Chapter Six: Now Bold Now Faint
When I see them I can almost swear: that grey is from Whistler's brain!
That crimson flush was Turner's brush! And the gold is Claude Lorrain.
- William Percy French
There was a crack and a flash and a finger of smoke rose very slowly from the magnesium flash lamp that the rebellion's propagandist was holding aloft to illuminate the rapidly darkening space behind the safe-house. "Hold it there, girls, thank you for your patience, you're all looking lovely..." He was using a very old camera, Saran saw, the wet plate kind that you still sometimes saw old men in Choibalsan hawking at narrow stalls on market day, cleverly appropriated from antique collections in Hohhot, all finely polished mahogany, cloth bellows and brass focusing screws, clearly treasured despite its age. "Alright..." Enyakatho Imfazwe adjusted one of the dials on his camera and raised his lamp once again, his dark eyes narrowed in focus. "Over here and broad smiles, girls, everyone looking happy..."
Saran Altai smiled narrowly as instructed, but she could not shake her strong sense of unease at the entire tableau laid out before them. The Selected girls had been grouped together on one of the few flat plateaus of land in the vicinity of the safehouse; behind them a long ribbon of red and yellow soil spilled out towards the darkening horizon like an unspooled thread of sand. They were arranged in four short lines for the purposes of the photo: the taller ladies, like Nina Novak, the Carolina girl with sunken eyes and thick brows, and Soledad Delrío, the Honduraguan lawyer with warm brown skin, were made taller with the use of a rickety wooden bench at the back of the group, while the more petite girls, like the delicate and doe-eyed ice princess, Yue Yukimura, had been positioned at the front, right beside Saran herself - who was not remotely resentful at having been deemed short by these arrangements, thank you very much, even though it would be much fairer to say she was of average height and anyway, everyone knew that girls in the Selection skewed a little taller than the rest of the population.
They had been arranged into an artful semblance of stylish relaxation - that was easier for some than others. The socialite Eden's hair swept over one shoulder with her head tilted towards the sunrise like she was listening to someone tell a joke, eyes aglitter like she was waiting for the punchline, like a perfectly composed sculpture of tranquility, but the girl behind her, the scarred rebel from Tammins, didn't seem to know the meaning of the word candid, and Enyakatho, the photographer, had to keep reminding her to let her shoulders relax a little, look a little less intense, stare into the lens with a little less fervour. Privately, Saran thought that the Tammins girl, Atiena Morris, probably had the more apt demeanour for the setting, for once you cared to look beyond the tiered arrangement of the Selection's ranks, waiting on the next shot to be taken, you realised exactly how incongruous they actually were, for on either side of their systematic pale perfection, men and women in khaki and torn clothes milled about with rifles strapped to their back and blood staining their shoes, malnourished dogs with yellow snarls paced back and forth with barely restrained urgency, and their co-ordinator was sitting with her clipboard in the passenger seat of the metal shell of what had once been a functional automobile, now sitting doorless and wheelless and windowless in the shadow of the tall, narrow safehouse.
From chaos, Saran thought narrowly, Enyakatho had wrought the tiniest facade of composure. She was sure that the photo being taken would reflect absolutely none of it.
She turned towards the camera, she broadened her smile, and there was another thunderous crack, a white-bright flare of light, and then Enyakatho was lowering the smoking lamp and saying, his voice cheerful, "absolutely flawless, ladies, thank you for your co-operation." He nodded to one of the rebels - one of the many grim-eyed, stone-faced men with calloused hands and scars on his face - who nodded and looked over his shoulder and barked something in Uzohola's direction, apparently to signal that the meal could begin in earnest, now that the rebellion had gathered enough propaganda to fuel a few Reports. While the photos had been taken, and inspected, and taken again, and the girls rearranged, and more photos taken, and criticisms made, and yet more photos taken, the rebels had been setting up three long tables, a few dozen yards away from the photography setup, near the open fires and narrow barbecue stoves from which wafted the hunger-stoking aroma of cooking meat and stewing spicy sauces.
"Alright, ladies," Uzohola called. "Get it while it's hot!"
