*Iris Blanchefleur of Angeles, Four*
"Sit down, darling," Kim Durham instructs, patting her granddaughter's shoulder. "Gavril is about to show himself. And of course you know what is happening tonight!"
The Selected Daughters of Illéa are to be read in five minutes. Of course Iris is aware of that. It's only the biggest opportunity of her life. To even meet Prince Ahren would be an honor. But to date him, to possibly marry him . . . That would be joy beyond measure.
But Iris simply smiles gracefully and sinks into the couch cushions, tossing a chunk of gleaming red hair over her shoulder. "I'm not even sure why we're bothering to watch," she scoffs. "We all know I'm going to be picked."
"Modesty is a virtue, dear," says Mr. Blanchefleur. "I doubt that the prince will desire a girl who has no humility."
Iris inclines her head and winks. "I suppose not, Father. Although we might as well have already planned my farewell party."
Her uncle narrows his eyes. "Treat your father with respect, Iris."
"Shh, Horace," hisses Kim. "It's beginning!" She leans forward, gluing her eyes to the screen.
Gavril marches onstage, clad in a spectacular burgundy suit, grinning broadly. "Hello, Illéa!" he crows, waving one arm over his head in his signature greeting. In his hand, he holds a sheaf of paper and a projector remote. "Now, I wouldn't want to make you wait, now would I?" He pauses for an agonizing ten seconds anyway. A banner unfolds above his head, portraying the crest of Illéa. The Royal House of Schreave is written across the bottom in elegant calligraphy. "And without further ado, in honor of the royal family of noble Illéa, I present to you . . . the Selected Daughters of our country!"
"What do you - " ventures Iris's younger sister, Ella. She's two years too young for the cutoff, and still hasn't forgiven Iris entirely for being allowed to enter. This is reasonable; if Ella had been old enough to submit her name to the lottery, Prince Ahren would probably have proposed to her on the spot.
"Hush!" Kim flaps her wrist, beginning her daily rant. "For the love of God, you are all uncivilized cows. I don't know what I did wrong, but He knows - "
"Mother," Mrs. Blanchefleur cautions under her breath. "Gavril's begun reading. We don't want to miss our province. Can you imagine that? If Iris is chosen and we don't even know it?"
Kim glowers and snaps her mouth closed, electing to watch Prince Ahren as he bites his lip and listens. His messy blond hair, sun kissed skin, and glittering white teeth just scream sex, at least to Iris. And his eyes . . .
"They're the same color as yours, Iris," observes Cherie Blanchefleur, Iris's paternal grandmother. "See, you've already got something in common. Isn't that exciting?"
"We have no idea whether Iris has been chosen, Cherie." But the corners of Mrs. Blanchefleur's lips tilt up, betraying her confidence.
The family waits in tense silence, some sure that Iris's name will be called, some doubtful. While resting, they catch clips of the other girls: Allie Abbott of Clermont, a three with quite large breasts; Becca Wilder of Columbia, a four with stunning green eyes; Dylan Marvil of Fennley, a five with silky auburn tresses.
Then the moment comes.
"Of Angeles . . . Iris Blanchefleur, four."
Cherie Blanchefleur lets out a shriek and engulfs her granddaughter in a huge hug. "You're going to be a princess, my sweetheart!"
"We don't know that yet, grand-mère." Politely, Iris detaches herself in time to catch sight of Prince Ahren's expression. His posture doesn't change as he nods thoughtfully. She hopes that's a good sign.
"You should probably get to bed," Mrs. Blanchefleur urges immediately. "You're going to need to rise very early tomorrow morning, especially if you'd like to plan a farewell party for yourself. You'll have full of use of our resources, of course."
"Of course," Iris agrees, faking a yawn. "You're right; I am very tired. I'll just head upstairs."
The second she locks the door of her room, she discards her humble clothes, trading them for a tight silver skirt, a bright pink cropped shirt, and black T-strap heels. Quickly tying her hair into a half-up 'do, she throws up the sash of her window, checking quickly to ensure that the ladder is still there. In one fluid move, she descends.
She jogs towards the nearest bar. After all, being chosen for the Selection calls for a celebration.
