CRAZY RICH ILLÉANS
VIII
Roses to her grave
The sun's light dances through the glass roof of the Illéa Palace. It reminds of the fairy tales, Maeve read when she was young. She wouldn't be surprised if she found fairies in here. The golden stairs towards the roof of the Grand Hall look like the gate to the fay world. She remembers the few times when little Gemma was allowed to run up, towards the top where she felt like the queen of this palace—and her father's frightened face.
Rebecca has gone to her office, to review the final preparations for the Cotillion. Her brunch with Maeve and her mother went well, or so Maeve thinks. They discussed, like the gossipy women they were, the development of the real estate market in China.
Daphne has left to finish work, leaving Maeve alone to wait for Anna to arrive with an important package. Of course, she could rest in one of the lounges, but her childhood fascination with the Grand Hall and the beautiful, priceless architecture pulls her back here.
(They totally wouldn't be late, at this rate.)
Her steps echo as she walks past the iron spiral staircase, past the pillars decorated with flowers and gold, towards the glassine tree mural. The stone is polished, as if Rebecca actually let the cleaners enter this room, and mirrors in the stone. If this was a fantasy adventure, then this would be where King Arthur's sword is hidden.
But it isn't. It's just the Illéa Palace and its magical ability to avoid dust.
The branches of the tree cover the whole wall. It's detailed; almost as if it's a real tree with a real, wobbly surface. As a child, Maeve was never allowed to touch it—adults feared for the children to break it—and yet, even now as adult, she can't bring herself to feel it. She traces the tree that covers the rainbow behind it, but she doesn't touch it. How would the glass feel? It's too sacred to be touched.
"You've always been fascinated with this, haven't you?" Rebecca remarks.
"It could come straight out of a fairy tale," she replies.
Gently and slow, as if she had all time in the world, Rebecca steps by her side. She looks older, now, but just as wise. She places her thin, worn out hand onto the brown glass. Maeve can't—out of respect for her grandmother.
(This palace, once, was all she had, and she nearly lost it too.)
"It's not a tree, Gemma," she says, "these are roots, bathing in light."
She recalls her grandmother saying that all the time when she and Noah had been little children. Noah, always the better one, insisted that it had to be a tree, because if these were roots, then there would be a tree somewhere. Of course, Noah never said that. Nobody ever questioned Rebecca Schreave. Not anymore.
"Then where's the tree?" she muses, now.
"Do you know of Yggdrasil, the world tree, in Norse cosmology?"
She's heard of it, in books and media alike. "A bit, why?"
"It's the connection between worlds," Rebecca explains. "I like to think that it's the same for this one. The roots are in our world. They are material—matter—but it's not the only thing, the universe consists of. I believe, energy and information are also very important to physics, isn't it? They are the pillars." She chuckles. "I am, by all means, no professor of physics. My, I was born before neutron and antimatter was discovered, wasn't I? It's been so long…"
"I didn't know you liked physics that much." To Maeve, only the neutron means something, and even that is a faint memory now. High school was so long ago.
(And yet, not as long ago as Rebecca's birth.)
"If you are dying, you find yourself wondering how much is out there."
"Do you?" Maeve mutters, too quiet for her to hear.
"It's odd. I keep thinking of how much I will miss, when I've lived through so many things," she remarks. "I never thought of them, until now. Did you know, the Big Bang was only found in the thirties? Today, it's such common knowledge, but it's not even been hundred years."
Maeve nods. What do you say to that? The steps on which they stand—those that lead to the stained glass mosaic—could very well be where a throne would be placed. When Gregory Illéa built Illéa, he did plan to crown himself King, but she knows how that turned out.
"Now, Gemma, you've always been fond of this hall, have you not?"
Maeve looks around, to the hall in all its grandeur. "Yes, I have. I was always sad that we couldn't come that often."
"When you were children, you and Noah were rather wild," Rebecca teases.
"Yes, that's true, but why not hold events here? Why do you lock away this palace away from the world, when it's the most beautiful of all? It's the pinnacle of what you've build. It's everything. Why rent the White Rose for the Cotillion, when it could be here?"
Rebecca shakes her head. "It isn't. It's the only thing I never build, only kept and guarded. You, my dear, must do that too."
"I understand that, but why do you so rarely invite people here? Why don't we celebrate here—why do we never host events here?"
