Nightingale (6 page)

There will be no more time in the greenhouses for me. No more pretending I can have that sort of life.

I’m going to State. To work with Mother.

7

Dozens of gowns hang before me and I run my hands over them. Taffeta, silk, slim-cut, voluminous. Mother thought of every occasion when she stocked my wardrobe.

“Did you see this?” Kyra beams an image onto my wallscreen. “Look at that woman’s dress? She’s supposed to be an ambassador, but she’s dressed like a common worker.”

I collapse into the mess of pillows on the bed. “I’m going to end up dressed like that at this rate.” Mother has ordered me to a dinner tonight for visiting diplomats. Even though I’d rather sit in my room and sulk over my assessment scores, I can’t not show up. Everyone is expecting me. Annalise has made that clear.

“You have a closet full of
fabo
dresses.” Kyra slides off my bed and crosses the room to the closet. “Seriously, you will never have to wear the same thing twice,” she says wistfully.

“What do you suggest?” I ask, hanging my head over the side of the bed. My long, dark hair brushes the ground.

“I think you should loan me about twenty or fifty of these.” She tosses a dress at me and the silk of an exquisitely beaded dress slips between my fingers. It puddles to the ground amongst the dozens of shoes scattered about. Before the gossip feeds distracted her, Kyra was admiring my new show collection. Which means she was slipping her feet into the shoes before discarding them by kicking them off. It’s a mess.

Kyra stoops, and for a second, I think she’s going to clean up, but instead, she plucks the beaded gown off the ground and examines it. “So
fabo
. I’m dying.”

“You can have it. I have more than I need.”

Her face falls and she hands the dress to me. “I can’t. It’s against protocol.”

I flip over onto my stomach and push up onto my elbows. “Screw protocol. What’s the fun of being a witch if you can’t break the rules?”

Kyra’s mouth drops open.

“What?” I ask.

“Where’s Lark and what have you done with her?”

For the first time in hours, the cloud of misery hanging over me lifts and I grin at my best friend. “Kyra, love,” I say imitating Mother’s way of speaking. “Don’t you want to have fun? Besides, when have you been interested in doing what you’re supposed to?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You sound like me. And I’m not sure that’s a good thing. ”

I hand the dress back to Kyra. “Try it on,” I order even though we both know it will fit her perfectly. That’s the benefit of smart material: everything fits everyone.

Without any extra encouragement, Kyra slips the dress over her head and as expected, it falls softly over her hips.

“How do I look?” She lifts her curls off her neck with one hand and turns left, then right. The flared bottom swishes around her bare feet.

“Gorgeous,” I say. It’s true. Kyra looks like a painting with her dark hair, peaches-and-cream skin, warm brown eyes. “Maz won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

She stops posing. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

With a little jump, Kyra claps her hands excitedly. “Wait here. I think I have the perfect shoes.”

“None of these work?” I point to the mess on the floor.

She leaps over the piles of shoes and says, “No,” before disappearing.

Outside my bedroom door, the house bustles with activity. But in here, the only sound is the beating of my heart and the shallow draw of my breath.

I train my eyes on the ceiling. Beck and I used to lie like this, his arm cradling my head. Back when my life was on a perfect trajectory. I’d finish school, get the placement of my dreams, and be bound to Beck. I’d have a quiet life somewhere away from the pomp of State and the ever-present cameras.

Now, I’m facing a lifetime of service here in San Francisco. Far away from the Ag Center.

My eyelids droop and I don’t fight it. Kyra will wake me when she returns.

Before I drift off, I try again to reach Beck mentally. Since Mother removed my restraint, I’ve been dying to see if it not only blocked my magic, but also interfered with whatever it is that allows Beck and me to communicate.

Beck
, I call out.
Can you hear me?

I keep my eyes shut and concentrate. Static fills my ears like hundreds of angry bees. It grows louder and I cup my hands over them. Why can’t I hear him? If he’s okay—as I suspect—and my magic is no longer locked up, shouldn’t everything be like it was before?

