"Wow," I gasp as when the door to America's new room swings open. She's standing there - standing! - with her fiery hair pulled over her left shoulder, twisted in a complicated braid. Her face is clean and fresh and she has just a hint of makeup on, though she doesn't need it. She still smells a bit like saltwater, but I also smell lavender shampoo. And her dress . . . God, does she look good in that.

The dress is simple: a pastel pink gown that clings to her torso and then widens at her hips, flowing freely around her legs. The sweetheart top clings to her skin, emphasizing each beautiful curve she has. Despite how incredibly divine she looks, it's odd to see her in clothes. I'm not used to it - now it's just an additional barrier between us.

"Do you like it?" she smirks, shrugging her shoulders. She wobbles a little bit as she does, leaning to the right, but quickly straightens herself. I look at her ballet slippers and silently thank Marlee for ensuring she didn't have to wear heels: that would have been a train-wreck.

"I love it, America," I say, reaching out to take her hand. "Did Marlee do all this?" I ask, gesturing to her intricate hair and makeup.

"Oh, no, a maid - um, Mary, I think her name was - came and helped me get ready. She was very nice," America answers, fiddling with her dress. My mother must have sent Mary to help America, and I make a note to thank her later.

"Well, she did a wonderful job. You look beautiful," I grin before leaning in and kissing her gently on the cheek. "Now, come on, you must be hungry."

She rolls her eyes, her stomach growling at the thought of food. "Ugh, you don't even know," she moans, linking her arm through mine.

When we reach the dining room - which took much longer than expected, as I had to spend nearly 10 minutes guiding America down the stairs - nearly everyone's already seated. My parents are already locked in conversation and barely even notice us. The Elite girls are chatting away quietly, though their heads all pop up once they catch sight of Mer. She blushes, obviously uncomfortable. "Just ignore them. Here, you can sit between Marlee and I," I say, gesturing towards the empty chairs. I wink at Marlee in appreciation for saving us the seats. She smiles back.

"Maxon, who's this?" Kriss asks, leaning pleasantly forward, a genuine smile on her face.

"This is Marlee's cousin, America," I respond. She gives a small wave.

"What's she doing here?" Celeste snarls.

"That's none of your business, Miss Newsome," I quickly reply, cutting into the piece of steak that's just been served to me. She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but doesn't say anything else.

"Where are you from, America?" Elise asks.

"Th-Angeles. I'm from Angeles," America stutters and I place a soothing hand over hers under the table.

"What's your caste?"

"I'm a, um, Three," she responds, and I breathe a sigh of relief. If my parents think she's a Three, our chances our so much higher.

"Oh . . I was just telling the other girls about how my mother . . . ." and then she launches into a story, which leads to pointless chatter. I'm grateful that the attention is taken off America, but I can tell there are more questions to come.

"What is this?" America asks, leaning over and whispering in my ear.

"Huh?"

"This? What exactly is it?" she asks again, now gesturing to her plate, which remains untouched.

"Oh," I laugh, probably a bit too loudly. No one seems to notice. "That's steak." She gives me a confused look and I can't help but laugh again - she's so cute when she's confused. "It's a type of meat . . . like fish, but, uh, from the land?" I try to explain. "And that's salad, it's kind of like seaweed, I guess."

"Oh, okay," America says, still looking at her plate unenthusiastically. I belatedly realize I have no idea what her diet consists of - do mermaids eat fish? Or just plants? I curse myself for not asking her about this earlier.

"You don't have to eat it if you don't want to. I can have the chef make you so-"

"No, it's fine," she says, pasting a smile on her face. She struggles with her fork and knife but finally, after watching the other girls cut effortlessly into their meals, slices off a piece and plops it into her mouth. She contemplates the taste for a second before grinning. "Oh, this is delicious!"

"Isn't it? The palace food is so good!" Kriss chimes in.

"Wait until you try dessert!"

"Dessert?"

"The strawberry tarts are absolutely divine!" Natalie moans and I can't help but smile. America laughs as the girls continue to talk about the various desserts, making this situation feel even more surreal.

After dinner, the girls head back to the Woman's Room for tea. Marlee guides America, promising me she'll look after her. She's reluctantly to go, but if this plan is going to work, Mer's going to have to blend in, and that doesn't mean sticking by my side every moment.

While they're sipping tea, I'm sitting in my father's office, preparing for war.

"I think I'm going to send home some of the girls," I begin, afraid to meet his eyes.

"Who?" he growls, obviously not in a great mood.

I want to say Celeste, but I know he'll object to that. She's a political pawn, she has to stay for longer. "Natalie and Marlee."

I raise my head to meet his stare, but am unable to read him. I know he doesn't care much for Natalie, but everyone knows Marlee is the "fan favorite." Sending her home won't help get people on our side, but it's what must be done. I made Marlee a promise, and I intend to keep it.

"Natalie can go," he says nonchalantly. "And if Marlee goes, then so will her cousin, I presume?"

Great. He managed to wiggle America into this conversation. "Not necessarily . . . "

"Well if Lady Marlee is flying home to Kent there's no reason America couldn't fly back with her. After all, doesn't she intend to live with the Tames now that her family is gone?" His eyes are narrowed and his jaw is set. My throat burns hot and my skin crawls. I fight the urge to run.

"Yes, but Lady America has certainly experienced some . . . traumatic times. And it would be hard for her to move so quickly . . . " My father raises his eyebrows, amused at my weak attempt at creating a reason for America to stay. "I think it would be easier for her to, well, grieve, if she remained in her hometown."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," I reply, though I know the question was sarcastic.

My father locks eyes with me and slowly leans over his desk, closing the distance between us. I try not to, but I tremble slightly out of fear. I know that look in his eyes . . .

"Alright. We'll play this game, son. Lady America can stay." I'm so surprised I nearly gasp, but my father's glare keeps me grounded. "But on one condition . . . "

I swallow hard, bracing myself for the blow.

"You have to end the selection next week."

"What?"

"By next week's Report, you must choose a wife."