Cecilia wore mint green with a sash of salmon pink at the waist of her straight-line dress. A gold hemmed neckline iced her pearly skin. She twisted a lacy handkerchief while staring out the black windows of the washroom. Faye hesitated at the door.
“Do you ever-“ she paused with a heavy exhale, “Do you wonder what you could have been?”
"What do you mean, Cil?”
“If all of this, the Emperor, armistice,” Cecilia pivoted sharply to face her, “If we could have grown up without war. If you would have been someone different.”
“Kind of a pointless train of thought, isn’t it?” Estella meandered up next to Faye.
Faye tightly wrapped her arms around her torso. Estella had been ignoring her since the day at the hospital and Faye was reluctant to beg a truce. They had lived around each other politely for Cecilia’s sake but the tension was palpable. Estella was gun powder and Faye was unwilling to play with matches.
“I suppose,” Cecilia tucked a shivering tendril of ivory hair under her headband, “But it helps sometimes to imagine.”
“Imagining is pointless, Cecilia,” Estella gave her a patient smile as she draped her seal fur over her shoulders, “Come along before the Matron decides to hunt us down herself.”
Cecilia nodded and walked towards the door. As she passed between them, Faye and Estella made brief eye contact. Faye bit her lip, her eyes shooting away. As she went to follow Cecilia, Estella touched her elbow. Faye paused.
“You look like a corpse in that black,” Estella groused, digging into her clutch, “Put on some of this or you’ll scare off all those potential suitors.”
Like a peace offering, Estella held out a silver tube of lipstick. Faye took it from her outstretched fingers with a shrug.
“Estella, I-“
“Don’t worry about it.” Stell sniffed, smoothing on the fringe on her hemline, “Come on. Let’s get down there.”
Shifting sheaths of mist coated the courtyard of the school. The older male students had already been shuttled down to the City Hall that hosted the Emperor's Birthday Gala. A series of Lorries with open beds rumbled in place, their exhaust pipes dripping to the cobblestones.
“They expect us to ride in those down to the party,” Gladys turned up her nose, “I might as well have worn my uniform.”
“I like wearing my own clothes again,” Cecilia shrugged her shoulders into a red velvet jacket, “It’s almost like being home.”
“Not quite.” Faye murmured, her gaze drifting over the Matron talking to the lead driver.
The woman doggedly wore her usual grey and black, though at least it was in the form of a ball gown. She snapped her sharp chin in their direction and waved them towards the vehicles. Estella muffled a laugh as the Matron slipped on a patch of black ice.
“Come along,” she ordered, regaining her footing and her dignity, “They won’t wait all night.”
They bumped down into Tyr. Faye hooked arms with Evelyn next to her but shunned Belle. The girl was too busy primping her bee stung lips in a compact mirror. Evelyn neatened her midnight blue skirts over her black silk stockings and let out a shaky breath.
“I’m nervous,” she admitted, “I feel like we’re a herd of fatted calves being led to an altar.”
“Just remember what the Matron said,” Faye squeezed her arm, “Be polite, dance when asked and don’t drink too much champagne.”
Evelyn rolled her dark eyes, “The one night we could use it.”
A downy coating of fog covered Tyr. Through the wash of white, the tallest spire stretched up from the angular roof of the City Hall. In the days before obligatory black outs, there was a greenish blue lamp that swept out from the top. It would ward away zeppelins from the jagged mountain range like a lighthouse on a stormy sea. They pulled up to the front entrance, the doors covered with black curtains. When the whir of the lorry engines ceased, Faye could hear the thrum of music within the hall.
“Come along!” The Matron urged as they spilled from the truck beds.
“Someone needs to muzzle that woman,” Gladys snarled under her breath, straightening the strap on her patent leather heels.
The black and white tiles of the entry hall echoed under their shoes, a set of oak doors at the end vibrating with sound. The Matron swung open the double doors to the gilt ballroom and Faye’s breath caught in her throat. The heavy throb of the string and brass band thudded into her chest. The gleaming floor reflected the chandelier in the domed ceiling overhead. A buzzing myriad of men in uniforms and tuxedos with fluttering ladies on their arms danced around white clad tables or spun like tops on the dance floor. On the east wall, a rich wooden bar was crammed with guests. A pyramid of champagne glasses was stacked at the center of it.
“Would you look at that?” Cecilia breathed beside Faye as a waiter poured a bottle of pink champagne over it, the liquid bubbling down the sides.
