The Beautiful Ones Read online

  Despite my nerves, I have to keep reminding myself that these people love me. They are here, first and foremost, for girls like me, like Ceyonne, and like the others who were either picked from or journeyed to Gladberry or Thomasburg. They’re not here to harm me, or to make me feel less than. I am the apple of their eye, the diamond in their rough, the shining star that they look upon to hope for the future.

  A smile crosses my face as I realize this.

  Naturally, my demeanor shifts entirely.

  I place both hands on my hips and grin ecstatically for this chance I have been given; and though I am still mourning the loss of my family in light of everything that has happened, I can’t help but feel blessed to actually be standing here, on the red carpet, within the Glittering City.

  I am just about to turn and begin to make my way further up the line when I see movement from my side.

  I turn.

  I startle.

  I gasp.

  Several photojournalists have climbed over the golden railing separating them from us and are making their way toward me. One has his camera braced forward, the single lens dark and utterly foreboding, while two others carry lights mounted on large rods to better illuminate me against the darkness of the night.

  “Hello Beautiful,” the cameraman says, adjusting a nodule along the side of his device to extend the large, bulging lens toward me. “How are you doing tonight?”

  I’m not supposed to speak. I know I’m not. But I find my lips parting, the word forming, then flowing from my lips in a simple. “I,” I say. “I can’t—”

  “Come on,” the man encourages, in a voice so soft and gentle it doesn’t even sound real. “You can tell me. We’re all friends here, right?”

  “What happened on the train?” one of the two men carrying the lighting rods asks. “We heard there was an attack, and that someone may have gone to medical.”

  “How do you,” I manage to start, unable to believe my ears.

  The cameraman smirks. “Ah,” he says. “So it is true.”

  “Leave her alone!” Ceyonne cries.

  The photojournalist swivels his camera around to face the young black woman as she runs forward.

  “Kel,” Ceyonne breathes as she finally reaches me. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I reply. “I—”

  A flash of light goes off.

  I am momentarily blinded.

  Ceyonne turns toward the photojournalist and yells, “Go away!”

  “Come on,” the man replies. “We just wanted a picture.”

  The sound of a shouting Dame causes me to turn my head.

  It is in that moment that the photojournalist and his entourage scramble, darting over the railing and disappearing into the crowd.

  I stand, stunned, trying to shake free the flashing nodules of shadow crossing my eyes.

  “Move!” the Dame cries as she runs forward, her shock baton extended, her free hand urging both me and Ceyonne along.

  I am instantly propelled forward by Ceyonne’s quick footsteps toward the capitol building, which lies just beyond the edge of the red carpet and behind the impressive wrought-iron gate, before which stand multiple SADs.

  Mother Terra appears at my side moments before we begin to approach the gate. “Are you girls all right?” she asks.

  “I’m fine,” I reply, taking hold of her hands as she offers them. Ceyonne nods in confirmation. “Just a little scared is all.”

  “They aren’t supposed to jump the rails,” the Gentlewoman says, glancing back toward the edge of the carpet, near where multiple SADs attempt to comb through the crowd in an effort to find the men who took my picture. She shakes her head after a moment, then turns to look at the wrought-iron gate as the SADs begin to open it. “Oh well. It doesn’t matter. All I care is about is your safety, and so long as he didn’t touch you—”

  “Which he didn’t,” I say.

  “—then everything should be just fine.” Mother Terra bristles, smooths the hem of her skirt, then looks to Ceyonne and myself before saying, “It’s time for you to meet the Countess and the Commandant. Remember what I told you about your manners, both of you.”

  “Yes, Revered Mother,” Ceyonne and I both say.

  “Now, go. Enjoy your evening. Just remember: do not speak unless you are spoken to.”

  With a nod, I reach down, take Ceyonne’s hand, and begin to make my way toward the edge of the red carpet.

  In the shadow of the capitol building, I begin to feel truly elated.

  I’m to dine with royalty.

  What more could I possibly ask for?

  Seven

  We are seated at a long table that is wide enough to fit three people on each side—perfect for the nine of us girls who were selected by the Process and for the Countess and Commandant, whom we are told will be joining us within minutes. Nervous as ever, and wondering just how the dinner will go, I fidget in my seat and try my hardest not to allow my nerves to get the best of me, to no avail.

  “Hey,” Ceyonne says, leaning over to whisper in my ear. “Don’t be nervous.”

  “I’m trying not to be,” I reply.

  “I know,” she says. “It’s hard, but if there was anything to be nervous about, Mother Terra would have said something. Right?”

  “Right.”

  And it’s true, too. If we were supposed to be nervous about something, or to act in a specific manner, Mother Terra would have specifically instructed us on it. Besides—despite all my nerves, and my every insecurity, I should be reveling in this moment, not panicking.

  I’d never dreamed of meeting with the Countess and her husband the Commandant—not once. In the past, I’d always fantasized about the Glittering City, the gowns, the glamour, the splendor, but never meeting with the leader of our country and the head of our military. Perhaps it was because I never thought about it, or maybe because I felt, deep down, a resentment toward both of them for taking my father away from me. The thought toils in my mind, bubbling to a fever pitch, and causes me to grit my teeth for a moment before I regain my composure.