She places her hand on her shoulder. "Oh, there are more important things than these balls and functions to be held here, Gemma. Oculos qui vult disco, videbit. The eye willing to learn will see."
(That doesn't answer anything, grandma.)
With that, she leaves Maeve, confused more than she was before. She looks to the roots one more time, and the reflection on the floor, where she stands. There—where she believed the trunk to be—is something that the actual image doesn't have; the outline of an eye. In the mirror, it merely looks like the pattern of the brown roots, but—and she makes sure to check it—it doesn't come from there. It almost looks like an eye. Probably some scratches in the stone.
(Odd that she never noticed it before.)
Carefully, Maeve steps down the stairs, away from the world tree. Her phone beeps twice, but she takes a moment to enjoy the Grand Hall once more. With all these Rose Cotillion rehearsals in the last week and work, she hasn't had much time for herself. Whatever that means, she breathes in the strange nostalgic smell of the Illéa Palace and its secrets.
Anna should arrive any moment.
"Someday, I'll throw a party here," Maeve decides, "even if it's just for a few people. You can 'guard' and 'use' something at the same time."
She sits down, in the lounge closest to the grand entrance hall where Anna should see her once she finally arrives. They aren't going to be late (Maeve tells herself that) but that doesn't mean that she wouldn't mind heading to the White Rose as soon as she can. She's been there—for the rehearsals—and she can imagine the security for the high-profile guests present tonight.
Maybe it was Anna who messaged?
(It wasn't, but that wasn't bad.)
/ Private Messages with Percival Santos (RoundTableRoulette)
Perci (RoundTableRoulette): Enchante! Hope you slept well. Poppy said that girls are always stressed on the day of the Cotillion, but don't worry! You look beautiful without fancy dresses, make up and hairdos!
Perci (RoundTableRoulette): Let me know if I can help anyhow!
Maeve (gemmaeve): awww thank you! i'm waiting for someone to bring something, but then we're on our way, hopefully not too late!
Perci (RoundTableRoulette): The Cotillion should never start without you! I will stop them!
Maeve (gemmaeve): haha i'll quote you on that.
(A keeper.)
Opening her phone to read that one message turns into reading through other group chats, from abroad and alike, scrolling through Instagram and reading the news; time flies and Anna arrives, formally announced by one of the few staff members that Rebecca Schreave employs.
"Miss Lee has arrived and will be here any moment. Miss Schreave has also expressed interest in joining you for a moment."
Maeve thanks him and greets Anna with a hug. She can't miss that Anna is a bit out of breath. At least she hurried.
"Sorry for being late, Maevy," she says, "the traffic was ridiculous. We probably want to hurry, if you don't want to pull an Alex Langston and fly to the venue."
She ignores her. "Do you have it?"
Anna nods, and hands her an unmarked paper bag. Of course, she opens it immediately and the b[lack, elegant box in it too. Maeve sits down again, and opens the box. It comes from a jeweller that Gabby recommended. A little too expensive for Maeve's taste, but she insisted that this was a quality matter.
Besides, I'm Gemma Maeve Schreave. Wasting money, like, this is my job, she reasoned.
Inside the box is a pendant, hung by a necklace. When bringing the idea up to the jeweller, she had thought of a Harry Potter time turner, and the necklace still reminds of it; two rings are connected but still can be spun, and central to it is a marble; the spiral is firm enough so she can't lose it, but it isn't actually attached to it; she wouldn't want to risk that. The two rings are embodied with small diamonds (lower carats, she wasn't going to go too expensive), reminiscent of stars.
"This is awfully cute," Anna remarks to it. "Using a marble you got from him fifteen years ago? Damn! Where did that come from? Pinterest?"
"I was worried it'd be too large," Maeve replies, "but it'll look good, I think."
"You did right in choosing the longer necklace."
Rebecca arrives and takes a curious look. "Is that what you were waiting for?"
"Yeah. Perci gave me this marble in elementary school, when I won a nearly impossible bet."
She smiles a little too much, "That is a very lovely idea, dear. How are you, Miss Lee?"
Anna's face is as awkward as it can get if you know your bosses' boss is dying, but also here, and you happen to be pretty close to her granddaughter. She probably regrets working for the Scheaves by now. "Good, thanks, miss."
