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“Where did that come from?” I asked. Suspicion crept into my voice. Had Isolda come into my room again even though I’d told her not to?
Isolda bustled past me with the suit and set it on the foot of the bed. “Tranquilla, señorita. It was made for you as an arrival gift.”
My eyebrows shot straight up. I hated being told to calm down, but I was shocked that this had been presented to me as a gift, and not the necessity I knew it was.
My eyes landed on the necklace I’d left next to the bed, and a pang of sadness hit me in the chest. Maybe it was for the best that I didn’t carry around such an obvious piece of Magda with me at all times. I needed to carefully guard my secrets.
I followed the maid, my eyes glued to the matte satin fabric from mygift. Gift from who? Antonio? His mother? The repetitive phrasing felt like pandering.
Isolda glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve also acquired you some jewelry from the family collection. That necklace I’ve seen you wearing is… practically an antique. If you would like to try something different, feel free to choose from some of the more delicate gold chains,” she said, almost cheerfully despite the thinly veiled insult.
I stayed silent, trying to absorb everything she said. Upon closer inspection of the outfit, I could see that it was not a suit coat, but a blouse. The fabric was cinched at the waist and it flared out in flower petal ruffles. It was stunning, from its plunging neckline to its sleeves that I could already tell were too long.
“The costurera did a marvelous job making that for you. She has such a good eye for cloth. One shade lighter and this would’ve been champagne. One shade darker and you would be a spoonful of mustard,” Isolda said conversationally. Though I wasn’t an expert in the intricacies that came from class distinction, it was clear that she was too candid—too familiar.
Antonio’s warning about Isolda and servants rang in my ears as sweat collected in my palms. I couldn’t trust her. I needed to push back. She had only been sent here because of me, and she had come directly from his mother’s estate.
“Isolda,” I said tersely. “I think the design, cut, and color is a topic for me and the maker of this outfit.” My tone was clipped, and the back of my neck tingled. I needed to eat, not play games.
She whipped around and curtsied. “Perdóname señorita,” she said quickly, her voice strangely devoid of emotion.
I nodded and looked down at her. It felt… wrong. I wasn’t supposed to be Élite. Everyone had their place, and mine was somewhere in the middle of life. On a stage, dancing before people.
Regardless of where I belonged, I had been put in this position against my will, and when faced with a life or death situation, human beings tended to choose self preservation over heroics. I was no different.
Without another word, she curtsied again and left the room.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I released a long breath and my stomach grumbled. A small cramp reminded me of my poorly chosen dinner.
I hurried to the bathroom to clean my teeth and rake a wide-toothed comb through my hair. It took a good amount of time to freshen up, and even more time to put on my clothes. Isolda hadn’t pulled out a pair of shoes, so I was forced to rummage through the wardrobe until I found a nude pair of high heels.
Stilettos were necessary because of the length of the bell-bottomed pants. In the mirror, I looked like a comet with a few too many fiery tails.
I didn’t dwell on the effect, and I turned around to march downstairs to breakfast.
While carefully retracing my steps from yesterday, I took note of unique obelisks and vibrant paintings to be able to more effectively navigate my way to and from my room. When I neared the breakfast room, my heart picked up pace.
The sound of my hand brushing against the door was deafeningly loud to my own ears as I pushed into the room.
Antonio was sitting at the modest table, sipping on tea while he read something on a strange device in his hand. It looked like the same kind of device that the candidates had been using while they waited their turn.
He didn’t look up, and he hadn’t waited for me to come down like yesterday. I took a sharp breath. “Buenos días, Señor Castillas,” I said quickly.
He did glance up at me, but irritation strained the planes of his face. “Buenos días.”
For the moment it was only us. I went to the same seat I had used yesterday and drummed my fingers on the arm rests. It had been years since I’d gone this long without dozens of people around me every second of the day.
The grand haciendas the Élite were given were stunning, to be sure, but they lacked the intimacy that I found essential for surviving.
No sooner than I sat down, the other door that led to the kitchen opened. The servant from yesterday was there to serve me my juice and grapes. With the cold glass chilling the skin on my hand, I felt grounded.
In the middle of eating my omelette, Antonio stood, mumbled “Buen provecho,” and left the room.
I glanced over my shoulder to check the clock on the wall opposite the large window that overlooked the lovely orchard. It was 7:45, which left me fifteen minutes before I was meant to meet my team.
My stomach was twisted up in knots and my heart beat so quickly in my chest that it made it hard for me to focus on anything other than the endless pumping.
I tried to take a deep breath.