  I realize, soon after the spell fades and my mood returns to an even tone, that I can’t allow my resentment for what has occurred in my past to effect my present. If I do, I’m apt to get myself into trouble, which is exactly what I don’t want to happen.

  As I wait for the Countess and her husband to arrive, I watch the other Beautiful Ones as they whisper amongst themselves—as they speak of the food we will eat, of the drinks we will drink. Already the butler is beginning to ferry food in on large silver platters. The thick aroma of foods I’ve never smelled before waft into my nose and cause my mouth to water.

  What is taking them so long?

  I’m just about to speak up and ask the butler my question when a pair of double doors at the end of the room open and a maid steps out. “Ladies,” she says, bowing her head. “I present to you, Countess Aa’eesha Dane, and her husband, the Commandant Logan.”

  From the depths of a darkened room appears a woman of magnificent beauty, and the utmost power. Tall, dark, with autumn skin and eyes black as night, she enters in a dress resembling molten gold and turns her head to cast the ringlets of her dark hair about her shoulders. She eyes us briefly with her cat-like gaze, then turns and ushers in her husband—who, like her, is tall, but with fair skin and blue eyes and blonde hair. He is undoubtedly handsome, and causes many of the girls to whisper as he enters.

  “Girls,” Countess Aa’eesha says, her voice like rich velvet pulled from the finest shelves in the south. “Welcome to our home.”

  We murmur thanks and greetings to the Countess and her husband as they approach. Gentlemanly as he is, the Commandant pulls one of the two gold-lined chairs out from beneath the table so the Countess can seat herself before settling down in his own chair.

  Within moments the butler descends upon the table and begins lifting lids from atop their platters.

  Almost all of us gasp.

 
As commoners who’ve grown up in the midst of poverty, watching our parents slave away on farms or in fields or in sweatshops only to bring home the most meager of morsels, the sight before us is almost impossible to comprehend. From side-to-side and front-to-back there is food, stacked high and mighty like towers meant only for the most fortunate of fools. On one platter there are vegetables, green and purple and white and gold, as well as fruit the likes of which we have never seen. There are mashed potatoes, breads of all shapes and sizes. There are even deserts, which the girls stare at in awe and wonder. But it is not the things that we have come to know and associate with casual dinners that cause us to balk. No. It is the meats—some glazed, many bronzed, others shining in sauce or cut expertly from the bone—that causes us to gasp.

  This food, this meal for champions, certainly can’t be for us.

  But, I realize, it is.

  We’d come all this way, watching everything we’d eaten, just to gorge ourselves on foods we could only begin to dream of.

  “Enjoy yourselves, girls,” the Countess says, offering a smile to reveal teeth as white as untarnished bone. “Eat your fill.”

  The butler comes forward and assists us in serving ourselves on massive dinner plates that are twice as large as our heads, spooling food from spoons and tongs and forks and knives. As he comes around to my side, watching me with expectant eyes, I point at the chicken, at the flavored ribs and at the vegetables, then wait to be served before picking up my fork and knife and delicately cutting into the tender meats before me.

  When the tastes hit my mouth, I can’t help but smile.

  Regardless of how good of a cook my mother was with such a limited arsenal at her disposal, nothing she’d ever made could compare to this—this grand, festive feast.

  At my side, Ceyonne has a similar reaction, and is careful to dab her lips with the kerchief provided before digging into the fruits that the butler has arranged around the edge of her plate.

  The Countess clears her throat and rings a small golden bell to draw our attention.

  We all look up.

  “I am happy to see that you are enjoying yourselves,” she says. “But before we continue, I’d like to make a toast.” She raises her glass—filled with a dark liquid that is obviously not the fizzing water we are drinking—and waits for us to lift our glasses as well. “To beauty,” she says, “the future, and the girls who will help propagate it.”

  “To beauty,” we say.

  The Countess smiles.

  The girls smile.

  I smile.

  As we sip our sparkling waters, and the Countess what I imagine to be her wine, I watch her dine with manners so exquisite that they seem inhuman and try to emulate them for my own. I lift the glass steadily when I drink, cut carefully as I eat, pluck only small portions at a time and eat slowly and deliberately. Given that we have not eaten since early afternoon, I am ravenous, but am careful not to let that show. I want to appear prim and proper for the woman who is being so gracious a host, and for that reason eat as quietly and delicately as possible.

  Though some girls sample the cakes after they are done with the main portions of their meals, I am loathe to touch them for fear I will develop spots on my face.

  I lift my eyes and catch the Countess staring at me.

  She nods.

  I swallow.

  The Commandant clears his throat to draw our attention and says, “Though I hate to sour the mood of this joyous feast, I do feel there is a matter that needs to be addressed.”

  All eyes turn to stare at him instantly.

  Nodding, the man centers his gaze upon me and says, “I was just made aware that there was an attack on the train coming out of the Sandstone Hills. Is this true?”

