Rebels (6 page)

I nodded.

“You might be asked to do strange things here. Things you do not always enjoy. But you must not complain or refuse. You must promise to do all that is required, no matter the difficulty, and behave as though every task is simple and pleasing. Above all, my love, you must be a very sweet, good girl, even when you do not feel that way. Do you trust me?”

I nodded. Of course I trusted Marius.

“Then you must promise to try. Will you? For me?”

“Yes,” I said fiercely.

I sensed her wanting to reach out and pull me into her embrace.
Please
, I thought, imagining the comfort of her warmth. Instead, she stood abruptly, the “Escort” character returning. “You will be fine,” she said, giving me a tiny nod. “Now you must go inside.”

◊  ◊  ◊

Inside, I sat in a circle of girls wearing identical dresses, the only variation being the pastel shade. We sat silently, eyes downcast, and I wondered how I would keep my promise to Marius when I felt like asking, “Why is no one speaking?”

All I really wanted was to run home to Helix—not considering that running was not an option between islands—take off these pinching layers, climb on Veda, and gallop across Tranquillity Pastures fast as I could.

“Welcome, Little Girls of Upper Indra, to your first Socialization Club.” As though materializing from empty air, a woman stood at the
center of the circle. I had never seen anyone so tall, her body seeming to have been stretched upward. Her face was blank and unreadable, cheekbones high and sharp as blades. “I am Etiquette Tutor,” she said. “And that is the only title by which I will be addressed.”

The floor beneath her began rising. Once the circular platform was a few feet above us, it began a painfully slow rotation, allowing just enough time for this towering woman to stare at each girl until she was visibly discomforted. In that instant, Etiquette Tutor said the girl's name and moved on to the next.

“Emilia Johnsian,” she said. Rotate. Stare. “Tirithia Lysander.” Rotate. Stare.

On and on, for what felt like hours. I knew an hour, for this was the time I was forced to lie across my sleeper each day for what Governess referred to as “Rejuvenation.” An hour was a very long time, and this felt like several of those.

“Margarite Fredrickus.” Rotate. Stare. “Cybele Manius.” Rotate. Stare.

Etiquette Tutor had skin smooth as ours, yet pulled tightly across her face, her eyes seeming to protrude, her stare all the more intimidating. Somehow, I knew she was very old, even more so than Governess. I tried not to stare at her, not knowing where else to focus. I fought the urge to fidget in my chair, to twist my frock ties around my fingers, to fill my cheeks with air and tap my fingers. There were so many things I could
not
be doing that, in that moment, they were what I desired to do more than anything else.

I looked at my feet and thought about
not
wiggling them.

I contemplated the possibility of merely wiggling my toes. This would be acceptable, I reasoned, for she could not see through shoes.

How does she know our names? She will not know my name
, I thought, wiggling first the left toes and then the right.
For she has never met me.
 . . .

“And you . . .”

The words were not loud, yet felt that way. I snapped upright as they reverberated through my body. I looked left and right for the source. Then I remembered.

Slowly, I lifted my chin upward.

Her gaze was penetrating, the prominent eyes giving me the distinct feeling I had no skin on my body. She did not flinch, nor did her focus shift. After a very long time—it felt like ten Rejuvenation naps, at least—she opened her pinched lips.

“. . . are Livia Cosmo.”

At my name, all the girls looked up from their own toes.

◊  ◊  ◊

“What is your name?”

“Claudia Quintias,” said the girl in pale violet.

“I cannot hear you.”

“Claudia Quintias,” she said, a tiny bit louder.

“Too loud. A Proper Little Girl of Indra must be heard, yet never offend the ear. Try again.”

Claudia's knees shook. Etiquette Tutor moved in steady revolutions around the circle, as though we were locked in a cage and she our keeper.

She moved with grace, appearing to float across the floor. I had the unnerving feeling that, at any moment, she might creep up and shock us with a stunner. In reality, her words were more effective than that.

One by one, each girl mounted the platform for interrogation.

“Why are you standing like that, Nadine? Your knees turned together, back hunched over. Unattractive, to say the very least. A Proper Little Girl stands tall. Is that tall? Now you appear all the more repugnant. We have our work cut out for us, I daresay.”