“The best party I’ve seen since before the war,” Gladys confessed, “My parents would be livid if they knew they missed out on this.”
“Looks like a soiree my father would have hosted back in the good ol’ days,” Estella dryly commented, removing her wrap from her shoulders, “The women are just wearing more clothes here.”
Cecilia blushed at the comment. Faye took off her trench coat and straightened the pearled headband that encircled her dark head, her black waves swept off her pale, freckled shoulders into a loose bun at the base of her neck. She wore the dress her mother had bartered for with their neighbor before leaving Clare. Mrs. Zimmerman had said that no daughter of hers was going to Berchta looking like a pauper. It was shimmering, onyx velvet cut in the popular straight-line style, symmetrical swirls of silver cutting down the front panels and rounding out the hemline.
“Isn’t that the fella’ from the boxing match?” Estella asked, waving to Roth as he approached them.
Roth wore his black dress uniform, his crimson hair combed neatly to the side. His long stride brought him right over, a champagne flute in each hand. He grinned, lifting them in their direction.
“Fancy meeting you here, Zimmerman,” he cawed, “and hello to you too, Estella Winter.”
“How did you find out my name?” Estella demanded, taking the extra glass from his outstretched hand.
Roth shrugged, his cheeks tinting, “Just asked around.”
“You should have just asked me and saved yourself the trouble.” Estella sipped her champagne, ignoring the look of censure from Mauntrel in the corner.
“Well, how about I make up for it with a dance?” He chirped hopefully, a boyish grin erupting on his angular face.
Estella eyed him for a moment before tipping her glass up and finishing it in one gulp, “What the hell.” She set it with a clink on the tray of a passing waitress and took Roth’s hand.
Gladys rolled her eyes, “That boy has two left feet written all over him.”
With a patient grin, Faye sat down next to Cecilia at an empty table, “He’s a good guy.”
“But clearly not a good dancer.” Gladys puckered her brow as she watched Estella fight to keep up with Roth's awkward, lanky stride.
Evelyn laid a hand on Faye’s shoulder and silently gestured towards the bar. Cecilia’s tormentor, Leo Schwab, was leaning against a column and chatting with a couple other students. However, his gaze kept drifting confidently towards Cecilia who was oblivious to him. Evelyn sat down on the other side of Cecilia to block her sight.
“Belle is downright determined to pimp herself out, isn’t she?” Gladys snapped with contempt.
Belle Macon was buzzing around the bar with a couple of the other West Coast Anticans, flirting with older students at the Academy and Berchten Officers that were present. She threw back her head at something a young lieutenant said, her lips blood red against her pale skin. However, she maintained a close eye on Leo Schwab. Her mouth drew down in a frown as Leo pushed himself from the column and meandered towards their table.
Faye didn’t say anything but drew her chair closer to Cecilia’s as Leo came to stand before them. Cecilia’s milk blue eyes widened as she noticed him for the first time that evening. Leo lifted his glass in her direction before finishing off the last swallow and placing it on their table.
“Sorry girls,” He smirked handsomely, running a hand through his blonde waves, “I believe your friend there owes me a dance. Cecilia?”
“She’s not interested.” Evelyn calmly replied, laying a steady hand on the back of Cecilia’s chair.
“Why don’t you let her speak for herself?” He retorted coolly without taking his leer from Cecilia’s face.
Cecilia opened her mouth but nothing came out. A twist of anger boiled in Faye as she rose to her feet. Forgetting her mother’s advice to keep her mouth shut, she hotly approached the spoiled Berchten.
“She’s not interested in you tonight,” Faye hissed under her breath, her posture rigid as she stared into his apathetic gaze, “She’s not interested in you tomorrow. She will never be interested. So I suggest you leave.”
“Is there a problem here, Schwab?”
A gravelly voice rolled over her shoulder. Faye’s eyes shot back to see Anson with his dark uniform jacket loose at the neck. He arched a thick, black eyebrow at his classmate with a smirk playing across his mouth.
“You trying to steal my date?” He laid a steadying hand on her elbow, “Miss Zimmerman promised me a dance.”
“I was only asking Miss Heron for a dance-“
“She’s been spoken for as well,” Anson winked, “Sorry, old boy.”
Leo straightened, brushing his hands down his coat. He was nearly a foot shorter than Anson with considerable less girth. He retreated a step, jutting his jaw out with a nod.
“That was a mistake, Goldrick,” he murmured menacingly before marching back to the bar.
