Once An Eve Novel

thirty-two



“WELL, LOOK AT YOU, CHARLES HARRIS!” MRS. WENTWORTH cried, poking Charles playfully in the chest. “You’re looking more handsome than ever. It must be the glow of looooove,” she drawled, swaying her big hips back and forth. I’d been told Amelda Wentworth was a prominent widow in the City, one of the original founders who had given the King access to her dead husband’s assets, including his trucking company. She’d been like an aunt to Charles, watching him since he was a teenager, when he had first arrived in the City.

“And you, Your Royal Highness,” she added, curtsying. “What a thrill this must be for you. One day you are living in the Schools and the next you’re here, inside the City walls. Princess Genevieve.” She was standing beside us, turning every few moments to glance around the crowded party.

We were in the penthouse of Gregor Sparks, one of the men who’d donated resources after the plague. The three-story apartment at the top of the Cosmopolitan building had a waterfall in the center of the room and recovered Matisse paintings on the walls. It was yet another engagement party, this one with delicate crackers dabbed with cheese and a full roast pig laid out on a silver platter. It was larger than the ones we had at School ceremonies, its haunches spread wide as a worker cut into its tender flesh.

“It’s been a dream,” I said, my smile tight as I took in her curls, stiff with spray, and the lipstick crusted in the corners of her mouth.

Some guests reclined on Gregor’s long, S-shaped couch, their happy chatter filling the air. The women all wore gowns and silk shawls, while the men donned starched shirts, ties, and buttoned vests. It was a different world than the one beyond the wall, and at times like these, surrounded by the smells of mulled cider and lamb, the wild felt far away, another planet in some far-off galaxy.

“Baby lamb chop?” a waiter asked, presenting me with a silver tray.

I picked up a piece of the pink meat by the bone and brought it to my mouth, the sharp smell of mint stinging my nostrils. As I held it between my forefinger and thumb, a memory rose up: Pip and I on the School lawn, hovering over the gray mound we’d discovered in the bushes. A mound of fur, its tail hiding the rest of its body. Pip crept toward it, determined to pick it up, to figure out if it was sick or dead. She reached down and pinched its foot, then pulled, and the rotted flesh came loose. We started screaming, darting out of the bushes, but she had held it just one second—the thin, bloody bone.

Bile rose in the back of my throat. I could still hear Pip’s scream. I dropped the lamb chop on the platter and stepped away.

“What is it?” Charles asked, his hand still on the small of my back.

“I’m feeling sick,” I said, ducking away from him. I pressed a napkin to my forehead and lips, trying to calm myself. I had dreamed of her last night. Pip in those metal beds, Ruby beside her, then Arden. Another girl had appeared, a younger girl, her features faint in the haze of the dream. When are you coming back? Pip had asked, her stomach protruding nearly two feet, breasts swollen and red hair sticking to her forehead. You’ve forgotten about us.

“Would you like a drink?” Charles asked. “Water maybe?” He signaled to a server in the corner.

“Just space,” I said, stepping away. “Give me one minute.” I held up a finger. Then I ducked out of the crowded room, not stopping until I was down the hall, beyond the kitchen, my back resting against the wall.

I stayed there until my breath slowed. I had promised Beatrice. I’d promised her that I would help her find her daughter, and yet in the days that had passed I’d stood stupidly by Charles’s side as he opened the zoo in the old Grand hotel. I’d attended parties and galas and hosted a brunch for the wives of the Elite.

“Are you all right, Princess?” Mrs. Lemoyne asked as she passed on the way to the bathroom. “You look ill.” She was a mousy woman with rigid manners, always reprimanding someone for making some perceived misstep.

I patted my forehead with my napkin. “Yes, Grace, thank you. Just needed a breath.”

“You should go by the window then,” she urged. “Over there.” She directed me into the formal dining room, where a server was hunched over the table, getting ready to serve the evening tea. Another was kneeling by a china cabinet, pulling cups and saucers from a shelf. Thankfully, the window was open, the cool night air rippling the curtains.

I stepped into the room, the murmurs of the party still audible down the hall. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said as I passed the man at the table. “I’ll only be a minute.”

A moment passed. He didn’t answer. I turned around and he was staring at me. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. His black hair was smoothed down and his body was rigid, his shoulders back, looking so different from the last time I’d seen him. I covered my mouth to stop myself from saying his name aloud.

Curtis balanced the tray on his hand. I glanced at the server kneeling just a few feet away, humming slightly as he arranged the cups on a silver tray. One of the chefs strode down the hallway with an empty platter. Mrs. Lemoyne returned from the ladies’ room, smiling at me as she passed.

I looked into Curtis’s stone-gray eyes, trying to decipher the meaning behind his silence. I wanted to ask if they’d heard anything more about Caleb’s release. I wanted to know how far along the tunnels were, if they’d resumed work on the first one, if the plans had been correct. If they could reach me in the Palace I had a chance still—I could escape.

But he just leveled his gaze at me, his expression cold. “Tea, Princess?” he asked, holding out the tray. I reached down, my fingers trembling as I took a cup. He tilted the pot, letting the boiling water fall, the steam clouding the air between us.

In seconds he was gone, striding back down the long corridor, the china rattling against the silver tray. He never looked back. I stood there, the drink hot in my hands, until I heard the King calling from the next room.

“Genevieve!” he said, his voice cheerful and light. “Come now. It’s time for the celebratory toast.”