I didn’t leave my room for the rest of the evening. My anger filled my stomach allowing me to miss dinner without much of a thought.

Not like I hadn’t been to bed hungry before. Once, when the harvest hadn’t been good my father and I had lived off broth for weeks. If it could be called broth; not much more than water, a few chicken bones, and some herbs from the garden. Those nights I had been so hungry I’d have eaten grass if I hadn’t already known it would just make me throw up the little food I already had in my stomach.

It was all their fault. I sat on my bed and glared out the window at the semi-dark sky toward the looming building. My bedroom faced toward the Core so that I could see the castle in the center.

I’d never given them much thought before. The Crimson Fold—or whoever they really were—didn’t bother with us in the Glade. We only grew and harvested the food the whole of Alban ate. Nurtured and slaughtered the meat sent to each area, the majority of it to the Core, another portion to the soft hands, and an even smaller portion to the moles. In the Glade, we were lucky to get whatever was left over.

One would think those creating the food would get most it, but no. We weren’t important enough. Our lives didn’t matter. Hell, we hadn’t mattered enough to know about Election Day, other than a whisper here or there. They probably didn’t want a worn-down barely fed contestant. Well, I had news for them.

A small smile touched my lips as I imagined what they would think when they realized they had invited the wrong daughter. Sure, I had filled out a bit since I’d moved to the Inner Circle, but a few months here wouldn’t get rid of years’ worth of working in the fields. My hands would never be soft and dainty. My skin would always be speckled with sunspots from hours out of the shade. No, I certainly didn’t look like any of the sheltered children of the Inner Circle.

I didn’t think like them either.

What would they do when they realized I wouldn’t play along? I don’t know the right silverware to use or how to act at a fancy event. I’d only ever worn a dress once and that had been at my mother’s funeral. Even then it had only been for a few minutes before we had to go back to the fields. The crop doesn’t wait just because your mother died.

I’d been grateful then for the distraction. As I’d dug into the earth, I’d shoved all my hurt and anger into it. No child should have to bury their parent and I didn’t blame the sickness at the time. I blamed the Core. It had been their fault we hadn’t had enough food half the time. They took and took and never gave us anything in return. If we’d lived in the Inner Circle, my mother—beautiful and kind—could have gotten the medicine she’d needed to survive.

The coppery taste of blood pulled me out of my thoughts and I winced; in my anguish I had bitten into my cheek, a bad habit I had yet to figure out how to break.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and counted very slowly down from ten. When I reached zero I let out all the air and opened my eyes. The castle still stood there as if laughing haughtily at me, but I felt better. More stable.

I’d been tricked into this but I wouldn’t let it rule me. I’d go to their party and show them I wasn’t someone to trifle with. And who knew, maybe I’d get to meet our mysterious leader—Patrick Blordril—the third leader of Alban since its creation. Maybe he could tell me why people starve in the other rings while he and the Soft Hands had more than enough food to feed everyone twice over.

I lay down on my bed, tossing and turning to find a comfortable position. Pulling the pillow out from under my head, I flung it to the ground. Without the pillow, I could pretend the bed I slept in belonged back home, but even then it felt like a trick. The bed—like the pillow—too soft to really be from home.

Eventually, I fell into a restless slumber, my mind filled with blood, filled envelopes and laughing masked faces. They chased me down long corridors, wanting me to eat from trays of food covered with fingers and toes. I woke from the dream screaming while the sun beamed down on my face.

I jumped at the pounding at the door, and I scanned the room like a frightened rabbit. My heartbeat began to slow as I realized I wasn’t dreaming anymore and that the banging sound was just someone knocking on the front door.

Slipping from the bed, I glanced at the clock. After eleven! I’d never slept so long in my life. Most of the day had already gone and that meant the knocking at the door might mean they’d come to collect me.

I paused at my bedroom door no longer wanting to answer it. Maybe if no one came to the door they would turn around and leave without me? As I thought it, I knew it was a foolish wish. Even more so when Missy answered the door with her usual cheer, “’Ello!”

The muffled voice responding to her sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. My hand went to my doorknob and as I was about to twist the lock into place, Missy called out, “Clarabelle, the butcher boy is here to see you!”