“He’ll leave her alone for the evening,” Anson sighed, keeping his eyes on Leo as he reached out for a champagne flute on a passing tray, “Your friend should keep her wits about her though with Schwab. He’s used to getting his way.”
Faye glanced back at her three friends at the table. Evelyn rose to her feet and gave Faye a pointed look. Cecilia was staring at her hands, her bottom lip trembling. Her breathing was coming fast and hard. Cecilia’s anxiety was growing worse the longer they remained in Berchta. Her panic attacks were becoming so frequent that they all knew how to handle them. Faye made a move towards her but Evelyn held out a hand.
“I’ve got her,” she brought Cecilia to her feet, “We’ll go take a break in the powder room. Have to say, I need a breather myself.”
Gladys rose from the table and silently laid a reassuring hand on Cecilia’s shoulder as they passed by. Her searing blue gaze glazed over with boredom.
“To hell with Mauntrel and her rules. I need something with more of a kick than champagne.” Gladys wandered towards the bar.
The band slammed into a new song. The trumpets trilled as the dance floor burst with new life. Anson grasped her hand and made a move towards the marble floor.
“What are you doing?” Faye tore away from his grip, “I didn’t think you were serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Anson gave her a cocky smile, “It’s just a dance.”
“I’d rather not.”
Anson took a slow step towards her. He peered intently down into her face. There was a quizzical glint in his dark eyes that set her on guard. Holding out his palm, he jerked his head to the side.
“Don’t look over but a group of very important individuals at a corner table is studying us as we speak,” he wet his lower lip, “Burns is there as well as one of the politicians that set up this little program of yours. It would be wise for you to just give me one dance. Just pretend that this scheme of theirs is working and you don’t absolutely hate me.”
Faye snorted, her pulse picking up between his warning and nearness, “I don’t hate you.”
Anson pursed his lips with a half-smile, “Then that should make this much easier.”
Faye had barely touched her fingertips to his hand when he swept an arm around her waist and led her towards the dance floor. He was surprisingly light on his feet, swinging her towards the band that played on a stage crowned with yellow lights. Anson mated their fingers and rested them against his shoulder. Faye’s gut twisted as his grip on her back tightened.
“You know, the likes of Leo Schwab make what this school stands for a joke,” he groused, “The Emperor said that his National Academies don’t discriminate based on who your parents were but rather your own passion for the Empire. Schwab’s daddy makes a few phone calls and he can get away with anything.”
Faye glanced briefly to where she had last seen Leo. Belle had finally gotten him in her clutches but he didn’t appear too happy. In fact, he was almost nervous as he peered over to the table that Anson had mentioned. Faye dared a peek.
Burns, Mauntrel and a strange man with a blank expression stared out at the students present. A thin mustache etched over a full upper lip and his heavy lidded eyes blinked as lazily as a snake’s. He leaned towards Burns and murmured something. He met Faye’s gaze briefly. She looked away as though she’d been burned.
“Who is he?” Faye asked, perplexed by the creep of fear over her heart.
“That’s the honored guest,” Anson scoffed, “Alfred Reichmann of the Ministry of Public Enlightenment.”
“What does that even mean? Public Enlightenment?”
“In a word?” Anson twirled her out then reeled her back into his solid form, “Propaganda.”
“So he’s the one I have to thank for being dragged from my home country?”
“I could bring you over to him if you want to do it in person,” he waggled his eyebrows playfully.
Faye shook her head and fought a smile, “You’re an idiot.”
“I know, you’ve told me.” Anson dipped her towards the floor, the song ending with a spurt of sound as he brought her back upright, “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Zimmerman.”
He drew away, giving her a brief salute before jaunting through the crowd. Running a hand over her bare arm, she returned to their table. It was still empty. Faye tapped her fingers on the back of a chair, her head spinning as though she had drunk champagne.
Despite her rooted desire to reject Anson at every turn, there was something magnetic about his gap toothed grin and breezy manner. He wasn't chilled or calculating like most of the other Berchten students. Anson hummed with barely contained fire. He was an anomaly at the Academy.
Faye gasped as another body shoved her into the table. The remnants of a wine glass stained her hemline and shattered to the floor. She spun to see a waitress desperately trying to collect her tray. The girl tucked a loose dark strand behind her ear.
“I’m so sorry,” she stuttered without meeting her eyes, “Please let me get that.”