Rebecca pulls a grandma. A terrifying idea. "You should check in on Taliyah Langston, Miss Lee. You would be a lovely couple."[
Anna is dumbfounded. "What."
"Who?"
"Taliyah Langston, the secretary to Titus," Rebecca explains. "Miss Lee here and Taliyah are good friends, but me and a few friends of mine are confident that there could—should—be more."
"Uhm…. Can I hand in my two-weeks-notice?" Anna blushes.
Thank god that Rebecca doesn't travel with them to the venue. Otherwise, Maeve would fear Anna would actually hand in her resignation.
"Of course, it's just a joke," Rebecca insists, but Maeve isn't sure if matchmaking isn't her secret hoppy. It, apparently, is when it comes to Maeve.
The White Rose is one of, if not the most, recognised and luxurious hotels in Illéa. It's also one of the oldest buildings, only beaten by the Illéa Palace. It's among most expensive estate in the city, being modelled after European palaces. Its garden is among the largest in the city, and filled with roses. Maeve is pretty sure that some version of Cinderella was filmed here.
Fortunately, she's not the last to arrive, but that means that she has to wait with the other high-profile debutantes in line for security. She recognises a few socialites and personalities, not yet dressed into the white debutante gowns they will don later. Once past security, she, with Anna in tow, heads up the staircases whose railings are decorated with red roses.
"Seriously," Anna comments on their way, "where do they get all these roses from? Illéa can't have that many. There's not enough space."
Everything is decorated with wine red roses. Even the chandelier, hanging metres above her, is, and she cannot imagine that it's possible to get that high. Bouquets adorns the hallways, towards the designated backstage area where more girls are chatting with another. They'll carry some, too.
Debutante balls are a ridiculous, archaic tradition, but at least, Rebecca's committee knows how to make them look good.
"Isn't this a hotel?" she hears one girl wonder.
"Not originally," she replies to the girl, "it used to be one of the buildings Gregory Illéa built when he completed the island. He was fond of displays of wealth, to say the least. It was part of his plan to declare himself King."
They listen in. "Oh, that's interesting. Illéa is a republic though, isn't it?"
"History nerd?" another debutante asks with French accent.
"Family history," Maeve replies, and passes on. The Illéa-Schreave family tree is a complicated one (for so many more reasons that people know officially) but the only thing that matters now is that she is the Schreave heiress—even if they nowadays don't own this building anymore. The Chois bought it, many years ago, and turned it into the luxury hotel it is now. She sits down where she recognises her dress and other jewellery.
"Since you left it up to me to hire a stylist, I hired Mariposa Cellavos for make-up and Tracey Cunningham for your hair. Had to fly her over, but nobody complained, so…" Anna notes.
(Maeve is about to, but details.)
Fortunately (because elsewise, she'd fall asleep which given the duration of the Cotillion is a good idea, but since when does Maeve have good ideas?), she's brought along a book, the first of the Bloodhunters series, by Marianne Malrios. She changes, and leans back while her hairstylist does her work. They arrived in between, probably not through the long cue of debutantes waiting to get in.
After Maeve's hair is styled into a hairstyle she totally didn't steal from Pinterest for the ball, Maeve meets Mariposa Cevallos. She comes in casually, in t-shirt and jeans, contrasting the gowns and suits Maeve sees anywhere else. Even Anna wears a pants suit.
"Hi there!" she greets Maeve. She goes straight to the point, discussing with her what kind of makeup she is looking for, and first, Maeve expects the rest of the styling to go that way, but no—she's wrong. Mariposa Cevallos—she remembers Vienna and Angel mentioning her—keeps on talking, even when she starts working. "I swear, I don't know what to think about this," she says. At first, Maeve thinks it's directed to Anna, but she has left already for the day.
"About what?" Maeve asks, almost concerned, when she realises it's directed to her.
"I don't get how Juan was talked into coming here. Juan Santiago—you know him, don't you?"
"Yes, of course I do," Maeve frowns.
"Like, yes, it doesn't make sense. Look down. Juan isn't the type to just go out with some girl—even if Gabby and that girl—Alessia, I think?—made some sort of deal because Gabby's apparently going with her brother or something. He hasn't told me either, so there's something going on, but he's been too busy with the contracts for that show too. I mean, like, yes, I want to set him up with someone, but tell me!" She sighs. "What do you think?"
