121
I take great care getting dressed.
My hair is worn wavy and loose, and I add a touch of color to my face by way of eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss, with a generous wash of peachy-pink blush I swirl across my forehead and cheeks. When I’m finished, I stand before my full-length mirror and smile at the image I see.
The dress I chose is probably better for summer. But while a winter storm rages outside, slamming rain so hard against the windows it rattles the panes, for those of us sheltered inside, we choose the season we wish to live in.
The dress is made of a crisp cool linen the color of grass, with a rich embroidery of spring flowers crafted from an array of pink, purple, and yellow silk threads. It’s cut into an empire silhouette, with a low square neckline and puffed elbow-length sleeves that effectively hide the ugly bruises where the groundskeeper dragged me by the arm. Never mind the ones on my waist from when the duke clawed at me.
With a shaky hand, I reach for the mirror, my fingers digging into the frame. And for one horrible, gut-plummeting moment, the memory of the duke’s leering face whirls through my head, until all I can see is the sneer of his lips, the degrading gleam in his eyes, as I remember how close he came to…
I shake my head, shake the image away, desperate to replace it with the far more satisfying crack and bend of his knee when I kicked him—the gash in his face when I left him to bleed…
The duke has taken up enough of my day. And though I know Arthur is right—that it’ll take way more than my own resolve to exorcise the memory of him from my mind, there’s plenty of time to deal with that tomorrow.
I will not give him this night.
My hand returns to my side. I square my shoulders and straighten my spine. I’m a Blue now,I remind myself. And, since clothes are a form of expression—a visible way of broadcasting a mood—by wearing a dress that does nothing to hide the trail of bruises scattered across my legs—I’m hoping to express that I’m fully committed to the life I’ve made here.
Though my feet have taken a beating, abraded by gravel that’s resulted in raw patches of skin, a visit with the nurse saw them carefully salved and bandaged, allowing me to slip on a pair of well-cushioned flats that cause only minimal discomfort.
I add a collection of diamond studs and small hoops to my ears, then stack an assortment of slim jeweled rings onto my fingers.
The duke’s ring has been tucked away for another day. And though I can’t bear to look at it now, someday, when I’m ready, I’m thinking I might take it to one of the artisans Arthur keeps on staff and see if they can melt down the gold and turn it into something I might actually want to wear.
Taking something ugly and turning it into something beautiful.
Changing the story from victimhood to triumph.
That’s the sort of alchemy I’ve learned at this school.
While I was ridding myself of that eighteenth-century gown, Charlotte moved my talisman from the torn piece of velvet ribbon back to the golden chain that now hangs from my neck.
“You’re lucky you found it,” she said.
I started to tell her that I didn’t find it. That Killian’s the one who returned it, but we soon moved on, and the memory was lost.
Only now that I remember, I find myself eager to forget.
I move to stand before the painting now hung on my wall. Who would’ve thought I’d end up owning an original Salvador Dalí?
In truth, I suppose I don’t actually own anything here. In the end, it all belongs to Arthur. The painting is just on loan. For how long was never made clear.
I check my slab again. I’ve been checking it obsessively since the moment I returned to my room. But still no word from Braxton.
Though there is the inspirational quote of the day:
The music is not in the notes,
but in the silence between.
—Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
And below it, a message from Elodie. The real reason I’ve decided to put so much effort into my look.
Elodie:Party at Halcyon. 8 sharp.
Me:?