Venus City 1 (5 page)

“Why don't you try it?” Emma intoned. “You could pay for some better news with that reward.”

Brielle pouted, her blush reappearing across her cheeks. “I dunno...I've never seen one. I don't think I could catch any of them...” She glanced up and gasped. “Oh, please. Maydessa! Don't turn me in for my arm! Please! We're Bride Sisters!”

Braya had no idea what this Bride Sister talk was, but she didn't care, either. By the look on Maydessa's face, though, it seemed she had no sympathy for the redhead.

“I'm sorry, but I can't let this go on. Rule-breakers are rule-breakers. I'll have to report you,” Maydessa pronounced. As if to prove her intentions, she stood abruptly, jostling the silverware.

“And busy-bodies are busy-bodies,” Emma commented as she examined an egg-salad sandwich.

At that, Maydessa slammed back into her chair and leaned closer to Emma, her eyes aglow and her cheeks flushed, clearly embarrassed. “What do you mean by that? How can you just sit there while a criminal eats with you?”

“I just don't care. But you care enough for all of us,” Emma said as she slowly took a bite of the sandwich. She chewed excruciatingly slowly, as if she weren't sure she liked it. “So go run along and tattle.”

“This is not
tattling
! It's turning in a criminal—upholding the law!” Maydessa was on the verge of hysterics. Braya had to keep herself from laughing.

“Mhm,” Emma murmured through another bite.

“Oh, please...let's not fight,” Brielle whimpered.

“You,” Maydessa fumed, her pointing finger moving so close to Emma's sandwich that that blonde girl finally made eye contact, “are just trying to play some stupid role here. The stoic girl who can act bitchy or heroic—whichever one suits her at the moment!”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “So what? And you're an uptight busy-body. Get your hand away from my sandwich.”

“Who would I be?” Brielle asked, as if she didn't notice the tension at the table.

“The idiot who doesn't know when to shut up,” Emma muttered.

“And Braya would be—”

Braya held up her hand. “Don't you dare bring me into this.”

“The stuck-up girl who thinks she's better than the rest of us,” Maydessa finished, a look of triumph coloring her features. Well, she was right about that—Braya was indeed better than the rest of them—but who was this stupid Finch to act all vindictive about it?

“I told you not to get me in on this crap,” Braya glowered.

“Why not? Too good for our argument? Too cool to make it to the table on time so the rest of us have to starve? Let me guess—you have to be an only child. Spoiled rotten, always gets what she wants. Your parents probably had enough money judging by your clothes—”

This girl was mental. Braya's first impression of Maydessa had been completely wrong. She wasn't sophisticated. She wasn't calm and calculating. She was exactly what Emma had said—grudge it all that Braya had to agree with that creepy emotionless girl—uptight, nosy, and a know-it-all, albeit a poor excuse for one.

“Just stop there,” Braya interjected coolly. “Contrary to what you birdies might think you know, I'm not one of you. But, by Camille, since I won't even be here tomorrow, why not tell you a little about myself, since you’re so curious?”

At their silence, she continued. “I'm a Crown, and that alone should let you know that I am better than all of you Finchies. I don't deserve this kind of torture. This whole Bride career is nonsense and you're all deluding yourselves into thinking you're special. That's pretty much all there is to this job, isn't there? Deluding each other. I'll have no part in it, thanks.”

They were three different shades of surprised. Maydessa, despite her souring expression, seemed to have to have the last word.

“If you're a Bride, you're not a Crown.”

Those words nagged at Braya for the rest of the day. Was that know-nothing-at-all Finch actually right? Out of all the citizens ever born into a Crown family, none had ever been demoted. They had all been given a Crown job. Was she the first? The realization sunk into her like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river.

No. Her mother would change her job tonight. Braya was sure of it. One hundred percent.

Braya had stayed away from her Bride Sisters—apparently it was a term they learned during the Orientation speech that was supposed to bond the small groups of girls together—for the rest of the day. After brunch they'd gotten the tour of the grounds, and then they had the first of the Groom Selections, in which they could choose four out of the group of fifty Grooms to date over the course of the next few weeks. If that alone didn't scream true love, Braya didn't know what did. Then dinner had been served, which had been tense among the four girls, and after that had been Move-In.

The girls, save Braya, were ecstatic to be moving into dormitories in the manor—it was a million times nicer than whatever they lived in with their families. Braya had bid farewell to her “Bride Sisters” at that time, told them to live happy, beautiful lives, and left.

Now she was back in her own home, pacing nervously outside the door to her mother's private study. Her aunt Rosamund and two older cousins Seralie and Sasha were already home as well, but Braya didn't want to confront them until she talked to her mother about changing her career. They were all members of important Crown careers. How could she confront them as a Bride?

She'd changed out of her dress and into a long white tank-top, its collar tall and elaborate around her neck. It had two over-sized pockets resting at her hips and a pleated skirt peaking out from under the long shirt. Braya dug her hands into her pockets as she cast frequent glances at the door that kept her mother in privacy.

She was so worried about what she would say first that she didn't notice her brother appear behind her.

“Braya? What's wrong?” Aspen's soft rain-drop voice stopped her in her tracks. She cast him one long glance before resuming her pacing. She hadn't talked to him since her Career Interview, either. She didn't want to tell anyone about the shaming Bride career she'd been stuck with—she wanted to boast about whatever her mother could change it into.

“Oh, nothing,” she said dismissively. Braya didn't know why she did it, since he was always eerily perceptive, but her answer held little conviction.

“Braya...” he moved so that she could see him. “I wanted to know what happened in your Interview. What job did you get? I couldn't find you in the house today, so I assumed you'd already left for your training.”

Braya let out a shaky breath, and folded her arms around her chest. She couldn't lie to him, and she didn't want to, she realized. Braya needed to let the truth out—she needed that release as she waited for her mother to emerge from her study.