She's barely finished foundation, so obviously, Maeve doesn't look like one of the beautiful ladies you see on the Cotillion photos.
"It looks nice…?"
"Not the make-up."
"About what, then?"
"The rumour that Juan is dating Alessia de Rossi. Impossible, I'd say. I would know, but everyone thinks so, because Gabby Santiago could have gotten a date that's, you know, more engaged than Simeon Adler—I never heard of him, even if he's a model. I never met him! If he wasn't in the chat, I wouldn't even think him to be anyone!"
"Oh."
"Have you not heard of the rumours?" she asks, surprised. "What kind of people do you hang out with that you missed that? Everyone is talking about it."
My friends are Gabby and Sia. And I'm pretty sure that was my idea, even if it was a joke.
"From what I know, Gabby and Sia both—"
She interrupts. "Oh, do you know them? Alessia? She's called Sia? Great, I keep thinking I hear Alex."
"Yes. They're my friends."
"Oooh, right! Juan mentioned meeting you at the designer's when Gabby was looking for dresses!"
"I am pretty sure they agreed to go with each other's brother to the ball because Sia, Juan and Simeon were worried about the girls going to the ball with strangers."
Mariposa frowns in disappointment. "That sounds like Juan," she agrees though. "He's way too protective of Gabby. She's an adult and can take care of herself! Oh well. How did you meet Sia? Do you know how she has been hiding away from everyone for a whole year?"
"At my cousin's birthday party. I think she's quite busy studying. She had to leave the last rehearsal for the Cotillion early because she had work for her internship."
"Ah, that's true," Mariposa nods. "Good to know that Rina's gossip was wrong for once. I didn't think that was possible, to be honest. I was worried he didn't tell me…"
Mariposa gently pushes her face up. She's good—one of the best artists that Maeve has hired and back in California, she used to spend so much money on them with Celeste and Tessa—but that doesn't mean that she can't shake off the thought that technically, she could have done this on her own.
"How about you?" she moves on. "I haven't seen you a lot at the Goldfinger. Don't like partying?"
"I do, but—" It's just never happened. Plus, Alex Langston. And work. "I do have a lot at work, I guess."
Mariposa laughs. It's not that bell-like beautiful one other girls here have, but it's a genuine, happy one. "I like people who work hard. That's cool. Look to the left. You're working in the family business, aren't you?"
"Yes," Maeve nods.
"Real estate," she concludes, and laughs, "not my thing. I like arts."
"I've never been an artsy person. I tried, and failed. The only thing I can do is cook." Which isn't a good hobby if your mother employs a professional cook.
"Sounds like a good hobby to me," Mariposa replies. "Do you surf too, like Noah?"
"I've tried before, but it's not my thing." She's not done any sport for the past year. Being a teacher was awfully time consuming, even if she was just an assistant for English. "I used to do tramping when I lived in Wellington, but that's it."
"Tramping?" Mariposa repeats. "Oh, I love hiking, but there's so little space for that here, isn't there? The best track's on Dominica, and that's a literal amusement park…"
"You can hike through shopping centers?" Maeve suggests, laughing.
"That's why I moved to surfing. I always wanted to, and finally, I started. You should try it, it's fun and once you manage to stay on the board, you feel really accomplished. And it makes for good Instagram posts. Also, the community is great. Ori, Kenzie and Noah are at the beach all the time, and the rest of the chat, too. By the way, do you know Angel? Angel Cassidy? Mister Luck's son?" She looks around.
"I met him, why?"
"The ballet he's in is performing today. The opening show. We're friends. I think he should be around. I wonder if I can say hi before the performance starts. I have another client, and I haven't seen him in ages. We last chatted at Noah's birthday."
That's not ages.
"I don't think the performance will start that early," Maeve replies. "There's the entry procession and speeches, first. You could sneak into their dressing room," she suggests.
Mariposa smiles, "Ah, right. The fancy progression. I forgot. Of course. You know, I was wondering—I spoke with Vienna van Well, and it reminded me of the time my father performed on the Vienna Opera Ball. Do you know that one? I heard that it's the big event in the end of the reason. If the Rose Cotillion is the beginning of Illéan season, why is it that it's in the beginning?"
