The nurse looked concerned. “Is there any history of this in your family?”
I paused before answering. “Not exactly. But my sister gets nosebleeds sometimes.”
“Do you just have a sickly family?” Clarkson asked, a hint of disgust in his voice.
“No,” I replied, both wanting to defend myself and embarrassed to explain. “I live in Honduragua.”
He raised his eyebrows in understanding. “Ah.”
It was no secret how polluted the south was. The air was bad. The water was bad. There were so many deformed children, barren women, and young deaths. When the rebels came through, they would leave a trail of graffiti behind, demanding to know why the palace hadn’t fixed this. It was a miracle my entire family wasn’t as sick as I was. Or that I wasn’t worse.
I drew in a deep breath. What in the world was I doing here? I’d spent the weeks leading up to the Selection building this fairy tale in my head. But no amount of wishing or dreaming was going to make me worthy of a man such as Clarkson.
I turned away, not wanting him to see me cry. “Could you leave, please?”
There were a few seconds of silence, then I listened to his footsteps as he walked away. The instant they faded, I broke down.
“Hush, now, dearie, it’s okay,” the nurse said, comforting me. I was so heartbroken, I hugged her as tightly as I did my mother or siblings. “It’s a lot of stress to go through a competition like this, and Prince Clarkson understands that. I’ll have the doctor prescribe you something for your headaches, and that will help.”
“I’ve been in love with him since I was seven years old. I whispered a happy birthday song to him every year into my pillow so my sister wouldn’t laugh at me for remembering. When I started learning cursive, I practiced by writing our names together … and the first time he really speaks to me, he asks if I’m sickly.” I paused, letting out a cry. “I’m not good enough.”
The nurse didn’t try to argue with me. She just let me cry.
I was so embarrassed. Clarkson would never see me as anything but the broken girl who sent him away. I was sure my chance at winning his heart had passed. What use could he have for me now?
TURNED OUT CROQUET ONLY ALLOWS for a maximum of six players at a time, which suited me just fine. I sat and watched, trying to understand the rules in case I got a turn, though I had a feeling we would all get bored and end the game before everyone had a chance.
“Look at his arms.” Maureen sighed. She wasn’t speaking to me, but I glanced up all the same. Clarkson had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He looked really, really good.
“How do I get him to wrap those around me?” Keller joked. “It’s not like you can fake an injury in croquet.”
The girls around her laughed, and Clarkson glanced their way, a hint of a smile on his lips. It always came across like that: just a trace. Come to think of it, I’d never heard him laugh. Maybe the unexpected bubble of a single chuckle, but never anything where he was just so happy he exploded in laughter.
Still, the ghost of a smirk on his face was enough to paralyze me. I was fine with not seeing more.
The teams moved along the field, and I was painfully aware when the prince was standing near me. As one of the girls lined up a rather skillful shot, he darted his eyes over at me, not moving his head. I peeked up at him, and he turned his attention back to the game. Some girls cheered, and he stepped closer.
“There’s a refreshments table over there,” he said quietly, still not making eye contact. “Maybe you should get some water.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bravo, Clementine!” he yelled to a girl who’d successfully ruined another’s shot. “All the same. Dehydration can make headaches worse. Might be good for you.”
His eyes came down to meet mine, and there was something there. Not love, maybe not even affection, but something a degree or two beyond basic concern.
Knowing I was hopeless when it came to refusing him, I stood and walked over to the table. I started to pour myself some water, but a maid took the pitcher from my hand.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Still getting used to that.”
She smiled. “Not at all. Have some fruit. Very refreshing on a day like this.”
I stood by the table, eating grapes with a tiny fork. I’d need to tell Adele about that, too: utensils for fruit.
Clarkson looked my way a few times, seemingly double-checking that I was doing as he suggested. I couldn’t tell if it was the food or his attention that lifted my mood.
I never did take a chance playing the game.
It was three more days before Clarkson spoke to me again.
Dinner was dying down. The king had unceremoniously excused himself, and the queen had almost completely emptied a bottle of wine by herself. Some of the girls started to curtsy and leave, not wanting to watch the queen as she sloppily propped herself up on her arm. I was alone at my table, determined to finish every last bite of the chocolate cake.
“How are you today, Amberly?”
My head shot up. Clarkson had walked over without me noticing. I thanked God he caught me between bites. “Very well. And you?”
“Excellent, thank you.”
There was a brief silence as I waited for him to say more. Or was I supposed to talk? Were there rules about who spoke first?
“I was just noticing how long your hair is,” he commented.
“Oh.” I laughed a little as I looked down. My hair was nearly to my waist these days. Though it was a lot to groom, it gave me plenty of options for pulling it up. That was key for farmwork. “Yes. Comes in handy for braiding, which is nice at home.”
“Do you think it’s maybe too long?”
“Umm. I don’t know, Your Highness.” I ran my fingers over it. My hair was clean and well taken care of. Did I somehow look messy without being aware of it? “What do you think?”
He tilted his head. “It’s a very pretty color. I think it might be nicer if it was shorter.” He shrugged and started to walk away. “Just a thought,” he called over his shoulder.
I sat there for a moment, considering. Then, abandoning my cake, I went to my room. My maids were there, waiting as always. “Martha, would you feel comfortable cutting my hair?”
“Of course, miss. An inch or so off the bottom will keep it healthy,” she replied, walking to the bathroom.
“No,” I countered. “I need it short.”
She paused. “How short?”
“Well … past my shoulders still, but maybe above the bottom of my shoulder blades?”
“That’s more than a foot, miss!”
“I know. But can you do it? And would you still be able to make it pretty?” I pulled at the thick strands, imagining them cut off.
“Of course, miss. But why would you do that?”
I crossed in front of her, heading into the bathroom. “I think it’s time for a change.”
My maids helped undo my dress and draped a towel over my shoulders. I closed my eyes as Martha began, not completely sure what I was doing. Clarkson thought I’d look nicer with shorter hair, and Martha