”

  A figure appears out of my peripheral.

  I look up.

  An older woman with a mop of gray hair atop her head approaches. Under one arm she carries a loaf of bread. “Hello dears,” she says, acknowledging both of us with one nod each. “I couldn’t help but overhearing that you wanted to feed the fish.”

  “Yessum,” I reply.

  “I can offer you some of my bread, if you like.”

  “We couldn’t,” I say.

  “I insist.”

  After stepping forward to bridge the distance between us, she tears off a small, bite-sized morsel not only for me, but Ceyonne.

  “Thank you,” I say as I accept the bread.

  “There’s no need to thank me,” she says. “I can tell that you girls aren’t from around here.”

  “How—” Ceyonne starts.

  The old woman merely smiles before turning and making her way down the road, all without saying goodbye.

  “Do you think she knew?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Ceyonne replies, looking down at her offering of bread. “Either way, there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

  Nodding, I tear a piece of bread off from my chunk, toss it into the pool, and watch as the fish dart toward the surface to reap the gift they’ve been offered, all the while wondering just what someone else would have done had the
y caught wind that Ceyonne and I are Beautiful Ones. Though it is highly likely that we would have been left alone, I speculate on what might have happened had a photojournalist stumbled by and seen us, two girls and an old woman, bonding over fish. A bridge of the classes! the magazine would have said. Beautiful Ones beg for bread from an elderly woman!

  I push these thoughts from my mind as I continue to feed the fish—hoping, praying, that we did not take an old woman’s food simply to give it to the captive wildlife that play among the waters before us. It seems selfish, especially considering that we were told we could ask for almost anything.

  “Ceyonne,” I say, turning my head to regard the girl with cautious eyes. “Can I… ask you something?”

  “What is it?” she replies.

  “What were you thinking after I came out of the First Lady’s office?”

  “That I was right,” she replies. A sigh escapes her lips and causes her to lower her eyes. Her bread, mostly gone, is given her utmost attention, and in the moments that follow, she begins ripping it to pieces and tossing it carelessly into the water. Her frustration is evident, her mood soured by my question, and though I wish nothing more than to comfort her, I know there is little I can do to fix what has already been damaged.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask.

  “That regardless of everything I’m afraid of, I’ll live. I mean, it’s not like getting married is going to kill me or anything. I just… I thought that… maybe… I’d fall in love, you know. On my terms.”

  That is exactly what I have been thinking. Since we were children, we have always been told that the right man will come along to sweep us off our feet. Regaled with tales from the past, we grew up listening to tales of knights in shining armor—who, with their swords held high, would slay any monster to claim the princess as his own. In hindsight, it seems ironic, considering where we have ended up, but at least back then we could hope. Dream.

  Now?

  I shake my head.

  Now, I think, there is nothing we can do. We are bound by the laws of our world, the act of the Process which has come full circle. We will marry, become pregnant, then give birth to the next generation of beauty, all because we were chosen by a Gentlewoman who found us worthy.

  A frown crosses my lips as the last of my bread is deposited into the water—as my sole focus is all but lost to the mouths of animals. Even their beauty, as wild and untamed as it is, does little to comfort me in light of everything I now feel.

  “I guess,” Ceyonne says, drawing my eyes back to her, “there’s not much we can do about it now.”

  “No,” I reply. “There isn’t.”

  We fall into silence for the next several moments, during which time I delve into my thoughts—trying, without success, not to feel burdened by what has been placed upon me. A part of me is guilty for having even brought the meetings up, as Ceyonne had been in a pleasant enough mood up until this point, but another knows that it was necessary to speak on such matters.

  My mother once said that you can never progress unless you meet a challenge head-on.

  With that in mind, I raise my head and am about to speak when I see a shadow cross behind us.

  A throat clears.

  Our heads turn.

  None other than Revered Mother Terra stands before us, looking highly disappointed and very, very cross. “Girls,” she says.

  We both stand and straighten immediately.

  “I never said you could go outside the Spire’s walls,” she continues.

  “We’re sorry,” Ceyonne replies, bowing her head.

  “It was my idea,” I add, suddenly inspired to do what I believe is the right thing.

  Ceyonne looks at me, stunned, as if unable to believe what I have just said. I force a smile for the Revered Mother and lace my hands behind my back while waiting for the untimely punishment that I’m sure will follow.

  While staring at me, and likely contemplating what it is she will do to us, the Revered Mother sighs and says, “I suppose, given that no harm has been done, that this little excursion can be excused. Just promise me that it won’t happen again.”

  “We promise,” Ceyonne says.

  “Now, to the matter at hand.”

  Mother Terra centers her eyes on me.

  I swallow and wait anxiously for whatever it is she has to say.

  “Kelendra Elizabeth Byron,” she says, “it is my honor, and my greatest pleasure, to announce that we have found a suitable suitor for you.”

  My heart drops.

  My ears ring.

  My stomach tightens into a knot.

  I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.

  They’ve found a husband for me in just four short days.

  I struggle to speak. My lips, anticipating words, quiver instead.

