Chapter Three Forty-Eight Women #2
That irritated her more than it should have.
"Your Highness."
"You appear pleased by the prospect of public judgment."
"I enjoy clear objectives."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"And what is yours?"
Anya smiled.
"To disappoint everyone efficiently."
For the first time, the prince's careful expression broke. He laughed. Not politely. Not for the cameras. It changed his whole face.
Anya disliked him immediately for making that interesting.
? ? ?
The palace wardrobe department measured Anya in silence. That was probably wise.
Three women circled her with pins, tape, and expressions of professional disappointment while she stood on a platform in her shift underclothes and tried not to think about how many cameras were mounted in the corridor outside.
"Shoulders back," said the chief fitter.
Anya obeyed.
"Chin up."
She obeyed less enthusiastically.
"Hands relaxed."
"They are relaxed."
The fitter looked at Anya's fists.
"Of course."
Sela snorted from the next platform.
Mirel, being fitted near the mirrors, had somehow turned the humiliating process into an extension of breathing. She stood while an assistant adjusted a deep green gown against her and looked as if royal tailoring had happened around her since infancy.
"Do they always dress candidates by regional story?" Junia asked.
The chief fitter glanced at her tablet. "Wardrobe supports identity legibility." Anya turned her head.
"What does that mean?"
"It means the audience should understand who you are before you speak."
"That sounds ominous."
The fitter did not answer.
An assistant carried over three fabric swatches for Anya: river blue, steel gray, and a muddy green.
"Greybridge industrial palette," she said.
Anya stared.
"Greybridge contains colors besides rust."
"The audience associates your region with water infrastructure."
"The audience has never visited."
"Association is not geography."
Mirel caught Anya's eye in the mirror. There was warning in it. Choose battles.
Anya hated that Mirel was right. She touched the blue swatch.
"This one."
The fitter nodded, made a mark, and moved on.
A younger assistant approached with a tray of jewelry.
At its center lay a silver pendant shaped like a valve wheel. Anya stared.
"No."
The assistant blinked. "It was commissioned for your candidate profile."
"I'm not wearing plumbing as jewelry."
Sela broke into helpless laughter.
The assistant looked distressed. "The broadcast team believes the motif is relatable."
"To whom?"
"Working-class viewers."
The room quieted.
Anya felt heat rise beneath her skin.
"Working-class viewers do not need a valve wheel around my neck to understand I have a job."
The chief fitter approached.
"Candidate Serrin, the pendant is optional."
"Good."
She handed it back.
Mirel stepped down from her platform after the fitters moved away.
"You know they will call you difficult."
"They already do."
"No. They call you authentic. Difficult is what happens when authenticity stops making money."
Anya looked at her.
"You sound experienced."
Mirel's expression flattened.
"My family has been photographed since I was six. I learned early that people prefer a personality they can summarize under a picture."
For the first time, Anya saw something beneath Mirel's polished calm. Fatigue.
"What is your summary?" Anya asked.
Mirel smiled without humor.
"Elegant freight heiress. Responsible daughter. Sensible match."
"And the truth?"
"I once broke my cousin's nose with a champagne bottle."
Anya stared. Mirel's smile became real.
"He deserved it."
Sela leaned over from her platform.
"I knew I liked you."
The fitters finished near noon.
Candidates were then taken to a media room where a broadcast coach taught them how to answer harmless questions without creating dangerous headlines.
Anya considered the exercise impossible on conceptual grounds.
The coach, a narrow man named Pellin, paced before them.
"A question is not only what is asked. It is the story beneath it. If a host asks whether you miss home, the story may be homesickness, loyalty, sacrifice, or unfitness. Answer the story you want to create."
Anya raised her hand.
Pellin looked worried before she spoke.
"What if I don't want to create a story?"
"Then someone else will create it for you."
That answer silenced her.
The day's final exercise paired candidates in mock interviews. Anya drew Mirel.
Mirel took the host chair and smiled with terrifying sweetness.
"Candidate Serrin, viewers are fascinated by your work in Greybridge. Tell us what repairing water lines taught you about love."
Anya stared.
Sela made a strangled sound in the audience.
"That neglect becomes expensive."
The room erupted. Pellin closed his eyes. Mirel stayed in character.
"And marriage?"
"Requires pressure testing before full service."
Even Junia laughed.
Pellin walked to the wall and leaned his forehead against it.
"Candidate Serrin."
"Yes?"
"You are doing this on purpose."
"Not entirely."
Mirel switched places with her. Anya studied the prompt card.
"Candidate Dane, some viewers believe your family wealth gives you an unfair advantage. What would you say to them?"
Mirel's expression remained pleasant.
"That they are correct."
The room went silent. Anya lowered the card. Mirel continued.
"I had tutors. I have met ministers. I know which fork to use and which rules can be bent because my father bends them. Pretending those things do not affect my performance would be insulting. The question is whether I can use what I know for anyone besides myself."
Pellin slowly lifted his head from the wall.
"That," he said, "was excellent."
Mirel looked at Anya. Something passed between them. Not friendship yet. Recognition. The Trial wanted simple stories. Women were inconveniently complicated.
That evening, Anya found a small box outside her room. Inside was the valve-wheel pendant. No note.
She carried it to the common room. Sela looked over.
"They're persistent."
Anya turned the pendant in her palm.
The metal was well made. Tiny teeth around the wheel. A miniature stem at the center.
"Maybe I'll melt it into a wrench."
Junia smiled.
"Or keep it and decide what it means yourself."
Anya looked at her. That was annoyingly sensible.
She put the pendant in her drawer.
She never wore it during the Trials.
Months later, after the east gates opened, she gave it to Nemi, who hung it from the wall above her engineering desk with a label underneath:
PROPERTY OF THE PERSON WHO CHOOSES THE STORY.