The Season Trials

C h a p t e r T w e n t y - t w o

C h a p t e r       T w e n t y – t w o

"Miss Prestige is up in her rooms, getting ready to make her presence known at the ball."

I've explained what's happening to Marline—and to my surprise, she's accepted the circumstances without question. Nevertheless, we've kept up pretense, heading straight to the kitchens.

Now, as I gather up scraps and put them in the bin, I try to hear what Marline says—careful not to draw attention to us. We can't give any of it away, not even those that have been enslaved. Some chose flight, while other chose fight.

I chose fight—but I don't know about anyone else. When survival is at stake, anything can happen. People can change in the span of a second; break their promises.

No one can be trusted.

"How do we get to her?" I whisper back.

From where she's crouched on the floor below me, Marline pretends to drop something—moving closer to earshot. "Bring up some food to deliver to her room."

"That won't work."

Even if it does, I'll have lost Kyell completely by then. I won't have the chance to find him.

"It will work."

"It won't."

She straightens, glaring down at me. "It will."

"No," I repeat. "We need something better—more concrete and believable."

Her gaze remains ice cold. Then, barely perceptibly, she softens, glancing away to those around us. The clatter of mindless conversation is loud, along with the clattering of pans and trays of food.

"I don't know," she finally whispers.

I'm silent because I echo the sentiment.

I pretend to gather dust off the floor; picking up the non-existent invisible dirt. The conversation around me—the orders being issued—blows away. On the spot, I try to gather a plan—but it's next to impossible, everything a clutter of panic.

I don't even realise I'm rationalising aloud (babbling uselessly a more apt description) in audible distance of Marline. "Doctors—she'll need a doctor. Or a nurse... does she need a nurse? Dressmaker..."

I don't want to admit it, but I'm starting to lose hope—

"Miss Prestige needs her tea! It is late—and she has a ball to prepare for!"

My head jerks up involuntarily. Out of the corner of my eye I see Marline do the same.

There's a robust woman standing in the doorway, her hair wildly curled. The tight dress she wears moulds to her body in a way that cannot be described as flattering, but she doesn't seem to have a mind to care. There's an ambiance around her—one of arrogance and self-entitlement.

Judging by the immediate hush of the kitchen, I know she's high in the chain of the household hierarchy.

"Miss Prestige needs her tea!" she shrieks shrilly.