The Selection Stories Collection Read online

  We were halfway through breakfast before Kriss worked up the courage to ask me about our date.

  “How was it?” she asked quietly, the way we were meant to speak at mealtimes. But those three small words made ears all up and down the table perk up, and everyone within hearing distance was paying attention.

  I took a breath. “Indescribable.”

  The girls looked at one another, clearly hoping for more.

  “How did he act?” Tiny asked.

  “Umm.” I tried to choose my words carefully. “Not at all how I expected he would.”

  This time, little murmurs went down the table.

  “Are you being like that on purpose?” Zoe interjected. “If you are, it’s awfully mean.”

  I shook my head. How could I explain this? “No, it’s just that—”

  But I was spared trying to form an answer by the confusing noises coming down the hallway.

  The shouts were strange. In my very short time at the palace, not a single sound had registered as anything close to loud. Beyond that, there was a kind of music to the click of the guards’ shoes on the floor, the massive doors opening and closing, the forks touching the plates. This was complete and absolute mayhem.

  The royal family seemed to understand it before the rest of us.

  “To the back of the room, ladies!” King Clarkson yelled, and ran over to a window.

  Girls, confused but not wanting to disobey, slowly moved toward the head table. The king was pulling down a shade, but it wasn’t the typical light-filtering kind. It was metal and squealed into place. Beside him Maxon came and drew down another. And beside Maxon the lovely and delicate queen was racing to pull down the next.

  That was when the wave of guards made it into the dining hall. I saw a number of them lining up outside the room just before the monstrous doors were closed, bolted, and secured with bars.

  “They’re inside the walls, Majesty, but we’re holding them back. The ladies should leave, but we’re so close to the door—”

  “Understood, Markson,” the king replied, cutting off the sentence.

  It didn’t take more than that for me to comprehend. There were rebels inside the grounds.

  I’d figured it would come. This many guests in the palace, so many preparations going on. Surely someone would miss something somewhere and let our safety slip. And even if there were no easy way in, this would be an excellent time to mount a protest. At its barest of bones, the Selection was kind of disturbing. I was sure the rebels hated it along with everything else about Illéa.

  But whatever their opinion, I wasn’t going down quietly.

  I pushed my chair back so quickly it fell over, and I ran to the closest window to pull down the metal shade. A few other girls who understood how threatened we were did the same.

  It took me only a moment to get the thing down, but locking it into place was a little more difficult. I had just managed to get the latch right when something crashed into the metal plate from outside the palace, sending me screaming backward until I tripped over my fallen chair and tumbled to the ground.

  Maxon appeared immediately.

  “Are you hurt?”

  I did a quick evaluation. I’d probably have a bruise on my hip, and I was scared, but that was the worst of it.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “To the back of the room. Now!” he ordered as he helped me off the ground. He raced down the hall, snatching up girls who had begun to freeze up in fear and ushering them to the back corner.

  I obeyed, running to the back of the room, toward the clusters of girls huddled together. Some of them were weeping; others were staring into space in shock. Tiny had fainted. The most reassuring sight was King Clarkson talking intently to a guard along the back wall, just far away enough that the girls wouldn’t hear. He had one arm wrapped protectively around the queen, who stood quietly and proudly beside him.

  How many times had she survived attacks now? We got reports that these happened several times a year. That had to be unnerving. The odds were getting slimmer and slimmer for her . . . and her husband . . . and her only child. Surely, eventually, the rebels would figure out the right alignment of circumstances to get what they wanted. Yet she stood there, her chin set, her still face wearing a quiet calm.

  I surveyed the girls. Did any of them have the strength it would take to be the queen? Tiny was still unconscious in someone’s arms. Celeste and Bariel were making conversation. I knew what Celeste looked like at ease, and this wasn’t it. Still, compared to the others, she hid her emotions well. Others were near hysterics, whimpering on their knees. Some had mentally shut down, blocking out the entire ordeal. Their faces were blank, and they absently wrung their hands, waiting for it to end.

  Marlee was crying a little, but not so much that she looked like a wreck. I grabbed her arm and pulled her upright.

  “Dry your eyes and stand up straight,” I barked into her ear.

  “What?” she squeaked.

  “Trust me, do it.”

  Marlee wiped her face on the side of her gown and stood up a little taller. She touched her face in several places, checking for smudged makeup, I guessed. Then she turned and looked at me for approval.

  “Good job. Sorry to be so bossy, but trust me on this one, okay?” I felt bad ordering her around in the middle of something so distressing, but she had to look as calm as Queen Amberly. Surely Maxon would want that in his queen, and Marlee had to win.

  Marlee nodded her head. “No, you’re right. I mean, for the time being, everyone is safe. I shouldn’t be so worried.”

  I nodded back to her, though she was most assuredly wrong. Everyone was not safe.

  Guards waited on edge by the massive doors as heavy things were thrown against wall and windows again and again. There wasn’t a clock in here. I had no idea how long this attack was lasting, and that only made me more anxious. How would we know if they got inside? Would it only be once they started banging on the doors? Were they already inside and we just didn’t know it?