Maeve shrugs, "I don't know."
"Don't move," Mariposa reminds her, "I thought that maybe, it's because you have to let the best debut first, and have a big fancy start, but isn't it usually 'safe the best for the last' style? And why 'cotillion' instead of ball? Why so fancy?"
"Gregory Illéa had French ancestry and he prided himself into it," Maeve remembers, "so maybe that. He was an eccentric man," and more, but they don't discuss that, "maybe he wanted to be different? I don't think he knew a word French though. It's not—"
"Don't you debutante have to learn these things?"
"Apparently not." Maeve looks down (until Mariposa moves her head up again) to her closed book. She doesn't exactly have any idea of Illéan social season. But that's alright, she tells herself, because she's going to the ball with Perci Santos, who isn't only kind and charming, but from a good family and with own success! Everything will be perfect, and then she can go on to visit other events as mere guest and somehow go on with her life. This is her home and this is fine.
Mariposa takes a step back to take a look at Maeve and then, she smiles. "Done." She hands her a hand mirror. "What do you think?"
Despite the tension in her stomach, Maeve smiles. "It looks great! Thank you!" She looks to Mariposa, who looks like she's expecting more. "Has Anna done the payment with you already, or how does that work?" she asks, hoping that it was that what Mariposa waited for. She looks great, yes, but she's got a social debut to worry about. Her last attendances to social events weren't exactly good.
"Ah, yeah, she has. No worries. If that's all, then do have fun at the Cotillion. You look great!"
Maeve objectively does, but that doesn't mean that she has anyhow a good track record with Illéan events. She leans back, wonders if Noah will be here (she didn't see him at the brunch, so probably not as a date) until phone beeps. It's Perci, who just arrived. Men need so much less time to prepare and Maeve is jealous.
(Not just of that, but details.)
It's not that Maeve can't run in heels or that she's worried about destroying her hairdo, but she doesn't hurry with meeting Perci at one of the staircases. It's to make a powerful, elegant entrance, she reasons with herself, while passing through to the tunnel of red roses (talk about extra) into the ball room. The whole entrance room—where she is going to need to be for photos later—has its ceiling covered in roses too.
Why is Illéa so out of this world?
She passes by the banquet and the little snacks (almost taking one of the cupcakes with rose topping but no, she wears lipstick), past chatting girls with their dates and towards Perci Santos who speaks with a girl in their age. Maeve's heart stops for a moment.
"Oh, Maeve, enchante!" he greets her. "This is Maeve Schreave," he says to the girl.
"I know," she chirps. "I'm Marisol, Perci's sister. I've heard a lot of you. Pleasured to meet you."
Maeve lets go of her breath. "Nice to meet you too," she replies.
"She's here, just in case she catches Alex and Griff. Both of whom probably won't come. Shall we go—is that that marble?" he asks, with big eyes. "You still have it? I thought, you lost it like the others did…"
Maeve hand wanders to her chest, and she smiles. "Yeah, it was at home, safe and sound. I thought it'd be nice to be made into a necklace."
"It looks just as beautiful as you are, mi'lady," he replies.
"He's not a nice guy. He just grew up with a British grandma," Marisol pipes in.
They laugh, but soon leave Marisol in favor of taking photos with the other debutantes. They meet Gabby and Sia, and the girls receive their bouquets—also roses. The evening comes, and Maeve lines up with the other girls. Gabby isn't far off, but there are two couples between them. Sia is further in front; they are, of course, ordered by surname, meaning Maeve is among the last.
She isn't the last, though, and that's not nice.
But because the debutante's entrance is part of the whole opening ceremony and the rows of girls with their dates turn around a corner with slits to the ball room, she can watch it all. Most guests are seated, and the only ones left are the girls, the guests of honor and the committee.
Music starts playing. Illéa's anthem, she recognises. Among the guests of honour are the president and prime minister. She catches one outstanding head—red hair with golden highlights—and recognises her, Kenzie Choi, in a breath-taking red gown. She could be part of the decoration. She's probably representing the White Rose and her family, Maeve.
(Again, Maeve is jealous.)
Each of them (that is how she catches Kenzie) is announced, and it takes a while for Perci and Maeve to reach the front. Each girl looks beautiful in their own right. They have to, given the price tag attached to debuting here. Nothing else would even be considered.