She whipped a kerchief from her apron pocket and dabbed at Faye’s ruined dress. Faye dropped to her knees, brushing away the waitress’s attentions.
“Don’t worry yourself,” Faye breathed, cleaning the mess, “Are you alright?”
“I tripped, I’m so sorry,” the girl’s eyes rose to Faye’s face.
Faye stared at her, trying to remember where she had seen her. The girl’s dark eyes were almond shaped, her full lips pursed. Despite the worry in her voice, her expression was veiled. Faye had the disturbing feeling that she had bumped into her on purpose. However, she couldn’t imagine why.
“I’ll go get you a damp cloth,” the girl said, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized Faye.
She swept away with her tray of ruined glassware. As she strode towards the kitchen doors, Faye shivered as she recalled where she had seen her. Estella’s mysterious rendezvous in the village, it was the black haired Resistance worker. Instinctively, her eyes shot towards the table where Burns and Reichmann were seated. She swallowed hard. They were watching her closely.
“Seeing as you’ve got yourself an audience, you should dance with me.”
Faye was pulled into yet another set of waiting arms. Gustav let his cool green gaze wash over her surprised countenance. The song was slow. He drew her in, his breath stirring wisps of hair at her temple.
“How are you this evening, Miss Zimmerman?”
Faye swallowed, “Well enough, thank you.”
“For all your concerns about remaining under the radar, you have gotten quite a lot of attention tonight,” he commented dryly, sweeping them towards the door, “I believe it would be in your best interest if you left.”
"I can do that?”
“I don’t know,” The song ended, his fingers trailing over her hip as he backed away, “Can you?”
He straightened his collar and walked out the double doors as another older couple was entering. Faye watched him, the warmth from his hands having left phantom imprints on her body. Ignoring the gooseflesh erupting on her limbs, she marched over to the table. Gladys was working on her second glass of whiskey. Faye grabbed her coat from the chair.
“What are you doing?” Gladys slurred, scrunching up her nose.
“Leaving.”
"You can do that?”
Faye didn’t answer but trotted towards the door, her heart racing. Reichmann’s superior glare of disdain poisoned her brain. She tried not to think about Leo Schwab and his own threats against Anson. No doubt he would now hunt Cecilia with a vengeance. Then running into the black haired girl made her realize that there was probably a Resistance cell operating right there at the Gala. Faye swallowed back the bile rising in her throat as she pushed open the front city hall doors.
She gulped down the biting air, the temperature having dropped since they had entered the party. Her head pounded with the cold as she peered down the dimly lit street. Faye tucked her trembling hands into her pockets. The fog had dissipated and the night was clear as a calm sea.
A figure drifted towards the entrance to an alleyway. It was a girl in a waitress uniform. She undid her bun and her jet hair tumbled to the middle of her back. Another body joined her as they skirted around the corner. Faye’s jaw dropped when the light caught a gleam of honey in his hair, his uniform jacket loose despite the weather. It was Gustav with the girl from the Resistance.
“Faye?”
She jolted and peered over her shoulder. Anson was standing on the front steps, a cigarette held lightly between his fingers.
“What are you doing-“
“I want to go home-“ Faye fought back an unexpected rush of tears at the statement, “I want to go back to the school. I’m tired.”
Anson bolted over to her, unbuttoning his coat.
“There is a lorry stop over here,” he draped his jacket over her shoulders and led her towards a nearby corner, “What happened?”
Faye scoffed, her throat pounding. She didn’t know where to be begin. It felt like all her hard work since the incident with The Book of Our Fathers had been washed down the drain. Burns had seen her with a possible Resistance worker and she had scolded the son of a prominent figure in the government. Though the incidents might not have seemed so grievous, they were in the Empire. Native Berchtens were sent to gulags for doing much less and she was a lowly halfbreed.
“I’m afraid.” She admitted impulsively as Anson tucked her trembling figure to his side.
Anson chuckled as they reached the corner, “Hate to break it to you, but we’re all scared.”
“You aren’t. You make jokes and tell off Leo Schwab without batting an eye.”
“That’s because I grew up here. I’m used to the fear,” he smiled so that his gap showed. Reaching out, he drew a strand of hair behind her ear, “You will get used to it too someday.”
Faye blinked at him numbly as a lorry bumped down the cobblestone street towards them. The horror of his words left her almost catatonic. Anson scoffed, his dark eyes cutting over to the approaching vehicle.
“Here’s your ride.”
ns 15.158.61.5da2
