I touch his cheek with the back of my fingers. He feels warm and soft and real. We fell asleep barely touching. But now we coil together, swaddled in our own body heat, our chests rising and falling in complete synchrony. I notice how well our bodies fit together, and for the first time in for ever, I feel completely at peace.
The sun begins to fade, and I realize we’ve slept most of the day. Which means I will hang in four days . . . which means the ball starts soon. This thought shatters my peace. I sit up, knocking Ash with my shoulder, opening my mouth in panic. For some reason, I’m surprised by how free my tongue feels as I shout the words, ‘Shit! The ball.’
We run all the way back to the Imp-hut, sleep blurring our eyes.
‘Where have you been?’ Nate says as we push through the door.
Saskia’s gaze swings between me and Ash, her face locked in this suspicious frown. ‘Come here, bedhead. We need you to look waitress-ready.’
She washes my face with a scratchy cloth and pulls the remaining strands of straw from my hair. I’m hoping she assumes they’re from the bunks, but judging from the amount of huffing and puffing, I’m fooling no one.
She rubs rouge into my cheeks and arranges my hair in a tousled up-do. Ash watches me with a shy smile on his face. ‘You look beautiful, Violet.’
An echo from canon: the exact words Ash said to Rose just before she headed off to the ball. But real Ash – my Ash – sounds more assertive, less needy.
Saskia and Nate both glare at him.
‘Yeah well, she’s off limits. Got it?’ Saskia says.
Ash shrugs. ‘Doesn’t stop her looking beautiful.’
I try and bury the little smile which tugs at the corners of my mouth.
I arrive at the ballroom an hour before the party begins. I remember that Willow called it his coming-of-age ball, probably to save my feelings, but its real name is a Gallows Ball, thrown for a Gem debutant just before they attend their first Gallows Dance. Yet another way of mocking the Imps. My jaw clenches.
I banish the thought from my brain and focus on successfully completing the next part of the story; on making sure those two pieces of thread stay closely intertwined. All I need to do is serve at the ball, gaze longingly at Willow all night, and then hang back when the guests leave. Then, I get to star in one of my favourite scenes. Willow and Rose dancing to no music in the deserted ballroom, the bloom that Rose gave him pinned to his lapel. It was so beautiful. Loads better than that poxy stable. Hopefully, it will set the scene for our first kiss.
I take a second to absorb my surroundings – my favourite set. Double doors lead on to a sweeping staircase which takes you on to the marble floor – a giant, polished ice rink. It looks more like something from a fairy tale than a dystopian novel, and so removed from the Imp city that it possesses a dreamlike quality. Lilac walls reach towards a white, domed ceiling. A cluster of chandeliers form the shape of a flower, several smaller petals blooming from a larger centrepiece. And something the film simply couldn’t capture is the way the light bounces off everything – the crystals, the marble floor, the silverware. I think I would’ve stood and gaped for ever if the Imp in charge, a stout, middle-aged woman with a moustache, didn’t bark up the stairs, ‘Move it, new girl, you’re on drinks.’
The Imps busy themselves, setting out hors d’oeuvres and floral arrangements. They watch the food hungrily, and I feel a sympathetic grumble in my stomach. We look smarter than usual, dressed in the regulation grey suits reserved for special Gem occasions such as this. I should feel masculine, but four words beat over and over in my head: You look beautiful, Violet. I try and hide these words away, aware that I shouldn’t be thinking of Ash when I need to get the canon back on track, but they just keep popping back into my head.
I set out the champagne flutes on trays, my white regulation gloves preventing contamination from my dirty Imp hands.
‘Attention,’ Moustache calls.
We stand in a neat little line. Heads bowed and gloved hands clasped before us. The string quartet begins to play, and I try not to stare at their impossibly elegant Gem fingers dancing up and down the strings. I think of Katie, the way her hair falls across her face as she strikes her bow against the strings of her cello. There’s something far more alive, far more beautiful, about her imperfect face scowling with concentration when compared to these airbrushed, uniform Gems.
The guests arrive. The women look like a parade of Disney princesses, the men all handsome in tailored suits. I try to remain invisible and avoid eye contact while offering drinks; a difficult task which requires all my effort.
‘Oh my, Howard! Look,’ one Gem cries. She looks Asian, and has amazing long black hair and full, red lips. I remember this scene from canon. Two horribly patronizing Gems talking really loudly about Rose as though she couldn’t hear. Howard Stoneback, the nephew of the Gem President, and his wife. At least it means the canon is dragging us along, even if I do want to smack them in the face. ‘This Imp is almost pretty.’ She points a manicured nail right in my face.
Howard laughs, his blond curls bounce around his face. ‘Oh yes. Stranger things, darling, stranger things.’
‘Get a photo.’ She stands next to me and smiles, her sticky perfume invading my nostrils.
‘Darling, don’t stand so close to the Imps. They’ve scrubbed up tonight, but they’re still . . . you know . . . dirty.’ His voice strengthens, in search of an admiring ear. ‘And as the President’s only nephew, standards must be upheld.’
Standards indeed! I know from canon that Howard regularly frequents brothels. Imp brothels at that. I look at my boots so they don’t see my smirk.
Mrs Stoneback steps away. ‘Quite right, darling, the champagne’s making me giddy.’ This doesn’t stop her grabbing another glass, her scarlet nails tapping on the stem. They hurry away, laughing. I force my features into a neutral expression and imagine spitting in their drinks – this cheers me up.