But for the Mountains (Embers in Wait, #1)

By Erin Riha

Arden Thatcher wasn’t meant to be chosen.

But when her name is announced, she’s presented with something she never thought she’d have: a future away from her abuser. Shuttled off to attend the prestigious National Women’s Institute, Arden will receive Nordania’s highest honor, studying with other elite candidates to become leaders, diplomats, and ambassadors on the world stage.

Only, the institute’s not quite what she expected. Paraded around in gown after gown, the tests seem less about educating and more about a different competition, with a very specific prize at stake—the Nordanian Prime Minister’s son. Despite the dean’s protestations that angling for an engagement leads to expulsion, Arden sees the truth. There’s a secret bubbling beneath the institute’s refined surface, and those who refuse to play along may well wind up dead.

With the danger escalating, and the return of her abuser on the horizon, Arden’s shiny future becomes a gilded cage. And this time, she’s going to need powerful allies to escape.

Political intrigue, swoon-worthy romance, and a dash of dystopian flare, But for the Mountains begs the question, how do you change the world when you’re not allowed to try?

• Language: English
• Publisher: REUTS Publications, LLC
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781942111641

Book preview

Chapter One

Splinters cut into my palm, but my mind is elsewhere. Better my palm than my cheek. The rancid stench of wet hay and manure cut with cocoa butter and tobacco assaults my nose in the heat of the decrepit shed. The odor is so repulsive, it’s the easiest thing to focus on. I use it to block out what’s happening around me, to me. If I fixate on it, I can almost pretend I’m alone.

A wicked groan and sharp pain in my hip cuts through my meditation.

I wince away from his sharp fingers on my raw skin; the scar there is still fresh.

Don’t piss around too long, Arden. They’ll be looking for you. The same words, every time. And every time I think the same thing: someday, I’m going to kill him.

Sharp light and fresher air blind me; the ricochet of the cockeyed door follows. I take a moment, breathe as deep as I dare, and then push up from the workbench. My underpants are torn, so I just lower my wrinkled skirt instead.

My fingers shake as I use them to comb my stubborn brown curls, pinning them in place as I remove errant bits of debris. The fabric under my bust is torn where he grabbed me. I’ll probably be punished for that later.

The sun is still high when I leave, amplifying the briny fishiness blowing in from the docks. It’s busier than usual, people rushing home from the port to hear the Announcement of Candidates. Excitement hums that a hometown girl might be chosen. I couldn’t care less. It’s not my home.

I pick up the onions CJ knocked over and right my wicker cart. Then I trudge up the red dirt path to the main house, dragging the cart behind me. The Laarsworth property is huge, the biggest in our county, the perimeter dotted with old-growth weeping willows. They dance in the sickly citrus breeze floating in off the orchard at the back of the estate.

People pass by, saying nothing. They know better. An older girl approaches with a basket of wet laundry and sidesteps me for the clotheslines. She’s one of the leftovers, the Unchosen.

Conrad is known for being one of the most successful benefactors in the region, but he hasn’t had a girl accepted to the National Women’s Institute in four years. Tatiana was the top choice for our class—until she got pregnant. He’d been feeling pretty smug about her until her gowns didn’t fit. Then, furious, he’d sent her away. Never mind that the father was his own son’s best friend.

So now it’s Neve. She’s pretty, and her olive complexion is softer, her hands more tender from working in the laundry and kitchens. Conrad was irritated, having to start over after investing so much in Tatiana’s education and appearance, but if he didn’t put up someone, it would have been five years wasted. Neve will be fine. Of the three of us, she’s the smartest. And if she’s afraid of becoming Unchosen, she doesn’t show it.

The basement door is ajar, emitting a confusing haze of powder-fresh steam and onions. I pull my cart through the narrow hallway between the laundry and the kitchen. Gaia throws up her arms when she sees me.

The hell’ve you been, Arden? she squeals, her chubby chin bouncing off her plump, sweaty breasts. She’s a large, round woman who attributes her size to tasting the rich meals she prepares for a house full of men.