"Miss Gemma Maeve Schreave, accompanied by Mr Percival Santos."
She could swear that more heads turn than any time before. That more people whisper. It must be the Estelle scandal, she thinks, while walking down into the ball room. Doing that curtesy. She shouldn't curtesy, she's Gemma Maeve Schreave, but here she is. She is called crown princess of Illéa for a reason, but she does it, because she can't afford more rumours to her name. Perci and Maeve sit down, fortunately not far off her friends, and the committee sits, with an exception. Rebecca speaks, with the serenity of a goddess.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, friends and family, welcome to the annual Rose Cotillion." She greets the guests, welcoming particular foreign leaders visiting and remembering the past year. She mentions things of which Maeve knows nothing. Illéan things. "And finally, as there have been enough rumours, and yes, it is true. I am stepping down from my position as chairwoman of the Cotillion commitee, and I am glad to know that it will be in good hands. Following me, my dear friend who has done half of this year's organisation on her own, Rowena Carlisle, will be taking things over."
She gestures for Rowena, at the head table with all the important leaders and the committee—that is why everyone wants that spot—to stand and the guests of the Cotillion applaud.
"Then, of course, there is an opening in the committee with me leaving. I have watched the young ladies that debuted over the years. I always knew that there was the chance for one member to leave us, and for that reason, I've kept a careful eye on these young roses." She pauses. "Today, one of them—and I am sure we all know her—will be joining us." She gestures to the youngest guest at the table—one that Maeve only now notices. "Marina Klydeworth, whom I think we all know of. After all," she chuckles, "parties are her business."
Even though the guests clap and Rina looks like she's dying inside thanks to that last remark, the weight on Maeve's chest remains heavy. She should sit at that table, as her grandmother's successor. Choosing Rina, from all she has heard, makes perfectly sense, but that doesn't mean that it anyhow eases her heart.
The opening programme continues, but she doesn't pay a lot of attention. Not even when Angel and his ballet performs.
Maeve stomach needs the arrival of dinner, but between the ballet performance, local children's choir and a bunch of more speeches, it feels like an eternity waiting to pass. It doesn't, and she does not like that.
"Are you alright? You look pale. That dress isn't too tight, is it not?" Perci whispers to her.
"It's just the Estelle story making everyone look at me. It makes me paranoid." Not a lie.
It goes on, and dinner arrives. The food is, again, rose-themed. They really stick to their theme. She wonders, is it the same every year? She can't believe that, it'd be far too boring. Not worth having a whole committee tasked with organising it. She doubts that it's a coincidence that the Rose Cotillion has a heavy rose theme now that she is back, but she doubts it's because of her either.
(Not with how things have been going.)
"Gemma, don't mind me asking," one of the girls seated with them speaks up with a smile that reminds Maeve far too much of Mean Girls. She's Gemma Maeve Schreave. She's important. She's rich. (Not among them, here, she's normal). "Are you part of the Chat?"
The first she wants to do is, yeah, glare confused or even better, ignore her. She can't do that, though. She can't be rude.
"Why do you want to know that?" Juan, to her surprise, asks.
The girl rolls her eyes. "Your little chat is the most exclusive clique in Illéa. I want to know if this infamous Gemma Schreave is in it. Your cousin is, isn't he?"
"Someone to whom Gregory Illéa is 'family history', surely, she'd be part of the elite clique?" That girl's the one from earlier. Great. Note to self, don't brag next time, it'll make things worse.
(As if she'll listen.)
"Is it that exclusive?" Sia asks, surprised. "Noah just added me and Simi, and then there's Mariposa, too. You wouldn't expect her in an 'exclusive clique'…"
Great news! She, who used to be called crown princess of Illéa, is not in the elite clique and not in the not-very-exclusive clique!
"If you're jealous you aren't friends with certain people, you might want to reconsider if the reason isn't with you," Simeon shots at them. He continues eating.
And that's where the conversation ends. That girl has gotten the message, and so has Maeve. She isn't part of the cool kids. Sia is. Gabby probably too, given that Juan spoke up. She's alone. Great. She's alone in a home that feels more foreign than the other side of the planet, and she's alone in a hall, on a debutante ball that's meant to be the highlight of a young girls' youth. Does she want to 'settle down' into this life? She'd even take superficial and materialistic Tessa and Celeste over this.
