The Twist | ✓

five.

Within the first two days, Mason has been on three dates. I've been on none.

After hearing this, Clara takes lunch in my room with me. "You need to go on a date," She says.

I make a correction on a budget. "Not today," I tell her. "I'm busy." I haven't touched my food yet.

Clara rolls her eyes. "You need to take this seriously, Alexander. Go on a date with Jaime. She's a Five, and you've made it clear already that you want nothing to do with the higher caste girls." This is because most of them only want the power and fame. If I'm going to be forced into a marriage, it's not going to be with a shallow, power-hungry bitch.

"And what do you propose I do?" I ask, throwing down my pen and looking at her. "Let's face it, Clara. I'm not going to find anyone. The girls that I might have things in common with only want the crown, and the girls I have nothing in common with will want me."

"You said you'd try, so you better." She snaps. "Get creative, Alexander. You've got a brain. Use it. Have dinner with her, watch a movie, teach her archery, go ride a horse. She's a Five, and she's an artist. Her paper said she likes to paint and sculpt. Maybe have something fun with painting. Hell if I know. Think about what the girls enjoy and figure it out from there."

"Tried that," I grumble. "Mother told me it wasn't right. That I can't just make up lists of things and organize girls into little boxes in my head or something."

"She's right there. You can't. But you can figure out what they like and go on from there. You don't have to look for love, Alexander, but you do have to try. The people won't be happy if you don't." I'm already not the people's favorite because I'm so detached. Mason's the one that does interviews and all of that when people ask. I'm the one that avoids it.

"I hate it when you're right."

"You also need to eat," She pushes my plate towards me and takes all of my papers away. "Don't think I didn't notice how you ate nothing at breakfast. Even if you're not hungry, you should eat something. Have a little respect. Some of these girls come from homes that rarely ever get a lot of food or get to have three meals a day."

"I will." In reality, I felt sick more than hungry. But I won't tell Clara that, because she'll worry. "I'll figure out something for Jaime or one of the other girls."

Clara grins triumphantly. "Good." She picks up her plates and stalks out of the room, still holding all of my papers, and I drop my head against the desk. I really don't want this. I don't. I want nothing to do with these girls.

I stand up to find my brother, but something catches my eye. On my bed, resting on my pillow, is a blood red envelope. I move towards it slowly and lift it up. There's nothing on the envelope, and I pull out a letter and unfold it.

Prince Alexander--

We know you're unhappy. You don't want this. We can see it easily. We'd like to help.

The letter isn't signed or marked in any other way. Based on the curve of the letters and the way it's written, it was penned by a woman. The ink is dried but not too dry. They must have just written and delivered it this morning. The thought of someone in my room besides a person I know makes me shiver.

Rebels. They're the only explanation.

But they didn't attack. There's always some sort of attack--tied up or murdered guards, a dead or confined maid, something. But they left my room as it was, set anything they possibly moved back to where it had previously been. They're good at this, whoever they are. It's a little terrifying.

I should tell my father. Or my mother. Or someone. But the longer I stare down at the curving script, the more curious I am. I tuck the letter inside of my jacket and grab a piece of paper and my pen off of my desk.

Whoever wrote the letter--

I don't know who you are or what you want, but you should leave me alone and possibly come up with a better way to communicate. There's a paper trail with letters, and the maids get curious. You probably should've thought this through. You could've been caught.

I leave the folded paper sitting on my balcony, held down by a piece of tape. I turn and leave my room, a little shaken. Rebels trying to contact a member of my family is new. Their only contact with us is through theft and murder. Why would they want to start having civilized discussions with us now?

More importantly, why would they want them to be with me?