Sorry, got held up, I say. She squints her beady black eyes and scans my body, hovering over the tear in my dress. A stubborn pout presses into her lips.

It’s all right. It’s all right. Put the onions in the locker, and do it fast. And fix that dress before anyone upstairs sees. Now get! She jerks her head back toward the once white enamel gas stove and I obey, ducking into the laundry across the tiny hall. I look around the empty, bleach-scented room for a needle, but can’t find thread to match the dress’s blue. Rather than grab something that won’t match, I leave and take the back staircase to the tiny dorm I share with Neve.

Our room is small, narrow enough that if I stretched out, horizontal from side to side, I wouldn’t quite touch both walls, but I’d be close. Our simple metal beds sit against opposing walls, leaving a space between them just wide enough for the bench Neve uses as her makeup table. Yellowed wallpaper curls off the walls, its tiny pink rosebuds recoiling from the harsh afternoon sun. Our beds are covered in simple cream coverlets. Between them, opposite the door, is a window just wide enough to get a good glimpse of the road to town, but not big enough to actually let in any air.

Neve’s dressed, sitting on her bed in a floor-length, emerald-green gown, hunched over the mirror as she applies gold eyeshadow to her deep-set lids. Her rich, golden-brown hair is pinned back into a loose, elegant bun, with brass combs shaped like stars. The whole ensemble would have looked flawless on fair, porcelain Tatiana, but it casts a sickly, tarnished pallor over Neve’s olive skin. Same goes for Tatiana’s inherited makeup kit, a square wooden box with a pop-up mirror and all the wrong shades for Neve’s complexion. It’s on the bench next to her.

You know it’s just gonna be fried catfish again, I say, quickly putting on a pair of clean cotton underwear while she’s focused on her blending technique.

I’m dining with the men tonight, she says stiffly. You go right there and then if you’re selected. I want to make sure I’m ready.

Well, you look positively royal, I say, plopping down on my bed. The spartan metal frame creaks, and the springs dig into my back through the thin mattress. I reach under the bed for my toiletry kit and retrieve my tweezers. Tiny slivers of workbench are embedded in my palm, visible evidence that something just happened. Time to be rid of them before someone else notices.

The pinch of the tweezers cuts into my skin, gripping onto the hairline bit of wood. I pull, and the intruder releases. The soothing warmth of relief rushes in, a balm to numb the sting. If only it worked as well upon my dress. And lasted longer than a fleeting moment. I’ll have new aches to catalog when the adrenaline fades.

Aren’t you going to change? Neve asks, crinkling her nose in the mirror.

Into what? I say, honing in on one of the smaller splinters in the fleshy part of my palm. I just want to fix my hand, to focus my attention on something so little, so precise—something I can fix. I catch the tiny sliver and move on to a bigger one.

Something without holes? she says, raising an eyebrow. I catch the big splinter and look up. You need to fix that before Conrad sees. And your shoes.

I know, I know, I say. My shoes are a mess. My dress needs thread, but my shoes I can fix. I grab a cloth from the stack on her bed and rub it against the worn leather before she can object. What time is it, anyway?

Four o’clock, she says, pinching her cheeks. I keep at the shoes, clean off the dirt, make them okay again. Make me okay again.

You know they won’t announce it for another two hours.

I know, but it’s better to be prepared and wait than to miss your chance.

You hear that from a fortune teller? I lay back on the bed, lifting one foot at a time to admire my now dirt-free shoes.

You going to sit there and judge me for caring? she asks, glaring at me through her mirror.

No, I say, dropping the towel on the floor at the end of my bed. I’m laying here judging you.

"It’s all just so funny when you don’t care about anything, isn’t it?"

Yeah, well, easier to accept reality that way.

And what’s reality? she asks.

That we’re never leaving this place.

Speak for yourself, she says. I’ve worked hard to make up for lost time. I think they’ll see I have nothing but potential.

You really think they could see that from one lousy photo?

Lousy? What are you talking about? It turned out lovely! With a sigh, I roll over and push up onto my knees.