“It was a total disaster,” she confessed, slumping over a window sill across the hall. “I swear they must've had some grudge against Mother—even Mother Ophelia mentioned something about a grudge—”

Aspen's brows furrowed. “Mother Ophelia? She was at your Interview?”

Braya nodded. “So was some man. His name was Sir Channing or something. Anyway...”

“They didn't give you what you wanted,” he concluded. She looked up and caught his gaze—his unwavering, magenta gaze—and instantly felt something inside her squirm. He was oddly perceptive for a male, and she'd never realized that before. “That's really peculiar. Why would they do that to you?”

“That's right!” Braya exclaimed. When he said it like that, the rage she'd felt yesterday after receiving the Bride career swept over her anew. “They know who I am! They know Mother is the most powerful person in this whole city. I bet even Mother Ophelia is her puppet. Something weird must be going on...they all knew this was supposed to be a fixed interview. I bet they're trying to pull something over on Mother—well, I'll warn her right away.”

The idea of being able to expose some insidious plot imbued her with courage. No longer would she be traipsing in to complain about being given the wrong career, but to report something potentially harmful to her mother. Yes, Mother would appreciate it, and in return she'd change her career—

Aspen sighed, and it was that very sound, soft as the prattling of rain, that paused her just as her hand hovered over her mother's door to knock. It was enough to extinguish whatever small scraps of courage his words had given her. “Braya, you should be careful not to jump to conclusions. I'm sure it had nothing to do with Charlotte.”

Braya scowled at him. When he referred to their mother by her name, it was easier for her to rebuff him. It was when he became gentle, his spirit chilled like rain-soaked skin, that she felt herself become liquid inside and her cold rebukes would shrink up back inside her and leave a strange sort of pang deep in her chest. That Aspen—the rainy one—always got the best of her. This Aspen—the defiant one—she could treat how she should treat a brother.

“And
you
should be careful not to call Mother in such an insolent manner,” she snapped back. “So who cares if they really have cooked up a twisted plot against Mother or not? They snubbed me, her
daughter
, so they should expect punishment, shouldn't they? Those...those evil pricks...making me a Bride—”

She hadn't even realized her slip until Aspen reached over to touch her shoulder. It was a tender brush, barely anything, but it stung her deeply. She jerked away from him. She fixed him with a withering glare, but he didn't shrink back like he should—his magenta eyes were like a stoked fire, crackling and bright. She frowned.

“A Bride, did you say? Braya, that could work to our advantage better than any of the Crown jobs,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“What are you
talking
about?” She hissed, unable to control her irritation. It was seeping through her now, like hot soup, and she hated the feeling.

He cast a glance toward their mother's study and then looked back at her. “Come on, we need to go somewhere else to discuss this.”

Braya didn't want to follow him, didn't want him to think she was listening to him because she was curious. She
wasn't
curious—just morbidly annoyed. If she didn't shake it before she confronted her mother she feared her abilities of persuasion would be hindered. So she followed him, if only to calm her nerves.

He was a white blur, moving soundlessly. He only ever wore white—always various white sweaters with white pants, but never any other color. It was odd, but she had long stopped questioning him on it.

Their mother's study was on the second floor, and Aspen led them up to the third floor. They headed into the library, where no one usually went except the two of them. It was a modest library—probably only as big as a dining hall—with rounded walls, an indented ceiling, and five tall bookcases lining the center of the room. The walls were covered in bookshelves, too, and small tables with lamps took up most of the rest of the space. It smelt like books—new and old, tight spines and musty pages—and was slightly chillier than the rest of the house.

Braya slumped over in one of the small armchairs and watched warily as Aspen took up the chair across from her. He switched on the lamp on the table between them, its dim glow throwing shadows across his face. His strawberry blond hair looked almost orange and his magenta eyes were alight with eagerness.

“What's this about?” She asked tiredly.

“Don't,” he murmured, “pretend like you don't remember what we talked about a couple days ago.” He paused. “Bellamine. The cure.”

Braya bit the inside of her lip. “Yes. None of that really relates to this issue, though. We need to wait until I can talk to Mother and she changes my career. I can't help Bellamine as a Bride.”

Aspen shook his head. “That's not entirely true. There's a woman—Leraphone—oh, have you met her?”

At the mention of Leraphone's name Braya's expression instantly folded into a sneer. “Yeah. You've got to be kidding me. That blue frizz ball who speaks like she's reading a crystal ball? Her voice is creepy.”

Aspen looked slightly amused. “I wouldn't know what she looks like.”

She shot him an accusatory look. “Then how would you know she can give us the cure? She doesn't look like the type of woman to even know what the Tristant disease is. She lives in her own world. I wouldn't doubt she has crystal balls and hides in her room creating magic potions.”

Aspen let out a little laugh, and it made Braya's chest constrict. He didn't laugh very often. “Well, in that case, she sounds like the perfect person, doesn't she?”

Braya shook her head, averting her gaze. She couldn't look at him when he was like this. He was lively, excited. It pained her because it was all wasted on a futile hope. “I still don't see how any of this connects to our problem. I need a
Crown
job, Aspen. A
real
job where I can find a
real
cure for our sister. Asking favors from some weirdo with blue hair...”

“Don't dismiss this plan just yet,” he replied, his tone still feather-soft. “Listen to me. If you had gotten your dream job in the Fair Lady's Court or the Hem Line or even the Handkerchief Society, it would still take you weeks, maybe even months to gain rank. Without rank you can't access the Venus Vault. Even then, most of the Crowns in those jobs still don't ever get within fifty feet of it. Without access to the vault, there is absolutely no cure. The chances of success are extremely low. Bellamine might not have months to wait.”