SERINA

SERINA’S FIRST BALL was almost exactly as she’d imagined. The long, gleaming ballroom teemed with movement, the prospective Graces as glittering and colorful as a school of fish. The mirrored walls and endless gold filigree caught the light of a dozen crystal chandeliers. Musicians sat in a corner by a wall of arches leading to the terrace, their fingers flitting so fast across their instruments Serina couldn’t follow them.

It was a far cry from her cramped living room, where an instructor had taught her to dance with Renzo as her partner. They’d had no music—only the dogged beat of the instructor clapping his hands.

Here, the sparkling music curled and spun, and Serina twirled and smiled in the arms of the Superior’s finely dressed dignitaries, thrilled to be at the center of the glamour, one of the glittering, colorful fish.

But there was a flaw in the fairy tale. The Heir didn’t appear.

When the musicians took a short break, Serina slipped into a corner to catch her breath. The strain of her corset against her lungs had become suffocating. As she rested, she scanned the ballroom. It wasn’t hard to pick out the Superior’s Graces. Unlike the prospects, they moved as if they wholly belonged, taking the attention in stride. Several posed on tall, circular platforms, draped in shining purple satin, raised up—literally—as the epitome of female perfection. Serina stared at them, awed by the control it took to stand so perfectly still.

She had been groomed for this, her training beginning before she was old enough to truly understand a Grace’s role. From the moment she first danced across the dusty floor with Renzo, the weight of expectation was upon her shoulders. Even then she knew that being chosen would change her family’s fortune, that it was the highest honor for any girl in Viridia, that it would allow her mother—nearly blind from years of squinting over her sewing in the factory—to finally stop working. That it would allow her brother to someday afford a bride.

Most important, she could keep headstrong Nomi by her side. Nomi was smart, too smart: too challenging of authority and the rules. Where Nomi was a dreamer, Serina was a realist, and she would do everything in her power to keep it that way—protecting Nomi’s fiery spirit and her safety at the same time. Nothing scared Serina more than the thought that her sister might someday take too great a risk, and be caught.

Nomi didn’t see this chance as a gift, but Serina did. She wanted more than anything to become a Grace and keep Nomi by her side as her handmaiden.

A girl paused next to Serina, her floral dress swishing delicately. “It’s all quite incredible, isn’t it?”

Serina appraised the girl with a quick glance: soft features, pretty blue eyes, hair a peculiar blond-silver that almost seemed to shimmer in the low light.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Serina replied. She scanned the room again. Surely the Heir was about to make his entrance.

“I’ve never seen anything like your dress,” the girl said. “Did your mother make it for you?” It took Serina a moment to recognize the barb hidden in the girl’s sweet voice.

She smiled benignly. She wasn’t about to admit that her mother had.

“It’s so… interesting,” the girl continued. “In Bellaqua, no one’s worn blue in years.” She cast a glance across the dance floor.

Serina followed the girl’s gaze. It was true; the room was a sea of pinks and purples and yellows. And most of the gowns were full length, some heavy with brocade. More formal than her calf-length, swirling dress and golden sandals.

Serina raised her chin and said with a casual shrug, “I suppose that’s lucky for me, then, seeing as blue is the Heir’s favorite color.” It was a lie, of course; Serina had no idea what his favorite color was. But the flabbergasted look on the girl’s face was worth it. Serina walked away, leaving the girl gaping.

A sudden ripple of excitement passed through the ballroom. Serina turned in time to see the Heir arrive at last, with his brother beside him.

The Heir surveyed the ball, his eyes picking out each of his prospects. Serina lowered her gaze long before his scrutiny reached her. A handful of prospective Graces drifted closer to him. Ines appeared at his side. The girl who’d talked to Serina hurried toward them, but Serina stayed where she was. She didn’t want to cluster in with the others and risk being lost in the crowd. Instead, she made her way to the terrace to watch the last streaks of sunset stretch across the sky. The light was lovely, rich and golden, and she knew it would make her skin glow.

Far below the terrace, the canals shimmered with the pink and orange of the fading light. Serina had heard stories about Bellaqua her whole life. Perched at the southern tip of Viridia, the capital was the royal family’s stronghold and its greatest achievement. The first Superior had designed it to resemble an ancient northern city that had been destroyed in the Floods. Seeing it herself for the first time, she couldn’t deny the city’s beauty; but it also had a cold quality to it—untouchable, removed.

Ines reached her at last. “Malachi, this is Serina Tessaro, of Lanos.”

Serina turned away from the balustrade and dipped into her lowest, most graceful curtsy. As she straightened, she raised her gaze just to the Heir’s lips, which were full and soft in contrast to the hard lines of his jaw. It would be impolite to meet his eyes.

“I am honored to be here and eager to serve you, Your Eminence.” She smiled.

“Serina Tessaro? That’s your name?” he asked, with a gruffness she wasn’t expecting.

She bowed her head gently, just as she’d been taught, like a flower nodding in the wind. “Yes, Your Eminence,” she replied, then shifted slightly so the light would fall just so along her cheekbones.

“Dance with me,” he ordered.