  I couldn’t take the worry. I stared at a vase of ornate flowers—none of which I knew the names of—and bit away at one of my perfectly manicured nails. I pretended that those flowers were all that mattered in the world.

  Eventually Maxon came by to check on me, as he had with the others. He stood beside me and stared at the flowers, too. Neither of us really knew what to say.

  “Are you doing all right?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  He paused a moment. “You seem unwell.”

  “What will happen to my maids?” I asked, voicing my greatest worry. I knew I was safe. Where were they? What if one of them had been walking down the hall as the rebels made their way in?

  “Your maids?” he asked in a tone that implied I was an idiot.

  “Yes, my maids.” I looked into his eyes, shaming him into acknowledging that only a choice minority of the throngs who lived in the palace were actually being protected. I was on the verge of tears. I didn’t want them to come, and I was breathing rapidly trying to keep my emotions at bay.

  He looked into my eyes and seemed to understand that I was only one step up from being a maid myself. That wasn’t the reason for my worry, but it did seem strange that a lottery was the main difference between someone like Anne and me.

  “They should be hiding by now. The help have their own places to wait. The guards are very good about getting around quickly and alerting everyone. They ought to be fine. We usually have an alarm system, but the last time they came through, the rebels thoroughly dismantled it. They’ve been working on fixing it, but. . .” Maxon sighed.

  I looked at the floor, trying to quiet all the worries in my head.

  “America,” he begged.

  I turned to Maxon.

  “They’re fine. The rebels were slow, and everyone here knows what to do in an emergency.”

  I nodded. We stood there quietly for a minute, and I could tell he was about to move on
.

  “Maxon,” I whispered.

  He turned back, a little surprised to be addressed so casually.

  “About last night. Let me explain. When they came to prep us, to get us ready to come here, there was a man who told me that I was never to turn you down. No matter what you asked for. Not ever.”

  He was dumbfounded. “What?”

  “He made it sound like you might ask for certain things. And you said yourself that you hadn’t been around many women. After eighteen years . . . and then you sent the cameras away. I just got scared when you got that close to me.”

  Maxon shook his head, trying to process all this. Humiliation, rage, and disbelief all played across his typically even-tempered face.

  “Was everyone told this?” he asked, sounding appalled at the idea.

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine many girls would need such a warning. They’re probably waiting to pounce on you,” I noted, nodding my head toward the rest of the room.

  He gave a dark chuckle. “But you’re not, so you had absolutely no qualms about kneeing me in the groin, right?”

  “I hit your thigh!”

  “Oh, please. A man doesn’t need that long to recover from a knee to the thigh,” he replied, his voice full of skepticism.

  A laugh escaped me. Thankfully, Maxon joined in. Just then another mass hit the windows, and we stopped in unison. For a moment I had forgotten where I was.

  “So how are you handling a roomful of crying women?” I asked.

  There was a comical bewilderment in his expression. “Nothing in the world is more confusing!” he whispered urgently. “I haven’t the faintest clue how to stop it.”

  This was the man who was going to lead our country: the guy rendered useless by tears. It was too funny.

  “Try patting them on the back or shoulder and telling them everything is going to be fine. Lots of times when girls cry, they don’t want you to fix the problem, they just want to be consoled,” I advised.

  “Really?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “It can’t possibly be that simple.” Intrigue and doubt played in his voice.

  “I said most of the time, not all the time. But it would probably work for a lot of the girls here.”

  He snorted. “I’m not so sure. Two have already asked if I’ll let them leave if this ever ends.”

  “I thought we weren’t allowed to do that.” I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. If he had agreed to let me stay on as a friend, he couldn’t be too concerned with technicalities. “What are you going to do?”

  “What else can I do? I won’t keep someone here against her will.”

  “Maybe they’ll change their minds,” I offered hopefully.

  “Maybe.” He paused. “What about you? Have you been scared off yet?” he asked almost playfully.

  “Honestly? I was convinced you were sending me home after breakfast anyway,” I admitted.

  “Honestly? I had considered that myself.”

  There was a quiet smile between us. Our friendship—if I could even call it that—was obviously awkward and flawed, but at least it was honest.

  “You didn’t answer me. Do you want to leave?”

  Another something hit the wall, and the idea sounded appealing. The worst attack I’d gotten at home was Gerad trying to steal my food. The girls here didn’t care for me, the clothes were stifling, people were trying to hurt me, and the whole thing felt uncomfortable. But it was good for my family and nice to be full. Maxon did seem a bit lost, and I’d get to stay away from him for a little bit longer. And who knew, maybe I could help pick out the next princess.

  I looked Maxon in the eye. “If you’re not kicking me out, I’m not leaving.”

  He smiled. “Good. You’ll need to tell me more tricks like this shoulder-patting thing.”

  I smiled back. Yes, it was all wrong, but some good would come out of this.

  “America, could you do me a favor?”

  I nodded.

  “As far as anyone knows, we spent a lot of time together yesterday evening. If anyone asks, could you please tell them that I’m not . . . that I wouldn’t. . .”