  Mother Terra smiles and continues by saying, “You will meet him for dinner tonight at the city’s premiere restaurant for the beautiful, known only as Lips.”

  Ten

  Several tense moments pass by after the Gentlewoman’s declaration. During this time, I struggle to find my voice, and to piece together the emotions assaulting me. Like a wild javelina attacking prey in the desert, they tear into me, ripping at my flesh and bone. Beside me, Ceyonne watches in silence, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. It is as though someone has stolen her voice.

  “Kelendra?” Revered Mother Terra asks. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I—” I start, but soon falter, as I cannot find the words to speak.

  The Revered Mother narrows her eyes at me and says, “Come with me. Both of you.”

  There is little Ceyonne and I can do but follow, and though not far from the Spire, it seems like the walk there takes an eternity. In the shadow of such a powerful woman, I feel like a prisoner, chained and shackled and forced to walk shamefully before the eyes of many. And, unfortunately, this feeling is not without its truths. Those citizens who happen to be milling about stop to watch the spectacle. Much like Ceyonne, they stare, dumb like turkeys whose eyes are set to the sky during a rainstorm. I try to avoid their gazes, but each offers a persecution that I cannot even begin to bear.

  As we enter the Spire, Mother Tera turns to Ceyonne and says, “Return to your room.”

  “But—” the girl begins.

  The Revered Mother silences her with a glare.

  Ceyonne sighs, but complies with the request, though not without exchanging a glance with me that I feel is filled with not only worry, but question.

  The moment she disappears into the elevator, Mother Terra descends upon me, pulling me toward one of the nearby couches and gently pushing me atop it. “You do know,” she says, “how dangerous it was for you to be outside the Spire.”

  “I—”

  “Any number of things could have happened to you. You could have been swarmed by civilians, mobbed by photojournalists, captured by rebels, kidnapped, tortured, raped, killed. Let’s not forget, dear, that you are a woman of renown, one whose face has inspired the hearts of those both cruel and kind.”

  “I didn’t think,” I offer, lowering my eyes in the hopes that she will not see the lies in them. “I’m sorry.”

  “You would have been if something had happened to you or your friend.”

  “I won’t do it again, Revered Mother. I promise.”

  “Good.” Mother Terra seats herself beside me and sets her hands in her lap. “Now, then: to the matter at hand.”

  I slowly turn my head up to look at her.

  With a nod, Mother Tera says, “As I have already stated: you are to meet with your future husband come time the sun falls and the night begins. Roughly two-and-a-half hours before this meeting is to occur, I will pluck you from your quarters and escort you to the Gold Room. There, Martin Stylus and a professional stylist will prepare your wardrobe and makeup.”

  I can’t do my own makeup?” I ask. “Or wear my own clothes?”

  “Silly girl,” Mother Terra replies. “Why would you do yo
ur own makeup when there are gifted artists here to do it for you?”

  “I—”

  She silences me with a look. “Will you continue to question me,” she asks, “or will you simply allow me to speak?”

  I struggle to find a reply. A part of me wants to ask why I can’t simply go as I am, or as I want to be. Would it not be more appealing for this man to see the real me, rather than a caricature of a woman designed by someone else?

  As I think this through, I feel the weight of Mother Terra’s gaze on me, boring into me with the intensity of a thousand drills digging into the earth for unfound treasures, and realize that this interpretation, as correct to me as it may seem to be, might seem condescending to her. For that reason, I simply nod and say, “Yes, Revered Mother. I’m sorry for speaking out of turn.”

  “I expect you to be contrary, Kelendra. You have proven yourself to be highly vocal and, dare I say, stubborn.” The woman lowers her eyes to consider the timepiece at her wrist. “You have exactly three hours to prepare yourself for tonight’s event. Though I will want to speak with you beforehand to brief you on the specifics, I want you to take this time to consider what it is what you might say. Just remember: you are meant to be prim and proper, kind and intelligent, and have the country’s best interests in mind. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  “Now come. Let me return you to your room.”

  I cannot argue, and so rise and follow accordingly, behaving in a matter befitting of any Beautiful One. My back is straight, my eyes set forward, my shoulders squared and my posture proud. My silence, however, cannot be seen as confidence. Rather, it presents me as unsure, which is exactly how I feel in the moments after we enter the elevator.

  As we rise, growing closer and closer to the place that I consider my home, I close my eyes and tilt my head to the side to avoid Mother Terra’s gaze. I don’t want her to see me like this—like this fragile, broken creature who recently scolded is crying inside—but it is not because I am ashamed of myself.

  No.

  What I am most ashamed of, I realize, is not who I currently am, but who I will soon become.

  These thoughts, and more, haunt me as we rise. Trapped in an endless cycle of torment I cannot escape, I struggle to keep my wits about myself and my mind focused on anything but a potential disaster. As such, I think of my mother and her homemade cooking, of Mrs. Garret and her kind words. She’d always believed in me since I was a child, always telling me that I was destined for greatness, for things beyond the Sandstone Hills. Just who could have ever thought that it would be marriage within the Glittering City?