Their Vicious Games(91)
I cornrow my hair, and when I look at myself, I look like me. Finally.
Today is the Royale, I acknowledge, brushing mousse over my hair, dragging gel over my baby hairs with a toothbrush. There are two other girls out there, waiting. The Remingtons are out there, waiting. But I will not be dying today, I decide. I will not be quiet or swallow anything. I follow no one.
I will never think about this place after today, one way or another, I tell myself. I will not Finish here. My new life just began here, and no one remembers their birth.
I’m tired of their games and I hate the rules.
So. I’ll change them.
* * *
When a handwritten letter arrives in lieu of an escort, I realize that the Remingtons mean for us to walk to our own potential deaths alone. Yet another metaphor, I’m sure. I clomp down the hallway in my ratty old Air Force 1s. There are no signs of life here, like they don’t want anyone to witness the slaughter but them. Unlike last night.
I enter the hunting parlor.
Everyone else is already there. Even Graham.
It’s a pretty picture, the Remingtons standing by the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that show the gorgeous maze, the rose garden, the well-groomed paths along their grounds. They’re backlit so that their faces are in shadow, but I can make out every expensive thread and detail of their silk and wool. Hawthorne and Penthesilea stand on either side, both dressed in their gowns. I fill out the apex of the triangle.
Pierce is wearing navy blue, the same color as the dress that was laid out for me, like he wanted to make a matched set of us again. An offer of forgiveness to me for saying no. He still thought that there was potential for us, as long as I paid for my mistakes. He frowns heavily, gaze flitting over my suit, like he’s trying to place it. Graham doesn’t take long to do so, surprise flickering over his face as he takes me in before he schools his expression into neutral. I can tell from the curl of her upper lip that Leighton recognizes it too.
“Thank you for… joining us, Miss Walker,” Leighton says severely, making it sound like both an admonishment and a threat. She knows I had something to do with Saint running and what happened to Esme. But there’s no evidence.
“Thank you for having me, Dr. Remington,” I say back, imitating her tone beat for beat.
I look over at Penthesilea in her perfectly pink glory, like the princess that she is. She dips her head at me in greeting, but she doesn’t exactly look at me. Instead, she’s staring straight across at Hawthorne. I follow the line of her stare and Hawthorne is staring right back, her eyes wide, nostrils flaring, a demented air to her I’ve never seen, despite how perfectly polished she is dressed.
Around her neck is Esme’s thick diamond collar. If I squint hard enough, I can see specks of pink in between the tiny diamonds. I close my eyes to what I’ve done, looking over her sea-green dress instead, the embroidery of the flowers on her bodice. She reminds me of Ophelia, buried in a river in Denmark.
“Welcome to the Royale.” Third’s voice booms through the space, interrupting our strange standoff and drawing our attention back to him. Leighton opens her mouth to speak, but Third steps forward, effectively cutting her off. “Today is the finale of the Finish. You have proven to us that the young women of today, for how much they lack polish, are amenable to being formed and completed. Do you feel complete?”
He doesn’t mean for us to answer. So we don’t.
Instead, Leighton takes advantage of the silence, wresting back control, noticeably perturbed by Third’s takeover. “After last night’s… events, the rankings have shifted. In first place, we have Penthesilea Bonavich. In second, we have Hawthorne Harding. And finally, in last, the incomparable Miss Adina Walker.”
Leighton’s lips curl around my name, her favor evaporated, but I stand taller, refusing to flinch under the glacial weight of her stare.
“I will not sugarcoat this,” Leighton says. “The Royale is… a game of Assassin.”
A game for elementary school students. It’s insulting and infantilizing and exactly right.
“The aim of the game is for players to track down and subdue their targets, by any means necessary. You may defend yourself, by any means necessary. When a player eliminates her target, she will continue and acquire her victim’s target. When one player remains standing, the game is over,” Leighton says carefully. “As the Game Mistress, I will assign each of you a target. Hawthorne, you are assigned Adina.”
Hawthorne is breathing so slowly that it’s almost like she’s not breathing at all, like a predator that is so close to her feast.
“Adina, your target will be Penthesilea,” Leighton continues. “And finally, Penthesilea, you are assigned Hawthorne.”
It doesn’t take a genius to see past Leighton’s veiled language.
“Pierce, anything else you’d like to say?” Third prompts.
Pierce claps his hands together. “Not anything particularly. I did want to thank you for your participation. And I wish you the very best luck.”
Leighton nods. “Very good. I will now count down from ten. Ten, nine—” I can’t look away from Pierce and that small half smile, the forlorn look in his eyes like he regrets this. It is practiced, fake, exactly like that smile in the woods, and those words at breakfast, and everything about him.