As the girls scattered to pick out positions among the three long tables that had been set out in the desert, Saran glanced at the girl next to her. She knew that Yue had the room directly above hers, and had glimpsed her a few times on various television broadcasts of this or that winter sporting event, but their introduction had been a hasty, whispered one as they were positioned side-by-side for the photo. They were from neighbouring provinces of Yukon and Whites, which made the Mongolian girl feel almost instantly a little more comfortable, despite the alien land in which she found herself now stranded. "Thank god that's over," Saran murmured softly, and was rewarded with a soft laugh from Yue.
"I thought it was nice," the ice princess remarked mildly.
Saran tugged at her collar. She was wearing one of her sister's dresses, a preppy red number with a neat white collar and short sleeves that were proving less and less of a good idea as the sun sank behind the horizon. "I'd be tempted to agree if I wasn't starving."
"Yukimura!" The dangerous-looking girl from Sonage was waving Yue over to sit beside her. The smaller Whites girl's obvious surprise and confusion was endearing as she blinked and stared at the waving hand. "Saved you a seat, darling!"
Saran quirked a half-smile that faded slowly as she realised that positions around the various tables were rapidly being snapped up as the Selected girls swiftly bunched together into make-shift alliances, some chatting and laughing with candor, others quieter and scanning their surroundings. There was an obvious separation, Saran thought, between the southern girls who came from rebel provinces, who looked a little more accustomed to the distinctly warzone air, and the more northern girls who had betrayed their Crown to travel into foreign territory and looked ill at ease. Liara Lee and Eden Lahela, both defectors from the most decadent layers of Angeles high society, had taken seats together closest to the safehouse, while the keen-eyed Marjorie Vermudez was positioned closest to the stove - not, Saran thought, for quickest access to the food, but apparently with the intention of striking up a conversation with Atiena Morris, the rebel who looked like she hadn't eaten or slept in several years, and with Lissa Dove, the bubbly and slightly sickly looking blonde that looked like she was badly in need of a haircut and a few extra pints of blood.
This pattern was repeated across all three of the long tables: southern girls sitting with southerners, northern girls with northerners, Crown defector with Crown defector, rebels with rebels. A new sort of caste system, Saran thought darkly. Girls from the rebel heartland in the north seemed to be an unhealthy medium between the two, which Saran thought was probably why Yue looked so relieved to have a place to sit with the girl from Sonage. Saran herself, however, wasn't exactly sure which side would take her, which was why she put a hand very gently on the crook of Yue's arm and said, very softly, "can I..."
"Oh," Yue said, and sounded a little relieved that she had asked. "Please do."
Saran smiled at Yue, and they went over together to slide into seats beside and opposite the former Six, who was, Saran was now recalling, named Corvina Rouen - a suitably dark and enigmatic name, Saran thought, for such a dark and enigmatic girl. She was sitting with another northern girl, Ekaitza Jones, the Atlin girl with slightly wolfish eyes and only four fingers on her left hand, but Lady Ekaitza seemed inclined to leave the talking to Lady Corvina who leaned back in her chair and waved her fingers at Saran. "Saran Altai?"
"The same. Corvina Rouen?"
"Got it in one." There was something unpleasant about the way that Corvina smiled, like she only did so because she knew something that you did not. "Lovely to meet you. Settling in alright?"
Saran shrugged. "As well as I can." She cast a look between the other three girls. "I'm not the only one who finds it all a bit... well, odd?"
"It's a rebel Selection." Ekaitza Jones had a dry, drawling voice that made everything sound sardonic and sarcastic, even when Saran wasn't sure she intended to sound that way. "Odd doesn't begin to describe it. I'm just astounded we're not being kept in an underground bunker somewhere outside the United Sultanates."
Yue glanced at Lady Ekaitza. She sounded like she didn't know if the other girl was joking. "In a bunker?"
The Baffin girl rolled her eyes cynically. "Photos look the same whether we're in Illéa or out of it. It would have made much more sense to move us to a friendly country and hold the Selection there. Do they really think the Wastelands are far enough from the palace?"