A bolt of nervous heat shot through her. “I would be honored, Your Eminence.”

His hand closed around hers, and he drew her onto the dance floor, where the musicians were beginning a fast, wild song. She spun away from him and then back into his arms. As Serina dipped and twirled, it was impossible to miss the envious stares of the other prospects. Her feet flew through the steps of the dance, and her skin prickled everywhere the Heir touched.

“You’re from Lanos?” Malachi asked when the music slowed. She expected him to move on to the next girl, but he didn’t. Instead he pulled her closer. He smelled delicious, like spun sugar and spiced wine.

“I am, Your Eminence,” she replied. “Up in the mountains. It’s still cold this time of year.”

“You live with your parents? Brothers? Sisters?” By now, they were barely moving, just the slightest sway to the beat of the music. His hands were on her hips, his heat passing through the filmy layers of her dress.

“Parents. A younger brother and sister. My sister’s here with me as my handmaiden, Your Eminence.”

The song ended, and this time the Heir released her. The warmth of his hands remained long after he let go, imprinted against her skin.

She curtsied again, unable to contain her smile. “Thank you for the dance, Your Eminence.”

“It was my pleasure,” he replied. Then he wove through the other dancers and disappeared from view.

As Serina returned to her spot on the terrace, she ran through every sentence, every touch, analyzing her performance. He’d seemed engaged. He’d held her close. She’d kept to the flattering light. For the first time in a week, since they’d begun the long journey from Lanos, Serina felt her shoulders relax. She’d done her job. Done it well, even. Maybe he would choose her.

And if he did?

A slow smile bloomed across her face. He was just as handsome as she’d imagined.

A murmur ran through the ballroom, pulling her from her thoughts. She scoured the dance floor with her gaze, searching for the Heir. But it was all dignitaries and Graces, no sight of his white jacket anywhere. A few of the prospective Graces were glaring at her.

The realization shot through her like the last rays of the sun: Prince Malachi had left for the evening, and she was the only one he’d asked to dance.

As the prospects returned to the waiting area, Serina barely had a moment to catch her breath before Nomi was upon her. She grabbed Serina’s arm and dragged her to a corner half-hidden by a massive plant in a painted urn. She looked anxious, and a little bit ill.

Serina squeezed both of her hands, hoping to calm her. “It’s okay,” she said breathlessly. “It went well—even better than I’d hoped. We have nothing to worry about.”

Nomi looked pained rather than relieved, but before Serina had a chance to ask what was wrong, Ines entered the room and a hush spread over everyone. “My flowers,” she began. “The Heir was greatly pleased to have met all of you. Your unparalleled beauty and poise made his choice very difficult, but after a consultation with the magistrates from your provinces and much consideration, he has made his decision.

“Once I’ve announced those chosen, I’ll show them to their quarters. The rest of you will remain here while we arrange for your transportation back to Bellaqua’s central piazza, where your families are waiting. Those of you staying with us, your families will be notified of your good fortune. And you may, of course, send a message to them as soon as you wish through the palazzo’s scribes.”

Serina squeezed her sister’s hand. The time had come. Her old life was ending, and her new one was about to begin. The other girls shifted and whispered to their handmaidens. Serina’s pulse fluttered in her throat.

“Maris Azaria, the Heir has chosen you.”

Serina searched the crowd of girls, but it wasn’t hard to find Maris—she burst into tears, hugging her arms close to her sparkling pink dress. Her straight, waist-length black hair flowed forward to curtain her face. Whether they were tears of joy, Serina couldn’t tell.

“Two more,” she whispered to Nomi. Two more chances.

Ines waited until the room settled. “Cassia Runetti, you have been chosen.” She nodded to a girl near the dais.

It was the girl who’d spoken to Serina. Cassia’s delicate jaw went slack, her eyes widened, and then she laughed out loud, her silver-blond hair rippling. Serina could tell that her dress was of very fine quality, as were her precariously high heels. She was probably from one of the wealthy eastern cities, like Sola or Golden Isle.

The other girls shifted and whispered to their handmaidens. Only one name left. When Ines cleared her throat, Serina held her breath.

“The Heir’s final Grace will be… Nomi Tessaro.”

A weight lifted from Serina’s shoulders in a great rush. I did it! The thought filled her with relief and joy. But, she realized, they’d made a mistake. She smiled at Ines. “It’s Serina Tessaro, actually.”

The older woman shook her head. “No, my flower. You were not chosen,” she said, her words dropping into the wondering quiet of the room. Every gaze turned toward Nomi.

Serina’s vision went spotty; she was holding her breath again. Ines stared straight at her as she said, “Your handmaiden was. Your sister. Nomi Tessaro.”

The room erupted with voices raised in confusion and anger.

Serina stared at Ines, then her sister, her heart beating a frantic rhythm. Nomi’s eyes were wild, and her hair was escaping its long braid. Her simple brown dress was hiked awkwardly up on one hip, making the hem uneven. Even here, dressed in her nicest clothes, Nomi looked as untamable as ever. A girl who hated everything about the Graces and what they represented—and now she was one of them.