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I let out a shaky breath and hurried over. Next to them was a black analog clock with two bells on either top corner of the circle. My alarm clock. I blinked and picked up the simple object. It was very ordinary. It didn’t fit in this place, like me. I was partially grateful that Isolda had brought it to me.
Another part of me felt bad about how I had spoken to her. I hoped that we could talk more when I was feeling acclimated.
But then I remembered her permeating stare and I abandoned that wayward thought. She hadn’t done this to be kind. She did it because I ordered her.
I set the alarm back down, along with my regular clothes. They looked so… ragged—so dirty next to the warm white fabric of the best comforter I’d ever seen. I fished out the necklace and turned my attention to the new clothes. They were pale orange, almost a golden color. When I touched them, I felt the soft stretchy fabric. Similar in texture to the suit I had borrowed from Maestra Cecelia.
My throat tightened again, but I shut off my senses. It was useless to feel sorry for myself, and it could be deadly to give way to loneliness.
There was a shirt, a pair of sensible pants, undergarments, and socks. There was also a pair of pale-leather flats on the ground. I exchanged my towel for the clothes, and dressed. Once I was clothed from head to toe, my fake necklace laying delicately around my collar, I walked over to the door that Isolda had used to come and go.
My hand was hovering over the brass handle leading to the hallway when I paused.
When I walked out, all of this—the tournament, being taken away from everyone I loved—would become real. I wasn’t ready for that to happen quite yet.
I took a long, deep breath and let my arm drop back down to my side. My heart fluttered, and I placed my other soap-scented hand over my chest. I could wait a little longer before going down.
I was ready to turn around and go crawl back under the cream-colored covers when a knock sounded from the door.
Chapter17
An Awkward Breakfast
The handle was cold when my fingers wrapped around it. Then jumped back with a yelp as the polished brass mortise lever moved on its own and the door swung open toward me.
My heart picked up speed again, and I half-expected a somewhat familiar scowling face to meet mine. The face of Antonio Armando Castillas Morales. However, it was just Isolda.
“Señorita Renata, are you ready to go down to eat? The kitchen is nearly ready to take down the breakfast service.” She was back to being formal again, but I could see her look at my hair with an anomalous expression.
My hand flew up to touch the frizzy curls. “I did the best I could—without my regular maid I’m a mess,” I said quickly. The lie tasted like ash, and an apology to the kitchen staff for my tardiness was on the tip of my tongue, but Élites were the strong back bone of society, even if they were still scrambling after the end of the monarchy. Flexibility could be seen as weakness. From the perspective of Isolda, it would be utterly ridiculous for me to apologize for them fulfilling their customary responsibilities.
She nodded, her mouth still tight. “You look lovely. If you would follow me, please.”
I doubted the first sentiment. Lovely wasn’t a word people used in reference to me, nor did it matter.
She waited as I hesitantly stepped through the doorway and into the even grander hallway. The carpet ended and was replaced by hardwood floors. There was wainscoting on these walls, and large cotton-tapestries hung in strategic places so that they could avoid direct lighting. My gaze was sticky, catching on every whetted corner and opulent texture. Isolda explained the strange origins of the ornaments created in nearly every medium available to modern artists, expecting me to be impressed by such an expensive collection.
To be fair, a part of me was intrigued. People with pointed ears, gloriously wide ears, and small flying creatures were painted across vases.
They told a story of a recondite world. Nightmares and fairytales come to life. Was it all real? And if it wasn’t, why were these tales so deeply woven into our culture?
I hurried forward. None of that knowledge would help me right now so it was best to leave the questions to those with enough time to read.
Isolda’s steps were swift and calculated, though a little too heavy and rough to be a dancer’s. She steered me forward at a steady pace as we passed by endless rooms and down a spiraling staircase supported by large marble columns.
I paused, taking time to gaze up at the multicolored light that rained down from the stained glass dome directly above us. The steps were wide enough that I didn’t have to worry about one misstep which would cause me to tumble all the way to the bottom. It was very unlike the stairs that led to mine and Magda’s room in the Grand Theater.
Isolda must’ve taken my momentary pause for awe, because she looked up at me and smiled. “All the columns were imported, as well. Believe it or not, they are carved from one long piece of stone to avoid seams.”
My eyebrows shot up. Did we not have sufficient building materials on the islands?
The muscles in my lower back tightened as I walked, and I forced myself to stop staring at every pretty thing in sight. They all made me feel aslant without Magdalena. She had been glued to my side for so long, and now I was forced to walk alone.
Mostly alone, that is. I eyed Isolda.
Taking in a deep breath, I pushed my shoulders down and relaxed my jaw. Sunday mornings were filled with people, with dancing, and then the rest of the day would be ours to enjoy. I couldn’t help that my brain was a map, and every stray thought pointed back to my previous life, but I could learn to work around it.
I bit my lips together; I would make it work because none of that mattered anymore.