Lady Corvina still looked amused. "I would lower your voice, Jones. You wouldn't want to insult our hosts."
Lady Ekaitza shot Lady Corvina a long, suspicious look, but fell silent just as the older girl had suggested. Ekaitza had the same hungry look as a lot of the rebels, Saran thought, lean with a somewhat feral beauty, harsh and rough where Corvina was sleek and sharp and silky - a mafia princess if Saran had ever seen one, like one of the spoiled bratva girls who toured Ulaanbaatar in brightly coloured sport cars with their pakhan daddy and more ill-gotten wealth than they had common sense. Sitting here in the dying light of the sun, Saran rather thought Ekaitza looked like Corvina's enforcer.
"Cor," Yue said, quite softly, and Saran blinked to hear the diminuitive fall from the sweet-faced girl's mouth. "Have you heard anything about the king? I don't see him..." She glanced around the open space at the soldiers moving back and forth around the girls, reminding Saran a little of dogs among sheep, at once corralling them and providing an implicit promise of retribution if they stepped out of line. They had seemed so threatening at first, Saran thought, but if you looked hard enough and watched long enough, you could see the humanity, the warmth, the wildness that southerners always talked about when they spoke about the rebels: a girl with short blue hair threw back her head and laughed loudly at something Enyakatho had said, her hand resting on the butt of her shotgun, and gestured a friend over to repeat the joke to them. A group of rebels were gathered like a flock of birds around the stoves, tearing chunks out of a newly baked loaf of bread. Uzohola had migrated to the hood of the stripped-out car, and was speaking quietly to Wickaninnish Harjo, that one rebel that absolutely everyone knew - though usually he was serving soup to refugees or overseeing first aid after a battle, in the shaky footage that first filtered out of battlefields. He had become something of a fascination for young people in Yukon, but from this close proximity, Saran could see that pictures didn't really do him justice. If Demetri was pure light, then Wickaninnish Harjo was all shadows, with dusky brown skin and inky black hair and clever almond eyes that lit up now at something Uzohola had said. He had a very white smile when he laughed.
Saran realised that she was staring, and turned back to the group as quickly as she could.
Lady Corvina shook her head. "Like our friend Jones here said," she said. "This is a rebel Selection. I don't think we can try to predict anything until we get our bearings."
Yue relaxed visibly at these words. Saran understood. It was much more difficult to relax when you were wondering if the king was watching you, how you were coming across, whether you should speak a little quieter or laugh a little louder. But, she thought to herself, her eyes scanning across the rebels, it would probably be a good idea to assume anything you did would get reported back to him nevertheless. Well, she wouldn't have much to worry about. Being herself couldn't drive her too far astray - if she was going to have a chance in this competition, she would prefer that she didn't gain it by pretending to be someone she wasn't.
"But no," Corvina added. "I haven't heard anything."
Yue smiled, slightly hopefully. "Well, you never know."
"I don't think he's going to show up," Saran said. "Look at how relaxed everyone is. Surely there would be more security if the king was going to show up?"
Lady Ekaitza cocked an eyebrow. "And here I was hoping they'd think we were worth protecting."
Lady Corvina's smile was faint, just barely turning up the corners of her lips, only the slightest laughter lines spreading out from her dark eyes. "Some of us, maybe." Her voice, however, was distracted. Then, as though no one had been speaking, she continued, "He's shorter than I expected." There was a note of admiration in her voice, a note of amusement. A symphony of ironic smugness, Saran thought, and was very glad that she had not yet sufficiently earned Corvina's ire to have the Sonage girl look at her like that. But who had?
"The prince?" Saran swung to search the ranks of the rebels. She could not see who Lady Corvina was looking at; the group of rebels were small, but after such a long journey, Saran found it difficult to remember faces at this point - it may as well have been a sea of strangers, without repetition, without consistency. Every time she learned a new name or glimpsed a new figure, she felt certain that she was going to have to be introduced to them another thousand times. "Or, I guess, the king?"
"No," Corvina said, quite detachedly. That smile was wicked. She turned back to her companions, but Saran could see that her gaze was focused on something very far away from the Wastelands. "No," she said again. "Not the king."