Well, it must’ve been, because you’ve got the dress.

The dress doesn’t mean anything more than that Conrad chose it for Tatiana. She lets out a deep breath, and her eyes soften, betraying a rare moment of vulnerability. I didn’t get an interview.

I know, I say. I set the tweezers back in my kit and kick it back underneath my bed. But you said it yourself—the interview isn’t strictly necessary. Though, it pretty much is. Nobody gets admitted without an interview.

That’s only happened once, she says. And never since. Not much is said about the girl who was admitted sans interview, except that it happened the year the current prime minister met his wife. It’s easy enough to figure out who it was, though. The events that followed were more than enough to put two and two together.

If it happened once, it could happen again, I say, leaning toward her. And if it’s going to happen to anyone, they could do a whole lot worse than someone who got such a late start and worked her ass off. Never mind looks stunning in that dress. I give her a wink. She sighs, tucking away a smile as she returns to her reflection.

Yes, but I can’t get my eyes to look right. Seventeen, and already I’m getting crow’s feet.

No, you’re not, I say, swinging off the bed. I cross the room in two steps and turn her toward me, squinting hard as I study her brownish-green eyes. I step back, head tilted, arms crossed over my chest.

Yep, I say with a firm nod, you’re right. Crow’s-feet, and beaks and heads and hands and everything else. Let’s just throw it out and start all over again!

She cracks a laugh. Thanks. I don’t know what I’ll do without you to snap me out of . . . well, this.

Stop spending so much time in front of a mirror? I suggest, free-falling back onto my cot again.

Easy for you to say, she says. You don’t have to worry about your looks—you never have. You come and go as you please. Nobody expects you to look pretty.

Wow, thanks. That should be your opener when you meet the minister and his wife. I’ve never really thought of myself as being pretty or not. My hair, inherited from my mother, is badly behaved, but the warm chestnut color comes from my father, or so I’m told. My complexion is less refined than Neve’s, tanned from a life outdoors. Freckles smatter across the middle third of my face. My eyes are bright blue, allegedly from my mother’s mother, who I’m told was a great beauty. Of course, I have no evidence of this.

I stare at my reflection a moment longer, and decide that Neve isn’t quite right—it’s not about whether or not I’m pretty. It’s that nobody cares enough to decide whether or not I am.

You know what I mean, she says with a dismissive little wave. When you work in the house, you’re expected to look a certain way.

No, you’re not. You think someday a visiting ‘dignitary’ will notice your beauty and pluck you from this life of squalor.

The investor from Brandeissland said he thought I was just his son’s taste.

I shudder. Does he want to eat you? Because I’d think that would be a hard no.

Well, we can’t all be you, Arden. What with the way CJ dotes on you. The close, hot air in the room stifles, and for a moment, it’s as if I can’t trust my own mind—as if a handful of careless words could make me doubt what actually happened when I struggled to breathe against that workbench, to forget the pain and humiliation of less than an hour ago. The searing bite of panic creeps up my neck, tugging at my cheeks, and I chew the side of my tongue to keep the fear off my face, picking at my palms for ghost splinters I can’t see, but can feel so deeply it’s as if they cut into my soul.

I wouldn’t call that doting. I work to keep my voice even, barely biting out the words, but she’s so distracted she doesn’t notice. I’ve done a pretty good job keeping things a secret, but four years of unwanted doting can only be kept so quiet. Though, when the alternative is homelessness, it’s easier to let people think what they want. Much as the truth chafes against the lie.

It’s not like he’ll marry you, but the attention must be nice. Maybe he’ll have a say in your placement? My stomach curls as Neve spritzes herself with Tatiana’s lilac perfume. It’s too strong, and doesn’t suit her, but it’s in a pretty glass bottle and is the fanciest thing we’ve been allowed.

A frantic knock at the door draws our attention as Carla bursts in, all coarse curls and energy. Her golden-brown eyes are wide; the whites look even larger against her smooth brown complexion.

