She’s just being nice.
“I agree,” Paisley says from the corner.
“What if no one wants me?” I ask Island as I dress, sliding my leg into the fabric holes. “What happens?”
“There are five lords and five Silk Girls.”
And that is her answer. One of them will get stuck with me, whether they want me or not. She starts to fuss around with my clothing, a mother duck plucking duckling feathers.
A few moments later, I am dressed.
Dressed but not at all prepared.
“Don’t worry, Aster. I’ve seen you move. You’re lovely. Slow. Sultry. That’s the ballerina training.” Paisley looks at Island. “And her eye contact—”
“Yes,” Island agrees, “her eye contact is some of the best I have seen in a new Silk Girl.”
I bounce my gaze between them, utterly overwhelmed by the subject.
“Remember,” she purrs, “you have other body parts, too.”
Island steps to my back and starts on my hair. “Far more interesting than big breasts and round hips.”
I blink ahead. “Like what?”
A corner of Paisley’s mouth curves. “Like your lips.”
“Eat fruit,” Island adds quickly.
I cannot keep up. “Are you sure?” I look up, and Island leans to make eye contact with me while she pins my hair into a soft, loose bun on the back of my crown.
She looks like my Rapport after a feed, all teeth and cunning excitement. “Eat fruit while you look at the lords. Fruit is juicy. It’ll slide down your lips.”
My face flushes.
“Oooh, yes,” Paisley gushes softly. “Don’t wipe it off straight away, make sure they see.”
“You cannot speak unless spoken to”—Island moves to stand before me. She lifts my chin and begins to paint my lips with a soft red blush while she says, “You cannot approach them or touch them, and you must be appropriately dressed, but you can eat and gaze at them.”
“I can’t,” I begin.
“It’s in your Trade to seduce, Aster. Make one of them want you. This is for The Cradle. You remember your vows?” Paisley approaches me, smoothing a piece of my hair into place. “That part about your irresistibility? And erm, staying in his…”
“His mind’s eye,” I finish, all this sinking, pressing down, like a weighted boulder of expectation.
Dammit. This is a lot.
I close my eyes and see the erotic image of the girl with the Xin De man thrusting into her. I place my face over hers; a shiver rushes through me. Then the man’s face becomes my king’s; I know it so well. Each piece: the scar on his lip, the predatorial blue gaze. He is every inch Xin De.
I wonder whether the other girls imagine it’s him each time they spread their legs. That’s the design, right? To have us all obsessed with him. It’s why his picture hangs in the Silk House, why we know every inch of his face.
Despite never knowing whether we are the one he chooses or not, we care for him, in turn, for The Cradle.
I shouldn’t think like this… Shouldn’t question the reasons or speculate. It’s a horrid habit.
All of this is. Well, it’s to keep us without jealousy, to keep the peace, and to protect the heir at all costs. I know this.
But I do feel jealousy, jealousy toward Ana’s pregnancy, Iris’s Xin De genes, and Blossom’s curves. And I am sure if I knew Daisy better, I would find something to envy about her also.
I’m a terrible Silk Girl.
Chapter Five
Aster
Silk Girl Vows:
For The Cradle, I will be irresistible to my lord. I must be unmatched in my sweetness, a stunning landscape for his gaze, and a constant in his mind's eye. His indifference toward me would be my greatest failure.
I exhale hard and stroll toward the crowded Estate piazza beside the other new Silk Girls selected for His Collective of lords; Ana cradles her belly unaffected and content; Daisy strokes her collarbone, drawing every gaze to her lush chest; Blossom moves with a sway that creates a pendulum with her ample hips; and Iris flicks the red tendrils of her hair as often as she can, showcasing the heart-stopping colours.
I gaze back at Paisley and Island, who wave me onward and mouth, “Go.” I turn to face forward again as a line from my vows beats between my ears: ‘his indifference toward me would be my greatest failure.’
A glassy pond, lined with tiny blue and white stones, separates us from the entrance, but large rectangular platforms, arranged strategically, create a route over the water.
We step over them and then pass through an arch, gushing with vibrant pink and purple vines that crawl across the ceiling and frame the wide entrance.
And I gasp, as the piazza opens up, a space that blurs the line between reality and fantasy.
At my feet, a scene is depicted in mosaic tiles, it’s The Cradle, from the mysterious Horizon across The Strait to Aquilla, where at the southernmost point, The Estate resides.
As I move, the land shifts as the plates have moved over time. I get dizzy and level my eyes, instantly awe-struck by the strange people, dressed in costumes, painted in gold and bronze, drinks sparkling like diamonds, waiters and acrobats and musicians. Wow. Too much to take in; it is truly a test in overstimulation.
It's peculiar how so many people can be in one place, so rowdy and occupied with the festivities, yet the presence of attention on us is undoubtable.
I feel him before I see him. He is far away, atop an elevated platform, sitting on a deep purple throne made from leather with studded accentuations.
He hasn’t seen me yet.
The vision of effortless power, Rome of The Strait wears black, from his shirt, fixed with leather and metal plates at the chest and shoulders, to his lush cloak and metal-capped boots. He appears as gorgeous and unaffected as he does in all of his portraits.
Sighing, I acknowledge it’s a different demeanour to the one I remember in the parlour and in the military vehicle. So much that I feel I may have made up the regard I saw in the dark depths of his blue eyes.
“Trade be, he is handsome,” Blossom sighs, her eyes glued ahead, just like mine.
“Too handsome,” I point out, then frown at the empty seat to his side. That’s the queen’s seat, I’m certain. I search the festival, wanting more than anything to see her in the flesh. A bespoken beauty, I have been told, age-defying, too.
I turn to Ana. “The queen?”
Ana shakes her head. “She is so often unwell.”
“What do we do now?” Daisy asks, fidgeting with the long ends of her blonde hair.
“We could play a game,” Blossom offers.
“We are on display,” Iris spits out.
“So what? We can still play.” Ana waves at the bright red lights of a game called One Heartbeat.
We wander over to it and watch the people before us play.
It appears the point is to grab the heart at the bottom of a dark, black velvet hole before the machine grabs hold of your hand.
“You’re not meant to actually get the heart,” Ana states. “It’s just a little test of courage.”
“I don’t like this game,” Daisy says, her cheeks paling. “I think I will just watch.”