Rebel soldiers were making their way up and down the long tables, setting out long serving plates heaped with roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread and cheese smuggled over the border from the Saharan federation, racks of grilled meat and tofu dripping juice, bowls of fragrant fried rice and cheesy, creamy potatoes drowned in cheese. Looking at the food as it passed her, Saran was strangely gratified to recognise a few dishes from her childhood - parcels of khuushur, little packages of deep fried mutton, and boortsog, Mongolian cookies soaking in yak's milk cream. That made a certain sort of sense; Mongolian foods were calculated for production on the steppes, under the open sky, where resources might be scarce and time to cook very short. Watching the other tables be served, Saran realised her stomach felt like an open pit. They had eaten sandwiches on their way here, in an Illéán diner with a portrait of Queen Ysabel prominent behind the deli counter. Saran had kept her head down; her minder, a rat-faced man from Laos by way of Carolina, had insisted on chatting to their waiter, and to the family sitting next to them, and to the Illéan soldiers who had been behind them in the line, almost reveling in the ignorance of everyone around them.
Saran hadn't really been able to enjoy her sandwich.
"Any issue with the food..." Saran's saw Yue's eyes snap up before she heard the rebel's voice. Wickanninish Harjo was putting a platter of unidentifiable meat in front of them, an easy-going smile on his face as he greeted them. "Keep it to yourself." He winked, and Saran felt her heart skip a beat. Wow. "Lady Ekaitza, Lady Corvina, Lady Yue..." Had they learned everyone's names and faces by heart? Harjo looked at Saran. "Lady Saran. Settling in alright?"
"Yes," Saran replied. "Settling in fine."
"Super. Be careful with the plate. It's hot."
He straightened, and walked away, and Saran fixed her gaze on her plate until she was sure he was gone and she wasn't at risk of making a further fool of herself. Lady Corvina's cool gaze suggested she knew exactly what was going on in Saran's mind, but thankfully sweet little Yue and harsh lean Ekaitza were there to pull the spotlight away and refocus things on something more light-hearted and less likely to make Saran want the earth to swallow her.
"God, that smells good. Throw me one of those bread rolls, Rouen? Don't know if they're gonna have enough food to feed us tomorrow, so let's make the most of tonight..."
"Would you like some tea, Saran? I think it's green... no, it's okay, I have a cup for you here."
Silence fell, as Saran knew would fall. The ladies all seemed hungry, but equally unwilling to betray that fact to the girl next to her, so it was with a restrained zeal that the food was torn into. Lissa Dove, the ethereal blonde waif from earthquake-prone Likely, looked like she was barely holding back from shoving food into her pockets for later. Saran couldn't say that she didn't see the appeal in such an idea, but she wasn't sure that the dress she was wearing had enough subtle hiding places to get away with it without embarrassing herself.
Instead, bearing in mind Lady Ekaitza's dour predictions of gloom, she tried to just enjoy the food that they had, just in case tomorrow they did not.
After dinner, the girls began to slowly filter back into the safehouse, warm and satiated and overall feeling a little bit more optimistic about this whole Selection business. In lieu of the Women's Room which was a central hub in the Angeles palace, the safehouse in the Wastelands had a wide patio wrapping around its western face, with old mismatched armchairs and couches scattered here and there, and what had perhaps once been a library on the first floor which had been reappropriated into a sitting room, lit all gold-orange by lamps strewn around the room. The thirty five girls seemed inclined to split themselves fairly evenly between these spaces and their appointed rooms, but Uzohola was waiting at the rear door of the building and picking out girls, apparently at random, to send upstairs to the music room. She seemed apologetic. "It'll be quick," she promised. "Enyakatho just wants to get a few interviews, chat to you a little about your experiences..." When she saw a few girls turn pale at this prospect, she added, her voice a little lower, like she didn't want any of the other rebels to hear her: "if you'd rather not, just tell me..."
