I was a princess after all. Even though I was only a captured civilian, to them I was the princess and would always be so. The Emperor had decreed me his adopted daughter. The thought of being anything to him, even his servant, made me shudder.
“My lady, if I may say so, the white is very becoming.” Madge pulled at the tightly strung corset. Crystals were sewn into the fabric, making the white look as if it were shining. My dark hair hung in waves around my shoulders. I closed my eyes for the worst part.
The shots always hurt. It was like being stung repeatedly all over my body, but it was the only way to keep the glow.
It had always seemed silly, this glowing business. But every royal had to. We had to literally shine; we needed to look like gods next to the slaves. It made sense, for we never saw the sun. Only the clouds and the rain. It was the only way to tell a royal from a slave, the radiance of one’s skin.
So they injected a glowing serum into our bloodstream. It changed the skin pigment, making us glimmer. My light, as I liked to call it, was a golden hue to match my dark eyes and hair.
I hated it.
Almost as much as I hated being a prisoner.
But if this was the life I had to live so my family could be safe, so one day I could possibly free them all, I would do it.
I closed my eyes as the sting of the shots hit full force. Within seconds it was over with, but the swelling was still felt around my neck.
I stretched and nodded for my cape.
A blue velvet cape was attached to my gown in the back, the blue of the West. It was our symbol, the royal sign that I was of the royal family.
The East wore black and red, always black and red. We said it was because they were of the devil—that Satan himself lived in the East—but I knew better. It wasn’t the devil that lived in the East. No, he lived right here in the castle with me, and his title was Emperor.
In my mind, nothing could be worse than the whippings I received from him. I only hoped the prince would be less inclined to hit me when I accidently spoke out of turn.
“I’m ready,” I said to the servants. Their eyes beheld horror, and I pitied them, for their fear for me was greater than my fear for myself.
When you’ve lost everything dear to you, you no longer fear death. No, you fear life.
Also from Astraea Press
Chapter One
Wanted: Youth Ages 14-18 Must be willing to work outdoors and enjoy camping. Room and board included.
I rocked back on my heels and scanned the job board for any other possibles which might fit my age and desire category. No-ooope. Nothing else. According to this Job Corps office, no other employment possibilities existed on the planet or the state. No one in Utah wanted to hire a seventeen-year-old, soon-to-be senior, just for the summer, with no job skills or experience. I was not about to include my hideous six week stint as a shoe salesman for the local big box discount store as job experience on any application.
My groan brought Conor to my side. He bumped my shoulder with his typical buddy body language. “Any luck?”
I didn’t even turn. “Apparently no one wants to hire kids at the moment. How about you?”
In my peripheral vision, I caught him shaking his head. “Yeah. Especially because I don’t have construction experience. I’m not a lifeguard, and I don’t have a welding license.” Conor motioned to the cards on the board.
“You need a license to weld?” That was news to me.
He shrugged. “According to that…” He jerked his thumb at another nearby wall. “…I would.”
I felt like banging my head against the slotted wall in front of me. “I knew I should’ve signed up for that lifeguard class.” I turned to look at him. “Remind me next time not to listen to my mother. I could’ve squeezed it in.”
“Like you would’ve given up your role in Oklahoma.”
Conor grinned. That dimple, which always made the knees of half the girls at our high school go weak, appeared. I knew it had that effect, because apparently being his best friend, those girls at our school who felt moved by that dimple also felt the need to share their earth-shattering experiences with me. Like telling me would earn points with him? Good grief. Sigh. Of course, that dimple also made him look about three years older than his same-as-me seventeen. Wish my dimple did that. I swear, mine made me look about five years younger.
He was right of course. Nothing would’ve dragged me off the stage last year, and I couldn’t have missed rehearsals to get to the class. So, I did the most mature thing I could think of — I stuck out my tongue.
This made him laugh. His dark curls bounced with his body’s movement. They wouldn’t be around much longer because he hated the bushy look almost as much as I hated mine, and as soon as his curls were long enough that he could feel them move — snick! They’d be gone.