Opus

Epilogue

I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes and straighten yet again, the crown on my head. I haven't worn the stupid thing since I was sixteen. I wasted months poring over dusty law manuscripts to find the one loophole that would set me free, only to end up years later with the ridiculous ornament once again on my head. Kendrick was a bastard.

"I cannot believe you did this! My granddaughter, my own flesh and blood, heir to the throne−"

"Hey ho, your Majesty! Enough with the theatrics. I'm like what, fourteen in line this week?"

The old man is deaf to my remark. He's been ranting since the early morning. He started right upon my arrival; he cut his hug short when he caught the glint of the ruby on my thumb. That's the only finger on which the infamous Competition's winner ring (somewhat) holds.

I have a new theory. Wee is not only a winner but also a collector. Only winners know about the bling. The rules do not mention the jeweled prize anywhere; I'm sure of that. One hundred percent sure since I've reread them all since my victory. No rings were found on the dead winners. Kendrick himself, the traitor, sure never mentioned it. So who has those rings? I'm thinking wee. The fiend. A mere thief. Why am I surprised? All players are thieves. Some never outgrow the phase.

"Caelina, you were always the smarter of the two. Kendrick was..."

I tune out at that point. We've been facing off since the morn, just the two of us. Nobody dared interrupt us. The King has not said anything I haven't heard before, and he's been repeating it, screaming it, cooing, threatening, reasoning, cursing and whining (yes, kings sometimes whine. It's not a pretty sight, let me tell you). All for show. Grandpa is a master manipulator. You should hear one of his political speeches. He can keep a mob of thousands enthralled for hours. Doesn't work so much on me, though.

The knock on the door pulls me out of my reverie.

"Showtime, pappy your Highness."

Today I'll be doing the honors. I take my place on the balcony, nod at the television crew, smile reassuringly at my sweet, ancient guardian, and survey the crowd. The hoyden princess, drifter before Gaea (and God if you're so inclined), makes a triumphant return to show off her win.

"I'll keep it brief." My voice resonates true and clear across the plaza. "I do not have grandaddy's eloquence. Then again, who does?"

Snickers break amongst our people. The King's frown nips those in the bud. Grandad has the bushiest eyebrows I have ever come across. And since they stood fiery red next to his white mop of hair−neither died, he assures whoever dares to ask, before beheading them. That's a joke. Of course, that's a joke. We are not barbarians. At least, not these days. But I digress. His damn tufts have that effect on me−even gawkers at the back of the square must have caught their contraction of displeasure.

"I have won this year's Competition."

Cheers erupt, taking me by surprise. As a group, we are not ones to follow the game. Everyone can participate, sure, but more as a hobby, a break from research, hunting, or construction. I wait for the applauses to die down, licking my lips nervously.

Once the mass settles, I let the silence stretch for one minute. I am my parents' child and therefore my grandparents' also. Thus, I too know about mise-en-scene. Two minutes. I hold the horde's attention into the palm of my hand. The vibrations of hundreds synchronize with my heartbeat. Three minutes. The crowd shuffles its thousand of feet. Anticipation and uneasiness mount. Four minutes.

"I am Caelina. I am Silk. I am Gael. I have the ring." I clench my hand into a fist and punch the air toward the camera. I feel silly. I am overdoing it, but as long as they're buying it, that he's buying it, I intend to plunder on. My people know me; they've witnessed my every awkward growing pain.

"This one is for you, Kendrick."

The assembly emits a collective gasp. I have left the man at the altar, or so the rumor says. Fools.

"The next one will be mine," I roar. "And mine alone."

"Cael, no!"

I've watched the reruns. Grandaddy's plea was lost to the viewers. All the spectators heard was me. All the cameras captured was my ridiculous tiara sitting at a precarious angle, my flawless makeup, my wide blue eyes, my red lips, my dark as night hair, the epitome of the perfect princess.

On the screen, I smile innocently and whisper the words for the world to hear, "I will not make the same mistake twice. This ring won't leave my finger." My one-finger fills the center of the image, my grin turning playful in the background. "Come and get me, wee loser."