In the end, seven girls were sent up to what had once been a music room. The sitting room was abuzz with rumours about what this distinction represented: was it a good sign to be picked, or a very bad one? If there was one way to get the girls talking to one another, Soledad Delrío thought ruefully, it was to start a fight. She found it highly unlikely that the king had managed to make any decisive observations by this point, particularly when he hadn't even been around to meet them... and certainly, if he had, then she thought her opinion of him was going to suffer quite a bit. But even though she told herself this fact quite vehemently, she could not restrain herself from looking around the assembled girls waiting in the corridor, and trying to pick out similarities and differences herself: there was Yue Yukimura, the palely delicate championship iceskater from Whites, and her northern compatriot, the short Yukon girl, Saran Altai, who wore her dark hair in an impossibly intricately braid. There was Evangeline Khan, the rose-haired Sultanate girl from Calgary with a gray scarf loosely covering her hair and a large diamond in either earlobe. There was Irri Kelly, who had inherited her peculiarly light brown eyes, so pale as to seem gold, from her French mother, who had been one of the Elite in King Trajan's Selection. And there was Liara Lee, the girl with the sharp features and the sharp wit and the sharp, clean Angeles accent, beside whom Eden Lahela, the gorgeous socialite with the watchful eyes, had sat during dinner.
And, of course, there was Sol herself.
She wasn't entirely sure what she had done to deserve her place among the rest.
The door to the music room swung open and allowed Irri Kelly to slip out and down the hallway before she could meet anyone else's eye. Enyakatho, the photographer from earlier in the day, appeared on the threshold, leaning against the wooden frame in a casual way that let his purple waistcoat fall open and reveal the revolver he had tucked into his belt, next to a clip carrying extra rolls of tape. That was something Marjorie Vermudez had very quietly pointed out to Sol earlier, when they had been positioned together for photos before dinner, and the corners of their mouths had become exhausted from smiling - "they're using really retro equipment, right? Like, vintage. It's not just me?"
It wasn't just her.
"Lady Soledad?" Enyakatho looked about the small group of girls, and smiled broadly. "Hey, there you are. We'll try not to keep you too long... You five hold tight, you'll only have to wait a few more minutes. Come on in, Lady Soledad."
The music room was airy and gorgeous in a sort of forsaken way, with ivy still winding tightly around the legs of the grand piano which took up the corner of the chamber in front of the floor-to-ceiling French windows. There was a velvet chair pushed between the piano and the edge thick red velvet curtains which framed those windows; put together, Soledad thought that Enyakatho's team had succcessfully managed to once again carve out a small niche of elegance and faded beauty in an otherwise quite ruined space. And there were his team - the small, boyish Wren with her hair styled into a blue crewcut, and the languid Farid, who was manning one of the old-fashioned 35mm cameras with which the rebels seemed to be capturing most of the action around them.
"Won't you please sit down," Enyakatho said, gesturing towards the velvet chair. "Is she centred? No? Lady Soledad, can you move a little to your right? We're just trying to capture the light... Excellent. Now, Lady Soledad, Wren here will be asking you the questions, they're not too difficult, pretty soft, just hi, how are you and how are you liking things here so far and that sort of thing, just remember that you should answer her, not talk into the camera, I know that's easier said than done, but we can redo a few shots if it takes you a little while to get the hang of it, alright?"
Sol nodded hesitantly. The man spoke like he was trying to keep a hurricane trapped behind his teeth - all quick bites of sound with a narrow mouth. "I think I can manage."
"Great. Can you move your hair, just a bit there? We want to... no, that's perfect. Wren, she's all yours. And we're rolling."
The blue-haired girl smiled. She had an androgynous kind of frame, small and skinny and somehow shapeless, with a flat face and bright, narrow bird-like eyes that seemed to naturally relax into a smile when no other expression was required. She didn't seem the likeliest candidate to serve as the voice of a national regime, but all doubts melted away once she began to speak. She had a rich, smooth voice - what Sol imagined caramel might sound like. "Lady Soledad. Thank you for sitting down with us this evening. I trust the Court in Exile has been taking good care of you?"
