Red Queen(45)
“But we are different.” One day in this world taught me that. “We’re not equal.”
Julian stoops, his eyes boring into mine. “I’m looking at proof you are wrong.”
You’re looking at a freak, Julian.
“Will you let me prove you wrong, Mare?”
“What good will it do? Nothing will change.”
Julian sighs, exasperated. He runs a hand through his thinning chestnut hair. “For hundreds of years the Silvers have walked the earth as living gods and the Reds have been insects at their feet, until you. If that isn’t change, I don’t know what is.”
He can help me survive. Better yet, he might even help me live.
“So what do we do?”
My days take on a rhythm, always the same schedule. Protocol in the morning, Lessons in the afternoon, while Elara parades me at lunches and dinners in between. The Panther and Sonya still seem wary of me, but haven’t said anything since the luncheon. Maven’s help seems to have worked, as much as I hate to admit it.
At the next large gathering, this time in the Queen’s personal dining hall, the Irals ignore me completely. Despite my Protocol lessons, luncheon is still overwhelming as I try to remember what I’ve been taught. Osanos, nymphs, blue and green. Welle, greenwardens, green and gold. Lerolan, oblivions, orange and red. Rhambos and Tyros and Nornus and Iral and many more. How anyone keeps track of this, I’ll never know.
As usual, I’m seated next to Evangeline. I’m painfully aware of the many metal utensils on the table, all lethal weapons in Evangeline’s cruel hand. Every time she lifts her knife to cut her food, my body tenses, waiting for the blow. Elara knows what I’m thinking, as usual, but carries on through her meal with a smile. That might be worse than Evangeline’s torture, to know she takes pleasure in watching our silent war.
“And how do you like the Hall of the Sun, Lady Titanos?” the girl across from me asks—Atara, House Viper, green and black. The animos who killed the doves. “I assume it’s no comparison to the—the village you lived in before.” She says the word village like a curse and I don’t miss her smirk.
The other women laugh with her, a few whispering in scandalized voices.
It takes me a minute to respond as I try to keep my blood from boiling. “The Hall and Summerton are very different from what I’m used to,” I force out.
“Obviously,” another woman says, leaning forward to join the conversation. A Welle, judging by her green-and-gold tunic. “I took a tour of the Capital Valley once and I must say, the Red villages are simply deplorable. They don’t even have proper roads.”
We can barely feed ourselves, let alone pave streets. My jaw tightens until I think my teeth might shatter. I try to smile, but instead end up grimacing as the other women voice their agreement.
“And the Reds, well, I suppose it’s the best they can do with what they have,” the Welle continues, wrinkling her nose at the thought. “They’re suited to such lives.”
“It’s not our fault they were born serve,” a brown-robed Rhambos says airily, as if she’s talking about the weather or the food. “It’s simply nature.”
Anger curls through me, but one glance from the queen tells me I cannot act on it. Instead, I must do my duty. I must lie. “It is indeed,” I hear myself say. Under the table, my hands clench, and I think my heart might be breaking.
All over the table, the women listen attentively. Many smile, more nod as I reassert their terrible beliefs about my people. Their faces make me want to scream.
“Of course,” I continue, unable to stop myself. “Being forced to live such lives, with no respite, no reprieve, and no escape, would make servants of anyone.”
The few smiles fade, twitching into bewilderment.
“Lady Titanos is to have the best tutors and best help to make sure she adjusts properly,” Elara says quickly, cutting me off. “She’s already begun with Lady Blonos.”
The women mutter appreciatively while the girls exchange eye rolls. It’s enough time to recover, to reclaim the self-control I need to survive the meal.
“What does His Royal Highness intend to do about the rebels?” a woman asks, her gruff voice sending a shock of silence over lunch, drawing focus away from me.
Every eye at the table turns to the speaker, a woman in military uniform. A few other ladies wear uniforms as well, but hers shines with the most medals and ribbons. The ugly scar down her freckled face says she may actually have earned them. Here in a palace, it’s easy to forget there’s a war going on, but the haunted look in her eye says she will not, she cannot, forget.