  I wonder at first if he is talking to me. It seems unlikely, given that I am as insignificant to him as a bug would be to me. But as he continues to stare at me, I realize that this is exactly the case—that his words, so grand and pointed, are centered directly at me. I swallow as I realize this and lower my utensils to the tray, trying my hardest to gather up my courage, before finally saying, “Yes. It’s true.”

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Kelendra.”

  “Kelendra what?”

  “Kelendra Elizabeth Byron.”

  “Ah. I see.” The Commandant dabs his bearded chin with a handkerchief and nods as his eyes continue to bore into me. “You and… another girl… were injured. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Who was the other girl?”

  Ceyonne clears her throat and says, “Me, sir. I was the one injured.”

  “I am sorry to hear this,” the man replies, his gaze hovering over Ceyonne almost eerily, as if she has caught his attention. “I take it the two of you are all right now?”

  “Kelendra was hurt worse than I was, sir.”

  “No I wasn’t,” I reply. “Just… more visibly.”

  The Commandant nods. “I apologize for the lack of security that was present on board the train. Though our SADs do their best to accommodate the needs of our Beauties, there is always the possibility of one of you being targeted by unscrupulous individuals. This is why you must always remain vigilant. There are people who would see fit to do you harm based solely on your status.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I reply. “I—”

  “A man should teach his daughter to defend herself in a world like this,” the Commandant interjects. “It’s only right.”

  “My father is fighting in your war.”

  The words are out of my mouth before I can even comprehend what I have just said.

  Immediately, I panic.

  The Commandant watches, the Countess stares.

  All eyes turn on me.

  I see Ceyonne mouth the word don’t, but find myself staring at the Commandant anyway—feeling, in the pit of my gut, a burning sensation that upsets my stomach and causes me to shift my feet beneath the table. Gone is the feeling of inadequacy I have felt beneath this stranger’s stare. Replaced is a feeling of contempt that, though present my whole life, has only just decided to flare to the surface.

  The general of the Great South’s army waits for me to continue—eyes narrowed, mouth pursed. “Your father is… a soldier,” the man says, stating this more than questioning me.

  “Yes sir,” I reply. “He is.”

  “How long has he served in the army?”

  “For as long as I can remember.”

  “I thank him, and you, for his service. I can’t imagine that would be easy on you or your family.”

  “He hasn’t been there for most of my life,” I reply, emboldened by the nerve growing in my heart. “So… no. He wasn’t able to teach me to defend myself. If I’d gone off what is expected of young women like me, me and Ceyonne would’ve likely been killed. But we weren’t, because I fought, something you probably don’t even have any concept of.”

  I can’t believe it.

  I’ve just disrespected the Commandant of the entire South’s army—in front of not only his wife, but every single Beautiful One in attendance.

  The Commandant says nothing. Instead, he finishes his meal by dabbing his face with his kerchief, and saying, “Well, that was a fine meal. Thank you all for attending.”

  “Thank you,” most of the Beautiful Ones reply. I’m the only one who doesn’t speak.

  The Countess rises with her husband, offering me a look that would surely kill had she the power to do so. “Revered Mother Terra will escort you back to the Spire now. There, you will be assigned quarters and await further instruction from capitol officials within the coming days. Again: thank you for attending, girls. Godspeed to you all.”

  With that, the Countess turns and, with her husband on her arm, disappears across the threshold they entered through.

  As we rise, and as we turn to find Mother Terra waiting for us, I inhale a deep breath and reach down to touch my swollen stomach, only realizing as I notice its distention that
I haven’t been this full in years.

  A thought occurs to me as we exit the capitol building and make our way down the deserted red carpet.

  Is this what life will be like within the Glittering City?

  I come to the conclusion in the moments after said thought that only time will tell.

  * * *

  The three Revered Mothers divide us Beautiful Ones into equal groups as we approach and then enter the Spire. With Ceyonne, myself and a girl named Wu accompanying her, Mother Terra leads us through the vast lobby and into one of the many elevators along the Spire’s distant wall before turning to press one of the many buttons along a panel inset into the wall of the elevator. She acknowledges each of us as we begin to rise with a curt nod and a brief smile, but doesn’t speak. It’s as if she senses our unease over starting a new life, and the weariness over an exhausting, difficult day. I’m happy for the silence, but at the same time, find myself dwelling on what she might be thinking.

  I wonder: did we do well at the dinner? Were we satisfactory? Did any of us fail in any way, shape or form? I personally feel as though I didn’t, regardless of the nerves I felt then and continue to feel now, but at the same time, remember the Commandant’s eyes as they centered on me. What was he thinking as he looked at me? Was he examining me as he would any girl, or did I catch his eye in particular? Especially after my bold declarations?

  I can’t know, and for that reason, decide to push the thought from my mind.

  As the elevator doors open to reveal a long hallway with red carpeting and a black wall with gold trim, I marvel over the many doors set into their surface, then look out in awe at the Glittering City’s illuminated landscape.

  “It’s beautiful,” the girl named Wu says, stepping forward to admire the sight before her.

  “It is,” I reply, joining her.

  “Is this where we’re going to live?” Ceyonne asks, turning to face the Revered Mother.