A cool hand touches me and my eyes flutter open. Annalise stands over the bed, her face clouded with concern. “Is everything all right? You look pale.” She lifts my arm. “And you’re trembling. Should I send for a healer?”

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The last thing I want is another healer visit. With my luck, they’ll deem me unstable again and I’ll be restrained all over. “I’m nervous. About tonight,” I lie.

My sister-in-law swishes her hand over my nightstand and a glass appears. “Drink this, it will calm your nerves.”

I wrinkle my nose at the sweet smelling liquid. “What is it?”

“Sweet honey chai.” She walks to my closet and begins leafing through the gown section. “Have you decided what to wear this evening?”

“No.” I’m careful to not look nervous as I finish off the chai and join Annalise at the closet, where she continues to sort through my clothes.

When she turns toward me, deep creases line her brow and her blue eyes move from the top of my head, down to my toes, scanning me.

I prepare myself for what’s coming next.

“You should wear something…like these.” She holds up two dresses. The first is silk and has cranes scattered across the cream, kimono-like bodice and peplum. Dramatic green ribbon crisscrosses the chest and merges at the shoulders with a flowing green cape. The skirt is long and narrow. It looks like something Mother would wear.

The second dress is, for lack of a better description, made entirely of gray feathers. It has short sleeves, a high neck and a wide, asymmetrical skirt that cuts above the knee in the front and brushes the ground in the back.

If I wear it, I will look like a bird.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Neither appeal to me. What about that one.” I point to a strapless, citrus orange dress with delicate pleating and folds.

Annalise turns it front to back. “It’s bright. I thought you preferred to blend into the scenery.”

Even though her words sound neutral, I can’t help but feel like she’s mocking me. I take the dress from her. “I think I’ll wear this.”

“Suit yourself.”

I glance at my wristlet. Where is Kyra? Surely it doesn’t take this long to find a pair of shoes? She needs to come save me from Annalise and her horrible fashion sense.

A strange combination of relief and dread fills me as I quickly change into my dress. I turn before the mirror, adjusting the folds so they hang just right.

“I have something for you.” Annalise reaches into her pocket. “The other dresses would have matched better.” A green wristlet sits in her upturned hand. “Malin wanted you to have this.”

My heart sinks. This isn’t how I expected to be made a member of the State. In my fantasy, my beaming mother presents me the green wristlet before a small group of friends. There would be a small celebration.

This feels more like an afterthought.

Annalise slips my blue wristlet off and replaces it with the green one. “Congratulations, you’re officially a States woman.”

#

Banners of each of the five great societies flutter overhead and lanterns cast a soft, warm glow across the dance floor, illuminating the hundreds of twirling couples below.

I haven’t been to a banquet this extravagant since Callum and Annalise were bound nearly three years ago. And that didn’t exactly work out well.

A waiter stops before me, and I lift a glass of champagne from his tray and finish it in two gulps. It’s my third—no fourth—glass of the night.

Kyra thinks I’m trying to drown my sorrows. Maybe she’s right. It’s not like I have much to be happy about. Not even my new green wristlet.

I lean against the wall, taking care to not slouch, and watch Maz lead Kyra across the dance floor. He’s all arms and legs, not at all elegant, and it’s amazing he hasn’t tripped over the billowing hem of Kyra’s gown.

“Bored?”

I lazily roll my head to the side. Ryker Newbold grins at me. His shirt hangs out of the bottom of his dinner jacket and a dark flop of hair drapes over one of his almond-shaped eyes. Next to him, I look as refined as Mother.

“Ryker! How are you?” Beck, Maz, and Ryker were once inseparable. So much so, that Kyra referred to them as a ‘three-headed monster.’ And unlike with Maz, Ryker and I have always gotten along.

He holds up a bottle of champagne. “Better since I found this.”