The Court in Exile? Why did Wren talk about them like she wasn't one of them, embedded as deeply into their ranks as a tick into the side of a dog? They were playing a game, Sol sensed immediately, one in which the Report was just one of many boards on which to put their pieces.
"They have been minding us wonderfully." Enyakatho's smile suggested this was the right thing to say. Sol elaborated a little: "there's nothing a Honduraguan appreciates more than good hospitality, my mother used to say. I've been made to feel very welcome."
Wren seemed to consult her notes, although her next question didn't seem to require the use of notes. "Speaking of Honduragua: you aren't feeling homesick at all? Not missing your family?"
Homesick? When would Sol have had the chance to feel homesick? She'd been here for less than a do, and it had been a constant blur of motion and business and meeting people and learning names. But would a firm no, I'm not homesick seem heartless? Cold? "I wouldn't say... I'm not..." The lens of the camera was like a very dark eye, staring right at her. "I don't think..."
"Cut that," Enyakatho called. "Lady Soledad, address Wren, not the camera. Deep breath. Arrange your thoughts before you speak - we can edit it all together at the end, so don't worry."
Sol swallowed hard. "Yeah, I think I can -"
Enyakatho cut her off. "And rolling."
Sol jumped to answer before Wren could ask her question a second time. "Homesick? No. I know that my family support my choice, and are wishing me well, and we've just been so busy here at court that I've barely had the chance to think about anything."
"Cut that." Enyakatho again. "Lady Soledad, this might just be a personal preference on my part, and I don't want to influence you too much, but that anything, I'm not thinking about anything, it's bothering me, is it bothering anyone else?"
"I think it's fine," Wren said mildly.
"It's bothering me," Farid agreed lazily.
"It's bothersome. We don't want you to seem too airheaded, Lady Soledad, can you give me that again but maybe say you've been so busy that you haven't had the chance to worry?" Enyakatho glanced between the interviewer and the cameraman. "Because of course you've been thinking while you're here. Everyone's thinking, especially here. So you've been thinking but maybe you haven't been worrying. Reckon you can do that for me?"
Sol nodded.
"And rolling."
Wren's voice was still perfectly smooth and flawlessly even, like it was her first time asking the question, like it had sprung naturally to her mind that very second. "Speaking of Honduragua: you aren't feeling homesick at all? Not missing your family?"
Sol answered this one carefully, and kept her gaze fixed on Wren's lapel. "Homesick? No. I know my family support what I've decided to do, and they're wishing me the best of luck, and, well, we've just been so busy here at court that I think I've barely had the chance to worry about anything."
"And finally, Lady Soledad." Wren's smile faded. It gave her voice a more solemn, grave quality. "It's the question that absolutely everyone has been asking. Why did you choose to enter the Selection?"
"I..." Sol paused. How much to say? In an ordinary Selection, she might have hesitated to make use of it, to weaponise her own broken heart and grief, but this was no ordinary Selection. "I had my heart broken," she said softly. "And my faith in the justice of this nation shaken." She paused, and took a deep breath. "But when I came south, here, to this Selection, I saw how willing the citizens of the Kingdom in Exile were to put their lives on the line in the name of justice. And I saw how hard the King in Exile worked to make the lives of his people better. And I think... maybe my heart can heal here."
Wren's smile was warm. "Lady Soledad, thank you so much for your honesty."
Enyakatho said, almost immediately, "Farid, she mentioned coming south - I want that cut. Everything else was perfect. Wonderfully done, Lady Soledad, you're an absolute natural."
Sol stood, a little shakily, and brushed down her pants, to which a thin layer of dust from the air now clung. "Oh. Thank you, Mr Imfawze."
Enyakatho kept a polite distance as he walked Sol to the door. She wondered what kind of briefing he had been given on the Selected girls - what kind of strict instructions they were all under. There were so many rebels milling about the place, she thought, dangerous-looking women and weary, rough-faced men, that it almost seemed like they were asking for trouble. Those were the kind of situations that recurred on Diadem, and similar television shows, and all the reruns of old Selections: Selected girls having torrid affairs with the men assigned to guard their rooms, maids developing fervent and unrequited crushes on their charges, one of the Elite walking in on the prince in a passionate embrace with this or that foreign countess. Apparently there was historical precedent for it; Sol could remember hearing about such a scandal in history class, where King Nerva had eschewed any of the girls in the Selection in favour of a girl who worked in the stables, and who had been forced to abdicate as a result.