There’s a newey car out front!

A what? I ask, scrunching my right cheek into my eye.

I was swapping out linens in the front of the main house, and I saw it—ne-we-ey, she repeats to blank stares. You know, N-W-I?

Holy shit! Neve jumps to her feet, covering her mouth with her hands.

Shhh! They might hear you! They’ll probably revoke your admission for that kind of language, I say with a laugh.

I can’t believe it! Neve says, eyes shining. It’s happening. It’s actually happening! Carla rushes her, but Neve holds up a perfectly manicured hand, stopping Carla and her stained yellow housedress before her enthusiastic hug can ruin Neve’s gown.

Don’t cry. You’ll screw up your makeup, I say through a smile. Neve smiles back as a wave of something deep and aching, like a desperate star-wish on a starless night, sweeps over her features. A bitter ache tugs at my heart, and I meet Carla’s shining eyes. We aren’t getting out of here—but Neve is. We take a deep breath in unison, silent agreement that we’ll be sad for ourselves later. Right now, we’ll celebrate Neve.

Oh my God. I have to pack! she says, jerking her head from side to side, eyes frantic.

They’ll send your things, I say, and Carla nods, hair bouncing. Another rap at the half-opened door reveals Headmistress Moyle.

I have been sent to request that all three of you dress for dinner, she says, her austere countenance giving away nothing.

All three of us? Neve says, head cocked.

Probably so we can celebrate and say goodbye! Carla says, beaming. Neve smiles and nods, but shoots me a wary glance. Conrad doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body.

Yes, Headmistress, I say. She leaves, but not before narrowing her eyes on my ripped dress and shaking her head.

Come on, Carla. Sit down. Let me put your hair in a twist, Neve says, sounding inconvenienced, but wearing a sentimental smile as she blinks back tears. I dig through Tatiana’s old jewelry case and find a silver nine-point star with yellow stones clustered in the middle. I pin it over the stain on Carla’s dress. She squeals as she squeezes my hand, then sits still for Neve’s special treatment. Neve catches my eye through the mirror.

It’s really happening! she says.

Yep. It certainly is, I reply. I’m just not sure what it means for me.

Chapter Two

Idon’t have another dress. I sent my other two to be laundered, and they haven’t returned yet. The tear is just below my right breast, so pinning something there isn’t an option, either. I could have fixed it, if I’d been able to find the right color thread and had more time. But with neither being available, my only choice is to brace for the inevitable punishment of showing up to dinner in disrepair. Neve half-heartedly offered up a gown, but I could tell she didn’t really want me wearing it. Carla attempted to wrap a scarf around my body, but it looked like a bandage and was equally dismissed. I’ve been punished before for things CJ caused. It’ll be fine. I will be fine. Or so I assure them. As if in apology, Neve darkens my eyelashes, adding a spot of lipstick at the last minute.

You should always wear lipstick, she says, sitting back to admire her work. You’ve got such a great mouth for it. I look in the mirror and squint at the Summerberry Twist painted on my full lips.

I look like a fish. Wearing lipstick to dinner is dumb—it’ll just come off on the glassware. It looks fabulous on Neve, though, her pouty lips painted dark red, with a little brown mixed in. She has this stupid, sentimental grin as I turn back to face her. I would find it incredibly patronizing, if not for the fact I’ll never see her again post-dinner. So I keep my grumbling to myself, and she leads us to the dining room.

Neve enters first, floating in her emerald-green chiffon gown, followed by Carla in her yellow frock that hits mid-shin and feels too dull for her personality. I trail them in my torn, knee-length, cornflower-blue house dress with cap sleeves and a round, juvenile collar, feeling about as welcome as a rodent in the larder. The dated dining room smells like fish and looks as nice as can be expected. The once white paneling sweats under the weak, yellow light of the nickel and glass chandelier. The table is set with white plates on white linen, and the centerpiece is made of orange blossoms with exotic fruits as a base. Everything must pay homage to the tropics and trade when on the peninsula, after all.