With some girls, this went on for a very long time. For others, the session ended as quickly as it had begun.

“What is your least favorite food, Daphne? Eggplant stew. I see. Your hair is a catastrophe. You may sit.”

Immediately following, the dazed subject stumbled off the platform, stifling tears. No one wanted to repeat Cybele's unfortunate mistake.

“Crying is not only inappropriate but entirely unattractive. If you could see yourself, Cybele, you would be as offended as I am. Red-faced and sniveling. And you already will have to try much harder than the other girls, for you do not have the asset of being pleasing to the eye. Are you deaf as well as unappealing? Stop that abhorrent tearful display immediately.”

I forced myself to sit still.
Be good
, I told myself, even though the pinched places on my skin were now raw, the tightly wound ribbons leaving my arms and legs numb and tingling. Even more, I needed to relieve myself. I knew I must stifle the urge, though, or be accused of vulgarity for asking to be excused.

You must be very sweet, good girl
, I reminded myself,
even when you do not feel that way.

“Ah. The Cosmo Airess herself.”

“I do not know that word,” I told her, standing as straight as I could.

“Admitting to ineptitude devalues your appeal. You must never admit to ignorance. The same is true of displaying excessive knowledge, which Proper Young Men find even less appealing. When you do not know a word, you mustn't let anyone know. So, once again. Are you, in fact, the Cosmo Airess?”

I nodded firmly.

“Do not bob your head like a ruffian.” She demonstrated a slight, girlish nod. “It is not that difficult, Livia. This is not Genetic Engineering.”

I nodded in my slightest, most girlish manner.

“You should not show agreement when there has not been a question. We are not off to a promising start, are we, Livia Cosmo?”

Slight, girlish nod.

“That was a rhetorical question. You are not meant to answer
those
. Do you understand?”

Now I was confused. Should I nod or not?

“Well?” she said.

“Is that a rhetorical question as well?”

“Are you an imbecile?”

This one, I could tell, was not meant to be answered. Besides, I did not know that word either.

“Perhaps you are. Odd, considering the genius of your father.”

I was confused. How did she know Father? I opened my mouth to ask, then remembered the little girl in yellow who had displayed excessive curiosity. Within moments, Etiquette Tutor had reduced her to a sniveling mess.

I heard Waslo in my head telling me to be alert. I forced myself to look Etiquette Tutor directly in her bulbous eyes. Now she would know I was listening.

“Stop staring, Livia. Your rudeness is becoming unbearable. Once again:
Are you an imbecile?
”

“I . . . cannot answer.”

“And why would that be?”

“I do not know what
imbecile
is or does, so I will be incorrect either way. If I ask for a definition, I will be admitting to ineptitude. If I give you an answer, I will be displaying an overly curious nature. Or perhaps,” I say, proud of myself, “that was simply a rhetorical question.”

I was delighted with my performance.
See, Marius? Now she knows I am a good girl, the kind who listens!

Etiquette Tutor went silent. Since the beginning, I had found her
as difficult to sense as Waslo. But in that moment, I felt a tiny fissure in her tightly sealed emotions.

Etiquette Tutor didn't understand me, and she found that profoundly disturbing.

Marius's voice echoed in my head:
You must act as though each task is simple and pleasing.

I lifted my chin, looked Etiquette Tutor in the eyes, and smiled.

Just like that, the fissure cracked wide open. I had never felt someone so strongly.

Etiquette Tutor hated me. I think she had before she even met me.

“You, Livia Cosmo, are far less clever than you believe yourself to be,” she said with an almost imperceptible quiver. “You will be a trial, but I will succeed. In due time, I will wipe that knowing expression off your pretty little face, drain the precocious, uncivilized brat right out of you. I will make you a Proper Little Girl. Not an easy task, by and by, but let me be clear:
I never fail
.”

There was a long pause in which my body, damp with perspiration under the many stiff layers, went icy.

“Now, you may sit.”

