A guard stands at attention and clears his throat as a set of doors at the side of the room open and a procession of men files in. “His Majesty’s honored guests,” he announces.

The suitors.

“The Marquess of Eastern Lille,” the guard says.

The marquess marches in. He always dresses audaciously and makes a point of showing off whenever he can, but he has outdone himself this night. His suit is the color of freshly bloomed marigolds and is so tight it looks like it’s been painted on. The fabric creeps into all his creases, and I see outlines of things that make me wish I could poke my eyes out. In the brim of his three-pointed hat is a plume of brightly colored feathers. His shoes are made from some kind of animal skin but have been dyed yellow to match his suit. He climbs to the tier just below the throne and stands there like a very awkward bird. The Marquess of Eastern Lille is the highest-ranking man in Mersailles besides King Manford himself.

“The Earls of Hanover and Kilspire, and the Viscount of Chione,” says the guard.

These men and their entourages are less officious than the marquess, but they still think themselves better than the rest of us. They are smiling, some of them laughing, and all of them dressed in their finest attire. They walk in and take their places on the second level of the three-tiered platform.

“The barons,” the guard says, his enthusiasm waning. “And peasantry.” He says that last part like a curse.

The last of the suitors file in. Some of them are old enough to be my grandfather, but that doesn’t stop them from shamelessly ogling the young girls. I cross my arms as one man looks at me from his perch, and I stare at him unflinchingly. He only smiles wider. Most of them are well-to-do men—not quite commoners, not quite aristocracy—who stand on the bottom tier of the platform. Their attitudes are more reserved, but they are here, so they can’t be that concerned with the well-being of the girls present. Some of them admire us, while others look around the grand hall as if they, too, are in awe of the lavish surroundings. It’s hard to believe that the king found so many like-minded men within riding distance of Lille, and it doesn’t surprise me that even the men considered peasants by the palace are positioned above all the girls here.

Surely there are good men among the ones gathered here, but if there are, they won’t stand up to be counted. The men on the bottom tier seem restless, wringing their hands or tapping their shiny boots on the marble. One man stands quite still, gazing out into the crowd. I know him.

Luke.

9

I clear my throat loudly, and he looks in my direction. He catches sight of me and smiles. I smile back, but I’m immediately struck by a sickening sense of apprehension. He said he could avoid the ball for as long as he wanted. So why is he here? Had he lied to me? And if so, had he lied about other things? I’d been more open with him than I should have, and now I regret it. He continues to stare at me, and I clench my fists at my sides. I swallow hard and kick myself for being so trusting. Now I’m worried he’ll tell, but I temper my fear. He’d told me things about himself, too. His gaze wanders to the upper part of the wall, and I follow it.

Portraits of the kings of Mersailles hang all around the ballroom. Some of them are as wide as a barn door. Prince Charming’s portrait hangs by the tiered platform. His hair is gray, and his skin is creased at the corners of his eyes and mouth. A fur is draped around his shoulders. He lived to be almost one hundred and was Mersailles’s founder.

Paintings of his successors are hung up as well: King Eustice, King Stephan, and of course, King Manford.

Since the time of Cinderella, the throne has been passed to a successor of the king’s choosing. All new kings are handpicked from a city beyond the Forbidden Lands that does nothing but work to produce a suitable heir. The city’s name and exact location are a closely guarded secret because the rulers of Mersailles fear someone might interfere in their process of always putting the most detestable fools on the throne. Cinderella hadn’t had any children, and her Prince Charming had ruled alone for nearly seventy-five years, dying a decrepit old man and passing the throne to his successor, King Eustice.

Three notes from the trumpeters blast through the room, and the guards scramble to form two parallel lines near the door. Everyone turns as the royal anthem blares, and King Manford appears in the doorway. He strides in, draped in a bloodred fur cape and all black underneath. He proceeds to the platform, ascending the steps as three servants follow him up. Each of the men already standing there bow low, and when he gets to the top, Manford unclasps his collar and tosses the cape at the servants, who gather it up and scurry away.

There is an audible intake of breath from the crowd as the music fades. He stands in front of his throne, and I get a good look at him. The last time I saw him in the flesh was at his coronation. I’d only gotten a glance at him then from very far away, but I see him now, clearly. He has dark wavy hair that curls up just above his ears. His eyes are dark and his skin is a warm golden brown. He is tall and commanding and absolutely possessed of self-importance.

Some of the other girls in line seem completely smitten, even before he’s had a chance to speak. They stare up at him, their mouths open, smiling, as if he and his predecessors aren’t the sole reason most of their parents have gone bankrupt funding their trip to the palace.

“I am honored to have you here tonight,” says the king in a booming, gravelly voice that echoes off the walls. The girl beside me sighs, trying her best to catch his attention by batting her eyes repeatedly and poking out her chest. She raises her hand slightly to wave at the king, but she inadvertently attracts the gaze of another on the lower platform. A stocky little man, who furiously dabs his forehead with a piece of cloth, blows a kiss to her. She quickly lowers her hand and looks down at the floor.

“The men you see before you are some of the most upstanding members of our community,” says the king.

“I doubt that very much,” I say under my breath.

“They have journeyed from near and far to see what the young ladies of Lille have to offer, and I must admit, gathered here tonight are some of the loveliest faces I’ve ever seen.” He pauses and cocks his head to the side. “Except you.” The king narrows his eyes and raises a long slender finger, pointing it directly at someone. Anger flashes across his face, and for a moment he appears gaunt, pained. I blink several times and look to the girls on either side of me. Surely they’d seen it too, but their expressions remain unchanged.

“You there. Step forward,” the king commands.

A guard passes behind our line and pushes one of the girls forward. She stumbles into the open space at the bottom of the platform.

Liv.

“Your—Your Majesty,” she sputters. She curtsies and then stands, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist.

Erin’s breathing becomes frantic, and I take a half step forward.

“I see so many beautiful gowns, beautiful faces. And then I see you.” The king glares at her. “Were you not aware that this is a formal event?”

The men on the platform laugh, and so do many of the other girls. Luke is silent, staring ahead. My heart races as I take another step forward. The king’s lips curl into a hideous smile.

“My—my parents, they couldn’t afford—” Liv starts.