Ladies, you look lovely, our benefactor says, with zero warmth. He can be charming when he chooses to be, especially when dressed in the formal, lightweight linen suits that only ever see the light of day in this dining room. Tonight’s choice is storm-cloud gray, relaxed enough to keep him from overheating, cut close enough to show that despite his age, he’s in excellent physical shape. His crystal blue eyes narrow on the seam below my bust, and his gray, hairless head folds into disapproving creases. I smile, knowing he’ll spend the next hour pissed off. I’ll pay for this later, I know, but still. Small victories.

Here we are, gents. CJ’s smooth baritone careens around the corner, and my shoulders tighten as he steps into view. He’s impeccably dressed, with an ocean-blue linen shirt that matches his eyes tucked neatly into tan linen slacks that fit perfectly through the hips and hang loose for cool comfort through the legs. My stomach clenches. Others find him attractive, but I can barely look at him. Dropping my gaze would be too noticeable, so I continue my practiced assessment, looking anywhere but at his face. His tan Swendish shoes are freshly shined, without a hint of dirt or mud to mar the perfect laces. His straw-blond hair is combed and slicked in place, and he smirks at me as two men, sweating through dark suits that are too heavy and all wrong for this climate, follow him into the room.

Nice to see you again, my friends, Conrad says, his smile all warmth and schmooze. He shakes hands with the men and nods toward the table as CJ approaches us with lazy arrogance. My back goes rigid. My neck tightens as he places a proprietary hand on the small of my back and pushes me toward the table, gesturing for Neve and Carla to go first. He talks and makes jokes with the other men, but I am hyper focused on his proximity. I can’t concentrate. Fortunately, it’s clear they’re here for their candidate, and my silence seems acceptable.

Why don’t you drink your wine? CJ says under his breath as he pushes me into my seat a little too hard. My body tingles, knowing the wine is unsafe, and I shake my head.

No, not tonight, I reply.

Nice mouth, he says, just as low, pulling his chair into the table as he takes his own seat—right next to mine. Always next to mine. I press my lips together and try to surreptitiously lick off the lipstick. He chuckles at something someone else says and places his hand on my thigh. I shift away, but he pulls me back, shoves his fingers down, forcing the fabric between my legs. My cheeks burn with the promise to do something mean later, when the inevitable happens. But for now, I bite the side of my tongue and do my best to keep the fear from showing on my face. It’s just my leg. I am not my leg.

It’s a really lovely blend. Try a sip, he says, his fingers digging into my flesh. I inhale sharply, gagging on his cocoa butter and tobacco scent.

If the girl’s not thirsty, leave her be! one of the men says with a loud guffaw. His interjection startles me and CJ both, enough that CJ lets go. I’m sure introductions were made, but I have no memory of who this person is. I tell my lips to smile gratefully, like I’m supposed to.

It’s so warm tonight, I say as demurely as I can fathom. Water sounds so much more refreshing.

Indeed it does, doesn’t it? the man says, using his napkin to blot sweat from his forehead. His partner nods.

Well then, it’s settled! Ice water all around! Conrad says, though not without shooting me a vicious glance. Wine is almost certainly better for procuring promises from bureaucrats. Carla looks disappointed, but the beverages are swapped and the thirsty politicians demand a toast. Without betraying his annoyance to our guests, Conrad stands, raising his water glass.

Five years ago, we welcomed these young ladies to Gaardington. They were all knees and elbows, but with heaps of potential among them. I could see it, and cultivated it into the lovely young women seated here tonight.

You do have that gift, Conrad, the shorter of the bureaucrats interrupts. Our benefactor flashes a devil’s smile, and I chew on my tongue, keeping my expression neutral.

They arrived wide-eyed, surely overwhelmed by the old-world elegance of life at the Laarsworth estate. Coming from where they did, from such modest backgrounds, they could have had no idea what they were in for. He’s not entirely wrong. It was hard not to be enchanted by the peninsula, with its acres of citrus groves, the gnarly old trees dripping with garlands of moss, and the warm afternoon trade winds that seemed to promise adventure.