- Massie Block of Yukon, Three -
"No, thank you," Massie murmurs, shaking her head at the platter of food that is being offered to her. On her plate, she already has a slice of venison and a pile of asparagus (imported specially from Ottaro). That's more than enough.
"Massie, you are entirely too thin," Hilly Faulkner declares.
She bites her tongue so she doesn't lash out at her mother's mother. Hilly means well, but food is a touchy subject for Massie.
"She's fine," laughs Mr. Block. "Don't worry so much, Hilly. She's preserving her body image. And rightfully, too. When Prince Ahren falls head over heels for her, she has to look her best. Can you imagine? We're going to have a princess in the family!"
"I'm sure there will be some heavier girls in the group." Mrs. Block pouts and rests her hands on the wooden table. "Don't discriminate."
"I'm not the one choosing the next princess of Illéa," Mr. Block points out truthfully. "The prince is a young boy. I'm sure he will be influenced by body shape. If you don't want to eat, you don't have to." He directs this last statement at his only child, smiling. "As long as you're healthy, that's all that matters."
I'm not healthy! Massie wants to scream, but she doesn't. That wouldn't be socially acceptable.
Inez, the family maid, enters the dining room, clutching a feather duster. "The Selected girls will be appearing on the television in fifteen minutes, if you are interested. I heard that Miss Massie submitted an application."
"She did, Inez, thank you." It's a clear dismissal. As soon as the older woman leaves, Mrs. Block offers a tight smile and sets her utensils down. "I'm going to go in and make sure we don't miss anything. Inez means well, the darling, but sometimes those immigrants from Whites just don't get it right."
"Now, Kendra." Artemis, Mr. Block's mother, places a comforting hand on her daughter-in-law's forearm. "I'm sure Inez is correct. Don't rush your dinner. We'll all be ready to watch in due time."
"What if we miss the list?" Mrs. Block frets, dabbing at her mouth with a cloth napkin. "This is ridiculous. I'm completely finished with my dinner. I'll just duck into the den and make certain that we aren't missing anything. This way, I'll be able to see Mr. Fadaye's opening speech, and I can call you all in exactly at the right time."
"If you insist, dear." Mr. Block stands and pulls out his wife's chair, allowing her to rise.
"I'll go with you, Mother." Massie carries her untouched portion into the kitchen, where she leaves it on the counter for Inez to wash. The Blocks' housekeeper is probably the only person alive who is aware of just how severe Massie's illness is. But she wouldn't dare say a word.
The tawny-skinned girl enters the living room just in time to watch Gavril Fadaye strut onstage. Although he must be close to seventy, he barely appears a day older than he did at the time of the last Selection.
"You know, Massie, I was four years too old for King Maxon when he chose a wife. But I am sure that Prince Ahren will select you. How could he not? You're the perfect embodiment of a princess!"
Massie's perfectly plucked eyebrows rise. She can count on one hand the amount of times that her mother has complimented her in the last ten years. "Well, thank you. I hope he does."
"Watch, my dear." Mrs. Block points at the screen and raises her voice. "Mr. Fadaye is making the announcement!"
The rest of their family floods in, settling on sofas and armchairs. Mr. Block takes a seat next to Massie and slings a supportive arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Good luck, honey."
"Well, I'm not sure what I'd use that for now," she whispers back. "But thank you anyway."
Gavril Fadaye's voice echoes from the television set. "The Selected Daughters of Illéa!"
She concentrates, trying to commit every face to memory, just in case she is picked. It is always smart to be aware of one's competition.
But suddenly, her province has arrived, and she feels almost queasy. She contemplates excusing herself, but decides against it.
"Of Yukon . . . Massie Block, three!"
A smirk appears on the prince's face, and for a split second Massie is satisfied. But then her stomach growls, her head spins, and, sighing, she pinches the fat on her flat belly.
"You've done it." Artemis kisses Massie on the cheek. "You've been Selected. You're an official Daughter of our nation."
"I am." Massie purses her lips. "I really am."