◊  ◊  ◊

Before the lesson ended, we were instructed to have a Pleasant Interaction. “This is a time to engage your fellow trainees in cordial conversation,” Etiquette Tutor explained. “You must learn to entertain and enliven a room under any given scenario. Begin.”

We stared at each other, looking shell-shocked and worn, our bodies seeming to droop despite our efforts to stand up straight.

“Now!” barked Etiquette Tutor. Everyone scattered, childlike voices rising before even finding a partner. I scanned the room, but no one would meet my eyes. Everyone had gathered in tiny groups already, voices overlapping and strained.

“Indeed, how lovely!”

“You do not say! How entirely delightful.”

“Absolutely charming, I agree.”

I had never met children, but couldn't imagine that they all spoke like Waslo. I stood there, both invisible and on display. Surrounded by more people than ever before, yet feeling utterly alone.

“Hello.” I was startled to see a girl smiling at me. I knew her immediately: the sole trainee Etiquette Tutor hadn't chosen to demolish, dismissing her without insult after a few simple questions. The girl had glided back to her chair and sat gracefully, her lovely face calm.

She was also the girl I first saw outside, smiling faintly in the center of an adoring circle. Now the smile was aimed at me.

“You are Livia Cosmo,” she said. “And I heard you have the most glorious estate in all of Indra! Yet no one has seen it in years, I have heard . . . how very delicious! Oh, you must tell me all about, well . . .
absolutely everything
!” Suddenly, her demeanor changed. She appeared devastated. “Oh, how could I? Livia, you must excuse my dreadful manners!”

She stretched out her hand and waited. After a moment, I understood what she wanted, for me to take her tiny grip in my own. We shook hands.

“I am Mica,” she said. “And it is
terribly
lovely to make your acquaintance.”

◊  ◊  ◊

Once Mica had taken me under her wing, the others quickly followed. I was bestowed admittance into her exclusive circle, allowing me to gaze upon her adoringly, often during Pleasant Interaction, an exercise that grew far less pleasant with each passing day.

“Communication among your peers is of the utmost importance,” Etiquette Tutor reminded us. “Begin.”

Within moments, Mica's admirers gathered, standing elbow to elbow.

“Make room for Livia,” she said, and that's all it took. On occasion, I was even invited to the most prime location, twining Mica's arm in mine.

“Livia is strikingly pretty, is she not?” she said to the others. “Yes,” they would echo with carefully monitored enthusiasm. “Pretty,” I soon learned, was of the utmost value, and Mica surrounded herself with what she found valuable.

The most winsome of us all, of course, was Mica herself. On this we all agreed.

“Yes, and hasn't she the loveliest bloom upon her cheeks?” Mica said, then placed her attentions elsewhere. Mica's questions were all rhetorical.

For the first few sessions, I didn't understand what was expected of me. I made the mistake of laughing too loudly at an amusing anecdote, to which Mica gazed off in embarrassment. On another occasion, I stated an opinion contrary to hers, the circle collapsing into deadly silence until she raised a new topic to discuss. I learned from the error of my ways, deciding it best to speak as infrequently as possible.

I mimicked the others, laughing with their laughter, raising my eyebrows in disbelief the moment one of theirs had lifted. I leaned in close to hear a secret, put my hand to my mouth in shock at their startling revelations.

Fitting in, I realized, was easy. Do as the others do. Act as though you share a brain.

In no time at all, I knew what was expected of me; ultimately, it boiled down to a single requirement.

Requirement:
you must listen to Mica's opinion on various topics and express complete, unwavering agreement.

Topic One: Garment Selection and Physical Maintenance

Purple is far more fetching than blue. Curls are more fetching than braids, unless the braids are twisted in a certain manner, and few can achieve the intricacies of this correctly. Best to let your curls fall loosely and be easily admired. Unless you are Cybele, of course, who has been bequeathed locks of an unfortunate disposition. Poor dear.

A Proper Little Girl of Indra has seven dresses at the very least, one being a shade of purple, preferably lilac. If she has made the grave mistake of partaking in yellow, the garment should be disposed of immediately, yellow being fit for only the low-level Middler. “I do not mean you, of course, Claudia. Your dress is lovely. And perfectly suited to your rather unique complexion.”