Of course, not everyone can be nominated, and we knew fairly quick who of these ladies would be most likely to achieve that honor. At this, Neve freezes. It wasn’t always Neve. We were all dirt poor, but Tatiana looked like the long-lost princess of some ancient kingdom. The rest of us were put to work. Carla and Neve fought over the house chores, but I was happy to be outside, to spend my days moving to and from the ports, breathing in the mysterious possibility of the sea breeze. Neve wasn’t Conrad’s chosen until four months ago, when Tatiana’s tummy outgrew her gowns. But the visiting men wouldn’t know that. They’d assume this speech is about Neve.

There is much courage in applying, the taller bureaucrat says, dabbing a cocktail napkin against the sweat beading along his upper lip.

Agreed, says the other. Not everyone can be chosen, after all. It’s brave of you to apply, knowing the unfortunate fate of the alternative. Again, Neve’s expression grows stony. The nominated girls who aren’t chosen find it difficult to be placed. Rejection by the National Women’s Institute is seen as an official stamp of not good enough. It’s brutally unfair. There are only eighteen spots, and many times that number of applicants. Yet the admissions committee does nothing to dissuade this belief. They’re content to cast the leftovers aside, forgotten and branded forever as not worthwhile. Not special. Unchosen.

Why else would these men be here, though, if not to escort Neve for her selection? I give her a small, reassuring smile, and her shoulders soften.

And yet, Conrad says, his own smile tight as he surveys the table, here we are. This is a cause for celebration. Here’s to a tremendous investment paying off, and all the potential it may bring.

Hear, hear! The shorter of the two politicos clinks his glass with mine, and then Neve’s. It’s an odd toast, not really made for Neve, but then, nothing Conrad does is ever just for us.

Dinner is served after that, and I choke down fish roasted in orange sauce with a side of oily zucchini, unable to enjoy it. CJ’s advances grow bolder as the meal goes on. When dinner’s over, Conrad announces that we’ll listen to the official radio broadcast in the parlor. Everyone rises. I go to do the same, but CJ presses his hand against my thigh, holding me down until it’s just us.

Why such hurry? He leans his face into my neck as he stands, sliding his fingers up the length of my arm. The smell of him is overwhelming, whiskey adding to the cloying cocoa butter. I close my eyes as he inhales against my neck. Everything changes after this little announcement, and I’m far from done with you.

I refuse to look at him. He yanks my chair out and I thump awkwardly to my feet, falling forward, my hands catching against the table in a far too familiar position. He lets out a low, mean, grumbling chuckle. I feel him standing behind me, feel the heat of his legs against mine as he places his hands on my hips, digging his fingers into the sore flesh on my right side. I wince, and can practically hear the territorial grin that spreads across his face. I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, recite the words I’ve memorized in my head: I am not who he wants me to be. I am me, and he cannot have me. I want nothing more than to spin around and slug him, break his nose or his teeth or anything that will leave his face as bloody and bruised as he makes me feel. But then I’d have to explain what I did to encourage this behavior. So I ignore it and focus on the floor instead.

I think you’ll be very interested to hear the list of nominees, he says. My heart surges, and I swallow around a hard lump.

What did you do?

It’s a surprise. My stomach drops as I understand. In that instant, I know what he’s done.

You nominated me?

Yeah! Can you imagine? He snort-laughs, his mouth twisted with a lascivious grin as he leans in, his breath mixing with mine. From now on, everyone will know what kind of girl you really are. I’ll have to take pity on you. You’ll be my charity case. He tugs at a curl on my shoulder and winds it around his finger, pulling a little too hard.

Why would you do that? I ask.

Because I can, he says. His words drip down the back of my neck like slime. Like I could suffocate under the weight of them. Then he moves the curl and kisses the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. Because he can.

