The Prospect's Dance (Book 1, Land of Sweets)

12: Candy Canes (2 of 2)

"Very well," he says, as if I have asked him a question. He pulls a pair of spectacles from an inside pocket. "Remove your shirt and doublet, and let's take a peek."

This is the part I dread most. The part that makes me want to ask Claire to wait outside, even though I know she has not been tainted by the Land of Sweets, won't recoil in horror at the sight of me.

Or maybe she will. Other than my scars, I am built to the standard of male beauty—but whose standard? It occurs to me that Claire's standard is not my own. I remember her journal entry about the college jock Bradley. My knowledge of American football—or football of any kind—is limited, but I know football players often have shoulders broader than those of a man of dance, with thick arms and powerful legs.

I have lived in the Land of Sweets for four centuries and more. Its people have different hair and colors of skin, but there is a sameness to them, a dull lack of variety that makes me sick of seeing them, men and women alike. When everyone is the same, no one is beautiful. When all are the same, they are dull, and in all my physical perfection, I am just like them.

I peel off my shirt and scrutinize myself. Not for the first time, I consider if this physical form is merely the husk that holds me. I don't know if I can accept this. It is a concept too foreign, one that fits like a pair of too-small boots. If our souls are all that matter, why were we given bodies, too?

I lay on the sofa and try to concentrate on anything but Claire. The snow is downy like a kitten's fur on my skin, and as I recline, I discover a gap between the snow-pillow and the small of my back. Air flutters into the space and tickles the dip of my spine. As the snow snuggles in around me, its sweet scent wafts in the air.

"Raise your arms above your head," Michel encourages. I obey, wincing as the action tugs at my split skin. "Mm. I see. A deep cut, but not life-threatening. The other scar...You. Girl. I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Claire," she speaks.

"Claire. Come; if you're a Prospect, you can handle this. Kneel here at Dannick's side and view the nasty line our famous Nutcracker friend left in him."

From my peripheral, I watch as her blue-and-white silk skirts float down beside me. Claire's cold finger finds the top of that old scar. My muscles contract at her touch.

"Does it still hurt?" she asks.

I furrow my brow and glance at her. "No. Why?"

"You're breathing funny."

I turn away. "No, I'm not."

Michel plunges his hands into the snow to clean them. "You, too, girl. Wash up. You're to be my assistant, since all of mine are..."

He trails off, and it occurs to me that not only are people lacking in the Candy Cane wing, but the whole of the School of Peppermints is having a lazy day. They are a strange lot, the Peppermints. No telling where they could be.

"They're not with the Coffee, are they?"

He goes rigid, his mien dark and dangerous, suddenly not so friendly. He looks like an unsmiling Casimir, which is frightening to behold. "What makes you say that?"

"Just a guess. A lucky one, it seems."

Michel exhales. "Well. I suppose Casimir wouldn't have sent you if you couldn't be trusted."

I sit up, and Claire's finger slides off my stomach. "So it's true. There's a rebellion. And you're a part of it."

"And you're not," he says simply. "So I will say no more. Unless you change your mind."