6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Embla
My family rides down the dirt road, my sister in the lead as I watch from the stables. Weight of invisible eyes falls heavy on my shoulders. Someone's watching the manor, watching me. Their journey to the palace has brought the King’s attention to our family. If I learned anything from my time in finishing school, it’s that the King has eyes everywhere. Even when you think you’re alone. The amount of “discipline” I received from the headmistress plays through my mind like a montage as my hands begin to sting, throbbing with the still-healing skin of my back. I rub my palms together like I can rub off the ghost of pain. Stomach in knots, anguish and shame coil together in an unyielding lump. Papa sent me to the palace to pursue my dream of being a noblewoman. I have no idea how to tell him the time had been wasted. I screwed up and will never be one of the nobles who live in mansions and attend court at the palace. My gaze follows Astrid and Papa as they turn onto the only cobblestone road in the district. A tear trails down my cheek and the sound of the sprite’s wooden hooves fade as they continue out of sight.
It doesn’t take long for the messengers to start arriving. The first one finds me still in the stables tidying the things Papa had left behind in his rush.
“Lady Embla, is your father available?” the messenger with a mop of brown hair and round cheeks asks, dismounting his horse. Not all messengers can afford horses. This messenger is one of the lucky few. His tunic is the color of sunshine, a palace messenger.
“You’ve just missed him. Maybe I can be of some assistance,” I offer, pulling my cloth mask across my face while offering my other hand to the messenger. He nods before dropping the pink envelope into my outstretched fingers. Quickly, I rip into it and scan the message inside. A formal letter from Lady Giselle, the new headmistress of the Palace’s finishing school.
Lumin of the Farm District,
Please advise what flowers will be adorning the tables and the maypoles at the upcoming festival. I do not want my girls to clash, and some have allergies. I would like to avoid an allergic reaction during the dances if possible.
I roll my eyes at the letter; she wants her girls to attract any and all available suitors. A second messenger shows up, this one in the dark blue of the Market District with another letter. He looks from me to the first messenger without saying a word. They follow me through the house and into Papa’s office. As I root through his desk, I can’t find a single scribble of festival plans. I pinch the bridge of my nose for a moment before pulling out a sheet of paper to write a hasty response. Papa is usually one for preparedness, the one exception is when it comes to parties. He hates them.
Headmistress,
Please send a list of your girl’s allergies and we will ensure none of those flowers are used. Once arrangements have been made, I will send you a color scheme to have your girls follow.
Best,
Embla Leifsdottir
The girls in finishing school will be dancing through the night. They prepare for the festivals from the time they enter finishing school until they come of age at twenty. I can remember the blisters I got from the dance classes I attended. I hate it when anyone sees my bare, scarred feet, and my toenails don't grow in right because of the torture that was forced on me in those classes. Each one taught us how to attract the perfect nobleman at a festival. I hope I can put the skills I suffered to use this year, but it won’t happen if I don’t plan the perfect party.
“Alright, here’s what needs to happen.” I accept the letter from the messenger in navy. I rip it open quickly and skim the words before I fold my hands over Papa’s desk. “I need you to take this back to the headmistress, and then find me a florist. A greenhouse florist.” I hand my hastily scribbled response to the messenger in gold, and he bolts out of the house. If we're starting from scratch, flowers it is.
I turn to the second messenger. “I need you to bring me any musician in the district who wants to play at the festival.” The messenger takes off to do my bidding, and I glance around the empty room. “We’re going to plan a festival,” I say out loud, false enthusiasm dripping from my voice. I wish I was as giddy and excited as I should be for this, but something inside of me is questioning whether I want to do this at all.
My darkness follows me in the hours after Papa and Astrid leave, and I find my thoughts turning to the shadowed corners of my mind. I have to force the memories of finishing school from my thoughts more than usual. Shame is replaced with annoyance. Why couldn’t Papa have asked for help sooner? After a few hours, I finally secured Rose Square for the weekend.
My cheeks ache from the satisfied smile that has graced my face since this morning. Gabriella, the florist, has the manor covered in a variety of red and gold flowers, the celebratory colors of the harvest. Brilliant yellows mix with reds on every flat surface as Gabby works over the dining room table, crafting the centerpieces that I commissioned. As I go through the motions of planning this celebration, I can’t help but question everything. Is this all I want to do with my life? Take care of my family, my house, plan parties, and then die? Most of me wants to throw myself in headfirst and not look back, but another part—a small quiet repressed part of me whispers: do I want this for myself, or do I only want this because this is what I’ve been told to want? What is expected—no, what is demanded of me?
“Your father really should’ve done this months ago,” Gabriella complains, her fingers working nimbly to place roses around the sunflowers then adding small sprigs of baby’s breath in between the blooms. The sound of shears snipping stems occasionally fills the air. I push away the small voice easily, listening to the louder ones, deciding the only way this party is going to go off without a hitch is if I throw myself into the planning completely. That’s what I do. I don’t give myself time to ruminate on the question that is still bouncing around my head. There’s too much to be done.
“I thought he had; he knows this is my favorite part of any event. I wish he would have asked me for help sooner.” I shake my head. Papa has always hated party planning. A knock has me swiveling in my seat as another messenger walks through the door.
“These are all the musicians you asked for.” The messenger gestures to the line behind him that trickles out of the house and into the street. I stand to join him taking in the single file line of people with their instruments.
“I am also going to need anyone who wishes to sell food to come speak with me as well.” I have taken into consideration the new policy to stay six feet away from people who don’t live with you. We should be able to maintain that on a larger scale it’ll just take a little more space for the festival than usual.
“Yes ma’am.” The messenger bows and takes off to gather food vendors for me to interview next. The anxiety that lives beneath my skin feels like ants as I plan this festival. If it isn’t perfect, the King will have something to say and someone will have to face the consequences. There are always consequences if he is displeased. The King isn't the only person of note attending either, Malia’s Oracle will be present alongside him. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I haven't seen the Oracle since I left the palace months ago. I didn’t see the King a lot during finishing school, but the few times I did there was something off about him. Goosebumps lift on my arms at the thought of seeing him in person again. I'm hoping to blend in and avoid his notice.
Hours roll by as auditions continue. Gabby leaves at some point, unable to handle the ruckus of the more amateur musicians. The line is dwindling as the sun sets and the messenger returns with a line of cooks ready to provide food for the occasion.
“Do you want me to ask them to return in the morning?” he asks, eyeing the darkening sky. Everyone knows what the Shadows do after curfew.
“Are there women in line?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. The guards make doing anything after curfew impossible.
“They’re mostly women,” the messenger nods.
“Move the women to the front, tell the men to return tomorrow, and the interviews will end fifteen minutes before curfew and resume in the morning.” The messenger nods again, walking through the line. A handful of men step out and walk back down the dirt paths they came from.
“This is going to be a long night,” I say, wringing my hands together as the first chef walks into the room carrying plates of food they want to sell.