It comes to mind that I don’t even know the king’s name, nor am I impressed by what I see; still, I am frightened and it makes me angry. I know I am at risk of being humiliated, especially by Ellen. Why should I care what these people, who are the reason we have been enslaved all these years, think about me?
My father holds my hand in his. To anyone watching us it would seem nothing more than a typical father-daughter moment, or at least I think so. I feel the strength of his grip. I have no choice but to stand in this line and await my punishment. I know he will get some sort of perverse joy from it. Findley stands off to the side, calmly watching us.
“Lord Pembrooke, Lady Pembrooke. May I present my daughter, Wren.” Lord Pembrooke nods at me, and Lady Pembrooke grips my hand. “My dear. We have heard your story. It is appalling that you were kept from your father all these years. I know he never stopped searching for you. How dreadful that you had to grow up under those circumstances.”
My mouth drops open in shock and my father squeezes my upper arm beneath my shawl, daring me to say something to the contrary. He has told them these lies to explain my presence. Before I can think or protest I am shuffled down the line past Ellen, who barely smiles at me, and then to the king.
“Curtsey,” my father whispers in my ear. Every part of me wants to revolt. My mind screams to tell the truth and to reveal his lies, but I know that will accomplish nothing beyond having me removed from the premises. I need to find Pace and I hope to escape, so I will play my father’s game for now and let him think I am as submissive to his desires as everyone else in the dome.
“Your highness,” I say, and I dip down in what I hope is an appropriate manner.
“Well done, Meredith,” the king says as he takes my hand into his. It is pudgy and soft, and I know he has never done a day’s work in his sorry life. “She is quite lovely.”
“And her eyes are most extraordinary,” the queen adds. She is quite striking with her dark hair and eyes and flawless skin. She reminds me of Lucy.
I clamp my mouth tightly shut as my father murmurs his thanks and guides me away from the line, past a wide staircase, to a column that serves no other purpose than decoration. A plant similar to the ones in my father’s office sits beside it, and there is a small ornamental table there as well. “Well done,” he says when we are safely away. An older man dressed in a plain black suit passes by us with a tray of drinks and my father takes two and hands me one. I recognize it as wine, and it tastes bitter compared to what I had from the Hatfields. Or maybe it is just my attitude that makes it so.
“It would help if I knew what to expect,” I say in return. “Or does it amuse you to see my reactions?”
“It does make things more interesting,” he replies. “Since I never know what to expect from you.”
“You can expect me to continue to believe as I do,” I say. “Especially since I have yet to see anything to convince me otherwise.” I take a good long look at him. At his fine uniform and the rows of medals. At the way the candlelight hides his eyes even though they are constantly moving and searching. Even now, when we are supposedly having a conversation he is watching the room. “It is a sad statement to your life that the only thing that holds your interest is baiting me.”
“I could lock you up in a cell like your friend if it pains you so much to be with me.”
“And what lie would you tell to explain that, since you’ve painted yourself as grieving over my disappearance all these years.”
“These fools will believe whatever I tell them.” As soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets them. For the first time since I’ve met him I can see the emotion plainly written on his face. He said it to impress me. All my life I was seeking his approval without even realizing it until the day I actually met him face-to-face. Isn’t it strange that he also seeks mine? It is also so very sad that he thinks this power he holds over the dome will impress me.
His eyes, always watchful, turn from me to the people around us. I study the people in the room for the exact same reasons as my father. He is watching for signs of rebellion. People stand in small clusters all talking quietly as a quartet of musicians play stringed instruments. The music is wonderful, light and airy. It reminds me of a gentle breeze ruffling the leaves in the forest. The room glows with candlelight and everything is polished and shined, even the leaves of the plant I stand beside. The suited men move from group to group with trays full of glasses. In the room behind the receiving line a long table sits, covered with food. More than enough to feed the workers and their families who rioted against us this morning.
Yet around the edges everything seems shabby. The carpet beneath my feet is worn and the edges frayed, just like the fancy clothing everyone wears. The people seem restless, their eyes darting to and fro, just like my father’s. They are all watching and waiting while they pretend that their lives have meaning.
What a waste. Life is more than just going through the everyday routine. Life should be about dreams, about moving forward, about making the world a better place. Life should be about doing, not just existing. I sit my glass down on the table and turn away from my father. I have no plan beyond walking out the front door when suddenly the music changes to a louder tone and ends with a preemptive note like a sharp intake of breath. Everyone turns to the staircase in anticipation.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice intones loudly. “Captain Pace Bratton and Lady Jillian Pembrooke.” They appear at the top of the staircase as a round of applause starts around the room. Pace wears a uniform much like Findley’s. One medal hangs over his heart. Jillian wears a dress of pale blue, and jewels glitter around her neck and wrists and in her hair, which is piled high upon her head. Jilly takes Pace’s arm, and they slowly make their way down the staircase. The king and queen meet them at the bottom, and the four of them turn to the room and bow as one. Pace and Jilly have received the king’s blessing.
They move into the large room where we are all gathered. The applause dies down, and people, including my father, move past me to greet the couple. I hear the bits and pieces of gossip as the royals pass by me.
“He was sent down as a spy.”
“If not for him the entire dome could have been destroyed.”
“Single-handedly put a stop to the shiner rebellion.”
“Found Sir Meredith’s missing daughter.”
“A brilliant plan conceived by Sir Meredith and the king.”
I stand in the middle of the room with the crowd eddying around me, like a rock in the stream. I feel as if time, for me, has stopped as bits and pieces of the story come together in a tale that I refuse to believe. Either I am the biggest fool that has ever lived, or my father has concocted such a lie that is believable because it is impossible to think otherwise. I keep my eyes on Pace.
Things are not always what they seem. Is this what he was trying to tell me in the stairwell? That this … engagement is not what it seems, or that our time together was a lie? Which is it?