*Alina Lampros of Kent, Three*
"Good God, woman, you're blocking the TV." Mr. Lampros folds his arms. "You know that the best chair in this house is always reserved for me. Don't just assume that you - "
"Enough, please, Konstantine." Mrs. Lampros rolls her eyes. "If Alina wants to use that seat today, let her. This is the evening she'll discover if her future has changed forever."
He takes another swig of alcohol. An entire case of Columbian wine was delivered directly to to the Lampros' doorstep earlier that morning, and Mr. Lampros is already on his third bottle. "No. She needs to move. Next you women will want to take over the house. Stand up, Alina."
"You could be speaking to the next princess of Illéa," Mrs. Lampros informs her husband, a hard edge to her voice. "You may want to take caution."
"Shut your mouth," Mr. Lampros orders, slamming his empty glass onto the coffee table. "Get your ass out of my space, Alina, and go stand behind the couch with your disgusting mother."
She rises immediately, scurrying away. She's learned the hard way to listen to her father before he turns violent. Explaining to a hospital why she had shards of glass piercing her stomach and handprints burned across her cheeks had not been a pleasant experience.
"Finally," Mr. Lampros moans, flopping into the chair and pouring more wine.
Behind the couch, Mrs. Lampros smiles ruefully at her daughter. "I couldn't be more sorry, Alina," she whispers. "This is not how my life was supposed to turn out."
"I know." Alina nods back at her mother. "None of this is your fault. You can't help the pregnancy laws."
"I had no choice." Mrs. Lampros's voice is raw. "I . . . my parents didn't support abortions, and I didn't have enough of my own money. Both of us would have been imprisoned for life if I had left him."
"You can't control this. It isn't your fault, Mother. He raped you." Alina's voice is hard.
"Twice." Mrs. Lampros bites her lip and coughs in the direction of her son, who is sprawled on the sofa in front of them, purposely leaving no room for his mother and sister.
"Let's just try to move on." Alina sighs. "You know that the second I get married, you'll be moving into my house, Mom. It's only a couple of years. You'll never have to see either of them again."
"He's my son." Mrs. Lampros chances another glance at Shalson.
"No. He's the product of rape," Alina says firmly.
"Technically, so are you," she points out.
"But we're on the same team, Mother. Father and Shalson are sexist, misogynistic beasts."
A laugh escapes Mrs. Lampros's mouth. "Well said, darling."
Alina nods, but grows serious quickly. "Mr. Fadaye's on," she announces quietly. "Let's pay attention."
"I'm hoping for you with all my heart."
"Me too." Alina's toes curl against the cold carpet.
Three names are called. In their own way, each woman is very attractive. The first is cute and thin. The next has voluminous black hair and absolutely stunning eyes. The third has very ample assets.
"Of Kent . . . "
The seconds between province and name are an eternity for Alina. She inhales deeply. "It's not me, Mom." She already feels the crushing disappointment. "I don't compare to those girls. I can't."
"You don't know that, honey. And I believe in you."
They squeeze each other's hands, and a current of solidarity flows between mother and daughter.
" . . . Alina Lampros, three!"
Something between a squeal and a gasp escapes Mrs. Lampros's throat. "It's you!"
"So should I start calling you Lady Alina?" teases Shalson quickly, a menacing glint in his eyes. He reaches up and tweaks a lock of his sister's dark hair.
"Lay off her," Mrs. Lampros commands. Her voice is stronger than it has been in ages. "You're right; she is a Lady. And she doesn't deserve your disrespect. I will make you pay if you touch her one more time. Do I make myself clear?"
"Sure, Mother." Shalson laughs and stretches back out.
"I'm sorry." Alina caresses her mother's arm. "I'll have you out of here as soon as possible, whether I win the Selection or not."
"Of course you will, darling. I trust you more than anything else in the world."
quick update, huh? you should probably appreciate it.
please answer the following questions!
1.) who is your favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?
2.) who is your least favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?
3.) did you like the chapter in general? did you dislike it? please give it a rating from 1 to 10 (1 is the worst, 10 is the best).
thank you! i'd love it if you responded to these inquiries, but if you just leave a simple one- or two-word review, i appreciate that just as much.
2 / 17 / 15
~ joyana ~