“Nice.” I raise my glass and pretend to toast him as Kyra and Maz whirl past, lost in each other. “They look good together, don’t they?”

Ryker snickers. “You’re generous. Maz looks like an octopus next to Kyra.”

“He’s never been graceful, has he?”

“Again, you’re being too kind.” Ryker takes long sip from the bottle. When he’s done, he tops off my glass. “How are you? Kyra said you were out of it for a few days.”

“I heard the same thing.” My memories of my first days here are hazy at best.

“You don’t know?”

“Not really. But the healers say that it’s normal for someone who’s been through what I have to lose track of time.”

Someone calls my name and I whip my head in their direction, only to have the room sway around me. I stagger into Ryker and he catches me by the elbow. My bare skin burns where his clothed arm touches me.

“Careful, Lark,” he says in a gravelly voice. “You don’t want everyone to think you’re drunk.”

I rest a hand against the wall to steady myself. “I am drunk.”

He squints at me. “How much
have
you had?”

“A few glasses.” I point to his bottle. “And whatever you’ve poured me.”

“Fantastic.” He glances over my shoulder and his face contorts.

“What?” I ask, following his eyes. My brother, Callum, stands on the other side of a long table laden with desserts. He’s glaring at us. No. He’s glaring at me. I try my best not to look intoxicated, because really, all I need is Callum running off to tattle on me. If Mother finds out, she’ll probably confine me to my room again and slap the restraint back on.

Ryker and I reposition ourselves so that we’re standing side-by-side, not touching. I keep my eyes on the dance floor and pretend my brother isn’t shooting withering looks at me.

A white light strobes off to my left and I instinctively shield my eyes.

“Lark! Who’s your escort?” a voice booms from a camera floating over my head.

“Damn it,” I whisper. Of course, the newscasters waited until I was in an awkward situation to zero in on me.

“I’m sorry. Should have seen that.” Ryker maneuvers me so my back is to the room and I’m facing the wall. He keeps his hand around my waist, holding me up. It’s not exactly proper, but it’s better than me stumbling forward when my movements are being broadcasted live.

“Stupid gossip feeds,” I mutter. “Why do people like them so much?”

“Because their lives are boring?” Ryker leans closer to me. The heat of his breath strikes the side of my cheek and I inhale sharply. “Maybe if you pretend to be lost in conversation with me, no one will notice how drunk you are.”

I groan. He’s right. My only option is to pretend to be enthralled by Ryker. Which means we’ll be all over Kyra’s gossip feeds tomorrow. But at least it will look like I’ve moved on from Beck, and Mother can’t find fault with that.

The music turns more upbeat. Ryker glances over my shoulder again.

“What?” I say, pivoting. Kyra races across the room, her face flushed from champagne and dancing. Before she reaches us, Ryker leans into me, his chin just grazing my shoulder. His breath fans against the side of my face and sends shivers down my spine.

“Beck’s alive,” Ryker whispers. “And he’s okay.”

His words slide through my foggy, drunk brain and land in my heart. It whirls wildly, humming to life. Beck is alive. And unharmed.

He’s alive. Alive.

Tears of joy well in my eyes.  “How do y—”

Kyra skids to a stop before me and grabs my arm. “Let’s dance. Show the world that you’re okay.” She sounds hopeful, as if I can dance away my troubles, but I shake my head, knowing any kind of movement like that will be disastrous for me. Drunk Lark can’t dance.

Ryker swigs from his bottle before passing it to Maz. It’s as if he hadn’t said anything earth-shattering to me.

“Do you remember that time we snuck out of the house and when we got home, Bethina was waiting? I swear I thought I was going to pee my pants when I saw her,” Ryker says, taking back the bottle.

Maz nods. “And Beck…” All three of my friends’ heads swivel toward me as if the mere mention of his name will cause me to breakdown or something. Kyra shifts uncomfortably and fidgets with her wristlet.