The butcher boy?

Instead of locking the door, I opened it and raced to the edge of the stairs. There stood Marsha, a grim expression on his face. When he saw me coming down the stairs it didn’t lighten much either.

“Marsha,” I said as I landed before him. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer at first, his hands twisting in his apron. He was still dressed in the white shirt and tan pants he normally wore to work, his apron tied over it. Blood-spatter colored the pristine white material and my mind instantly went to yesterday’s invitation.

“You heard, didn’t you,” I asked, not elaborating more than that. Why else would he show up on my doorstep unannounced?

“I’m so sorry, Clara.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He truly seemed in anguish from the whole thing.

“It’s not your fault.” I shook my head, not sure why he was apologizing. “You couldn’t have known I would be the one.”

“But I’m the one who said you wouldn’t be picked.” He stamped his foot in frustration and his shoe left a scuff on the tile, earning him a glare from Missy. “If I hadn’t said anything about it then you wouldn’t have been chosen and it would be Julianna who would be going to this thing and not you.”

I sent Missy a look, asking her to give me a minute. The older woman gave me a displeased frown before stomping away toward the kitchen. When she was gone and out of earshot, I moved closer to Marsha.

“Hey,” I said in a soothing tone and placed my hand on his arm. “The invitations were already decided on before you even said anything to me. There’s no way your comment would have caused them to change who they were going to pick.”

“Couldn’t it?” he shot back. “They’re able to tell if you open the damn thing with just a prick of your finger!” He held up his own hand, showing me a small wound on his finger; the same as mine.

“Wait,” I grabbed his hand and pulled it closer to inspect the wound. “You were invited too?”

Marsha shrugged. “I’m the eldest son of four, all my brothers are under ten, I was bound to be picked this time.”

My brow furrowed at his words. “What do you mean? Why does it matter who you are?”

This time it was Marsha’s turn to be confused. “Wait, I thought you knew about the Election. You acted like it yesterday.”

I gave a guilty shrug. “I lied.”

Marsha seemed surprised, as though he’d never been lied to before. Instead of letting him question me about my ethics, I decided to do a little questioning of my own.

“So,” I crossed my arms over my chest, “since now you know I don’t know anything about this Election thing, why don’t you fill in the blanks. No one else seems to want to.”

“Did your stepmother not explain it to you? Before you opened the letter?” Marsha seemed even more amazed at their lack of cooperation than at my having lied to him. He must not get out much. Either that or people were really careful around him.

“No.” I sighed in frustration. “It seems this Election thing is a big deal for them, or whatever.” I glared down at the floor as I remembered how my stepfamily had behaved the night before. If they knew what was good for them they’d stay away from me in the immediate future. What little future I had left until they came for me anyway.

“Well, look,” Marsha glanced down at the watch on his wrist, “we don’t have much time until they come for us but I’ll do what I can to fill you in. But I’m afraid I don’t know too much myself.”

That was disheartening. If even the Soft Hands didn’t know all the details and they wanted to go then I wasn’t sure what I could expect. Nothing good for sure.

“So, I’ve gathered only kids over seventeen get invited, right?” I asked and Marsha nodded. “So, is it every family? Or only a select few? How exactly are they chosen?”

Marsha grimaced. “We don’t really know. We do know they only invite those from families with more than one child. Maybe they want to make sure the lineage carries on?”

“Maybe.” I mused. “What else? What should we expect at this party? We just dress up and hang out with the head honchos and then we all go home?”

“No one knows.”

“What do you mean no one knows?” I argued, getting irritated by the lack of information. “If it happens every year, surely someone has revealed what happened at the party when they came home, haven’t they?”

Marsha’s gaze went to the floor, his silence causing a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Marsha,” I urged. “Why doesn’t anyone know?”

Finally—after what seemed like forever—Marsha answered. And it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “No one knows what happens because most don’t come back,” he explained, almost reluctant to tell me.

“And those who do?” I asked, my heart racing, almost positive he was about to tell me something horrific. Before he could tell me, another knock came at the door.

Both of our heads turned but while mine held confusion, Marsha’s was afraid. “Clara, they’re here.”