Chapter Three

Carla and I flank Neve on the stiff-backed cream damask settee while the bureaucrats sit in fan-backed armchairs. Headmistress Moyle sits opposite them, the antique, maple-paneled radio centered between them. Conrad and CJ stand on the perimeter of the room as a girl from Conrad’s next batch of beneficiaries prepares a bottle of champagne and glasses, invisible to everyone but me. I wonder if she’s heard the announcement before, if she feels a flutter of hope for a bright future that will likely never happen. I miss that hope. It faded after Tatiana was chosen, dimmed further after Neve. But now, today, my fate will be sealed. 

Greetings to all, the broadcast begins, and welcome to the Announcement of Candidates for the National Women’s Institute. 

Whose voice is that? Headmistress Moyle asks, giving voice to the surprise we all feel. 

Edina St. James, dean of the institute, says the taller of the bureaucrats, casting a knowing wink in our direction. 

Why isn’t the minister making the announcement? Carla asks, evoking biting glares from Conrad and the headmistress. Neve’s shoulders deflate, but her practiced smile never falters. The bureaucrats both smile with the warmth of doting uncles.

Just shaking it up this year, the short one says. He wears a pin on his shirt between the second and third buttons. It’s a silver four-point star, a dark blue stone set in the belly of it. The other wears the same thing, and it strikes me as odd that I’ve never seen this accessory on the peninsula.

Triumphant fanfare plays in the background, and I bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the tin-can pompousness of it all. 

Stop fidgeting, Neve says through her teeth, not sacrificing her perfectly painted smile. I smooth my features into a tranquil, practiced mask and do my best to focus on the speech tumbling from the radio.

This is the institute’s thirty-ninth year, and we continue to see our graduates’ remarkable effect. The original charter called for a program where Nordanian women would achieve the confidence, intelligence, and foreign policy prowess to best any man—or woman—in the world, and our program has become a shining beacon to inspire others like it around the globe. I tap the rhythm of those last words against the back of Neve’s hand, pressed close against my own, and Neve bites her lip. I expect another admonishment, but instead, she squeezes my hand. I smile softly to myself. 

Our first class had only eighteen applicants, and all were admitted. They performed admirably and have gone on to represent Nordania in the highest levels of government, business, and law. Our graduates ensure the future success of the institute, as guaranteed by the charter, as well as that of Nordania at large. This success is the torch we bear, the shining star we strive for each year, and this year’s candidates give me tremendous hope we will further surpass the high bar set by the original eighteen. 

More triumphant fanfare, followed by a warbly rendition of the national anthem sung by a recent graduate. Neve beams through the entire thing, and CJ shifts to stand behind the bureaucrats. He smirks when he catches my eye and makes a lewd gesture. Already the victor, he’s toying with me, a tomcat dangling a captured mouse over his mouth. 

We received forty-two applicants this year, and of those, have selected a supremely talented class of eighteen. In the interest of saving time, we will not read the complete list of applicants. CJ’s face falls, and he scowls at the radio. I bite my lip to keep from flashing a victorious smile. It won’t change the outcome, but at least my humiliation won’t tarnish Neve’s day. That said, we will post the names in all local newspapers, so they may be honored for the pluck and courage it took to apply, despite being rejected for this year’s class. 

Oh, this is it? Neve says, her voice breathy. This is it. This is the moment Neve’s life changes for the better, and Carla and I become something else, something forgotten, nothing. Carla’s head bobs up and down with barely contained excitement, and she squeezes Neve into a hug. Neve takes each of our hands in hers and together, we wait. 

And now, the moment we have all been waiting for. I present to you, this year’s class: Fiona Abramson, Avery Ashford, Anna Brown, Deena Carle, Gracie Beth Emerson, Molly Freed, Winona Jenkins, Laurel Johanson, Rosie McDuff.

I’m only barely listening, the cadence of each name hammering through me, final as a coffin nail. Resignation tingles up the back of my neck, and fear churns in my gut. With Neve’s hand clutched in my own, I keep a forced smile on my face and resolutely avoid CJ’s gaze. I won’t let him see the panic I feel. Today is about Neve. Only Neve.

That’s halfway, ladies and gentlemen, the dean says, and