(She might as well just dig her own grave.)
The dinner ends. Maeve doesn't talk. Nobody notices, because most try to get news out of Juan on his newest movie (not worth the effort) and Maeve couldn't care less about it. Perci asks her twice, again, if she's alright, but what is she meant to say? "Oh, I'm sorry, I just feel pretty crappy because the friend group, that probably includes literally everyone I've met and thought I liked, doesn't include me, and some nobody girl just exposed me in public?" She really misses the old days.
She really misses home. Whatever it means.
The opening of the dance begins. Once, Maeve remembers hearing during their rehearsals, it used to be elaborate. Nowadays, the debutantes don't spend their days sitting around, gossiping, but half of these girls attend elite universities, and the other half have degrees from these universities. They don't have time to learn pretty dances for one evening when there's a world to change.
Or pretty boys to date.
Point being, she dances with Perci and it's almost awkward. Almost, because he isn't awkward. Almost looks understanding. Kind. Worrying, maybe. It's awkward on her side because Perci is definitely in the club too. They don't exchange a word. Maeve avoids his gaze.
After that, it doesn't get better. The father-daughter dance. Without a father in the picture anymore, the closest male relative to Maeve is Julian. They can't stand another. Standing by would probably—or so Rebecca decided—cause more of an uproar, and none of the Schreaves want to be reminded of that drama. So, she dances with Julian and doesn't say a word.
And the other girls talk even more.
"What about the Estelle hack? Is it true that she staged it? Did Estelle know, or who did she pay?"
"Is that why she's not in the chat? Do you guys know?"
They hover over Sia like hawks over their food. Maeve stops, just within range to hear them.
"I really don't think Maeve would do that," she defends her. Warmth fills Maeve's chest.
"And what about Noah Schreave's birthday party? About the scene she caused?"
"I wasn't there. I don't know what happened," Sia replies.
"So, it happened."
"I don't know, but—"
"Is she in the group chat?"
"No? How is that related—"
"Why not, then?"
"I don't know, I don't read it every day. I'm busy with work and studies."
"What about her dress?" the girls then say. "And her hair and makeup? That the dress isn't even haute couture, and that she did her hair herself? This ball has such a longstanding tradition, do you think it's fit for her, a drama queen, to not even take it seriously? She's Rebecca Schreave's granddaughter. She should know better."
(None of them knows how much better she should know.)
Maeve frowns. It's the last thing
d she would expect to hear. Sure, she didn't choose the most expensive designer but one's apprentice, but wasn't supporting indie designers and the local economy the trend, or some nonsense? Things that people had to eat up because it was nice and altruistic? She turns away. She can't just walk out, or it'll be worse. Like Estelle said, head high, be proud.
(She's not sure if that'll work.)
Maybe she can join her mother or grandmother, pretend that she's just checking in on them. Get away from the other girls in her age. She's grateful for Sia's attempts, but they don't solve anything. They delay the inevitable. Maeve gulps when she realises.
"This is never gonna work. Illéa isn't gonna work."
She needs to get out of here. Now.
Chapter Summary:
Maeve meets with Rebecca in the morning of the Cotillion, where her grandmother expresses odd thoughts about the Illéa Palace. Anna arrives, with a necklace that Maeve had a jeweller make, centring around the marble that Perci gave to her a long time ago. Maeve arrives, and elaborates the history of the White Rose hotel to a few girls, gaining their attention. She meets the chatty Mariposa who talks about the rumours of Sia and Juan dating, which Maeve can clarify. The ball begins and still tense, Maeve soon is asked about whenever she's part of the chat clique centring around Noah and his friends. She's hurt, and while Sia, Perci and Juan defend her, she struggles.
Next Chapter: Maeve rage quits
Author's Note
Happy actual April update!
I hope you enjoyed this chapter just as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think, especially about the events of the Cotillion and Rebecca's little monologue—what do you think does she talk about?
I hope you all are safe and well; if you need someone to chat to while under lockdown or so, feel free to hit me up! I'm currently wifi-less for unknown time, but I still have mobile data!
Edit: There are a few aesthetics (and I plan to add more throughout the month, but what is time) regarding people's outfits on Pinterest.