Well, Sol thought dryly, she was pretty sure the rebels didn't have any stables, so they would probably be safe on that front.
She offered Evangeline and Yue a slight smile as she passed them on her way out, and went upstairs to her room to find a note pinned to her door. Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw it - from King Demetri? - but she had got ahead of herself, for it was Marjorie Vermudez's name scrawled at the bottom and the excitable, spiky script of someone on the hunt for information used throughout: come find me before you leave.
Before I leave?
No! They couldn't force her out. Not now. Not yet. Was this because she had messed up the interview? How could they have made that decision so quickly? They couldn't get rid of her on the first day.. Not when she had just begun to forget Emilio. Not before she got the chance to meet Demetri.
Marjorie's room was two floors up from Sol's, so the girl from Honduragua went straight there. Marjorie flung open her door at the first knock, which was fortunate, because Sol was pretty sure if she'd had to wait for very long she might have tried to just kick the door down instead.
"What do you mean," Sol said. She was almost too frazzled to try and sound calm. "What have you heard?"
Marjorie gestured her into the room and shut the door behind her before she answered. "You haven't heard? After Uzohola called you guys upstairs, they announced a huge elimination."
Sol's mouth felt as dry as bone. "They did?"
Marjorie nodded. "They didn't tell us all of the names," she said. "But apparently there were seventeen removals in total. Irri Kelly got kicked out. So did Evangeline Khan. We were starting to think all of the girls getting interviewed were going to be eliminated."
"They haven't said anything to me." Deep breaths, she told herself. There had only been seven girls called for interviews, so even if all of them were eliminated, there were still ten others who hadn't been. That made it very unlikely that being interviewed was a good indicator of anything at all - and, she had to admit, she found it hard to imagine a girl as beautiful and intimidating as Liara Lee being kicked out on her first day. The same went for someone as poised and composed as Eden Lahela, or someone as transparently sweet and pretty as Yue Yukimura. If Irri and Evangeline were gone, then that just meant Sol had outlasted them.
Marjorie seemed to be of the same mindset, because she shrugged. "Then congratulations." She grinned a little. "Sorry to panic you."
"Don't apologise. I should be thanking you for the gossip."
"What was up with those interviews, anyway?"
Was Marjorie jealous she hadn't been given one, or genuinely curious? Sol hesitated, and then she shook her head. "Just... like a fluff piece. My name is Soledad Delrío and I love the rebellion. You know?"
Marjorie smiled faintly. "I have a good idea. We'll probably spot you on the next Report."
Of course. Soledad hadn't even considered that. She wondered what her family would make of what she had said. Whether they would be proud of her. Whether they would approve.
"Well." She squared her shoulders. "After that particular bit of excitement, I think I'll head back to my room." Marjorie laughed, and after a moment of consideration, so did Sol. "I think my heart might take issue with me if I don't lie down for a little while. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Marjorie agreed. "My god, tomorrow. Look at us - already in the last half of the Selection."
Sol smiled in agreement. "I, for one, think we're doing great so far."
And there we have it - our first entirely Selected focused chapter! I know it was quite short, and didn't feature everyone, but I hope you now have a good feeling for some of the characters in the Selection and what the overall competition is going to feel like. Our viewpoint characters in this chapter were Saran Altai created by Frenchie is French and Soledad Delrío created by Sylea. I hope you enjoyed seeing the world through their eyes!
Please do let me know what you thought - I have been absolutely overwhelmed with gratitude for every single review so far. I really love hearing what you like and don't like, and what you would like to see more of. I really appreciate absolutely any and all feedback you can give me.
If you have not yet submitted or reserved your spot, then act quickly, because there is only one more spot open in the Selection!
There might not be an update tomorrow, so I hope you can forgive me.
Thanks so much. I hope you enjoyed!
- Izar