  “Of course. And I really am sorry about everything.”

  “I should have known that if any girl was going to disobey an order, it would be you.”

  A collection of heavy objects hit the wall at once, making a handful of girls scream.

  “Who are they? What do they want?” I asked.

  “Who? The rebels?”

  I nodded.

  “Depends on who you ask. And which group you’re talking about,” he answered.

  “You mean there’s more than one?” That made the entire experience much worse. If this was one group, what could two or more do together? As far as I knew, a rebel was a rebel was a rebel, but Maxon made it sound like some could be worse than others. “How many are there?”

  “Two generally, the Northerners and the Southerners. The Northerners attack much more frequently. They’re closer. They live in the rainy patch of Likely near Bellingham, just north of here. No one really wants to live there—it’s practically all ruins—so they’ve made it a home of sorts, though I guess they travel. The traveling is one theory of mine—one no one listens to. But they’re far less likely to break in, and when they do the results are . . . tame almost. I’d guess that this is a Northern job right now,” he said over the din.

  “Why? What makes them so different from the Southerners?”

  Maxon seemed to hesitate, unsure if this information was something I should know. He looked around to see if anyone could hear us. I looked around, too, and saw that several people were watching us. In particular, Celeste looked like she was trying to set me on fire with her eyes. I didn’t keep eye contact for long. Still, even with all the onlookers, no one was close enough to hear. When Maxon came to the same conclusion, he leaned in to whisper.

  “Their attacks are much more . . . lethal.”

  I shivered. “Lethal?”

  He nodded. “They only come about once or twice a year, as best I can tell from the aftermath. I think that everyone here is trying to protect me from the statistics, but I’m not stupid. People die when they come. The trouble is, both groups look alike to us—dingy, mostly men, lean but strong, no sort of emblem as far as we can tell—so we don’t know what we’re getting until it’s all over.”

  I looked around the room. A lot of people were in danger if Maxon was wrong and they happened to be Southerners. I thought of my poor maids again.

  “But I still don’t understand. What do they want?”

  Maxon shrugged. “The Southerners appear to want us demolished. I don’t know why, but I’m guessing some dissatisfaction or another, tired of living on the fringes of society. I mean, they’re not even Eights technically, since they have no part in the social network. But the Northerners are a bit of a mystery. Father says they just want to bother us, disrupt our governing, but I don’t think so.” He looked rather proud for a moment. “I have another theory about that as well.”

  “Do I get to know it?”

  Maxon hesitated again. I guessed this time it wasn’t so much out of fear of scaring me, but perhaps not being taken seriously.

  He came close again and whispered, “I think they’re looking for something.”

  “What?” I wondered.

  “That I don’t know. But it’s always the same around here after the Northerners come. Guards are knocked out, injured, or tied up, but never killed. It’s like they just don’t want to be followed around. Though some people get taken with them, and that’s a bit disturbing. And then the rooms—well, all the ones they can get into—they’re a mess. Every drawer pulled out, shelves searched, carpet upturned. Lots of things get broken. You wouldn’t believe the number of cameras I’ve replaced over the years.”

  “Cameras?”

  “Oh,” he said bashfully. “I like photography. But despite all that, they don’t end up taking much. Father thinks my ide
a is rubbish, of course. What could a bunch of illiterate barbarians be looking for? Still, I think there must be something.”

  It was intriguing. If I was penniless and knew how to break into the palace, I think I’d take every piece of jewelry I could find, anything I could sell. These rebels must have something in mind beyond a mere political statement or their day-to-day survival in mind when they came here.

  “Do you think it’s silly?” Maxon asked, bringing me out of my wonderings.

  “No, not silly. Confusing, but not silly.”

  We shared a small smile. I realized that if Maxon had simply been Maxon Schreave and not Maxon, future king of Illéa, he would be the kind of person I would have wanted to be my next-door neighbor, someone to talk to.

  He cleared his throat. “I suppose I should finish my rounds.”

  “Yes, I imagine there are quite a few ladies wondering what’s taking you so long.”

  “So, buddy, any suggestions as to whom I should speak with next?”

  I smiled and looked behind me to make sure my candidate for princess was still holding it together. She was.

  “See the blond girl over there in the pink? That’s Marlee. Sweetheart, very kind, loves movies. Go.”

  Maxon chuckled and walked in her direction.

  The time in the dining hall felt like an eternity, but the attack had only lasted a little over an hour. We found out later that no one had actually gotten inside the palace, just inside the grounds. The guards didn’t shoot at the rebels until they tried for the main doors, which accounted for the bricks—bricks that had been gouged out of the palace walls—and rotten food being thrown at the windows for so long.

  In the end, two men got too close to the doors, shots were fired, and they all fled. If Maxon’s labels were correct, I would assume these were Northerners.

  They kept us tucked away for a little while longer, searching the perimeter of the palace. When everything was as it should be, we were released to our rooms. I walked arm in arm with Marlee. Despite holding it together downstairs, the strain of the attack had exhausted me, and I was glad to have someone to distract me from it.