Chapter 1
I shake out and close my umbrella at the doorway, almost dropping my packages in the process. Rebalancing them in my arm, I enter the back of the cafeteria building of Kilnstone Academy For Girls.
The rows of tables are nearly empty, most of the students in their afternoon classes, but those that remain are, like all the girls here, anywhere from two to nine years younger than me. When I first started working as the Headmistress’s assistant, I would get glares and scowls, because how else would young ladies of favorable lineage treat a girl they assumed was an Adair? But now that I’ve been here two years, they for the most part ignore me as I hurry through to the adjacent main office.
I greet an unmoving Saisha, the secretary, as I cut through her office and tap on the large wooden door to Headmistress Whitley’s office. After a curt “Come in” I push the door open and lay the packages on the desk.
I’m about to leave when Whitley says, “Miss Ceil?”
I turn around. “Yes, Headmistress?”
“Someone came around when you were gone, looking for you. Someone from the royal palace… in Amhain. He wants to see you, and insisted on coming back at seven tonight. That’s not a problem, is it?”
I resist a gulp. “No, of course not.”
Yes, it is.
As I turn to leave again, Whitley says, “Miss Ceil?” regaining my attention. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?”
I force a smile, hoping it looks sincere. “Not that I‘m aware of.”
Not yet, anyway.
She doesn’t look quite convinced. “Well, good then.”
And I leave.
I spend extra time before dinner brushing my hair, tying it up. Smoothing out my uniform. Even applying hand lotion in meticulous circles. Whatever it takes to look happy, put together. In control. I have to look like I’m content here - no, not just content. Better off. Which I am.
I enter the dining hall feeling as I did the first time; like all eyes are on me. Except then, they were, because they were oblivious to my past, oblivious to who I was. Now, though I rationalize they’re just as ignorant, that they still ignore me as always, I can’t help noticing every glance in my direction, can’t help thinking every whispered word is about the so-called Adair with skin just a little too pale for the country.
I go through the line, filling my tray with food, and sit down. For an hour I move it around with my fork, taking small bites. I don’t know what it is; I don’t taste it, and I can’t focus enough to make out the details in its appearance. Over the hour, several of the other student workers at the school file into the seats around me. No one offers up information about themselves - who would want to know of our pasts, which are, with little exception, dreary or gruesome, explaining how we all ended up here? - but light chatter bounces around, talk to pass the time. I’m not really required to join in, though, so I tune it out.
At twenty to seven, I give up on my meal and dump the remains into the trash. I hide in the restroom the rest of the time, washing my face, patting it with stiff paper towels. I massage out any lines of frustration or discomfort and work on placing a believable smile over my frown. With only a minute to spare, I know I’ll only make it worse by being late, so I walk as casually as I can force to Headmistress Whitley’s office.
When I enter, he’s there. Recognition is painted on his face, and we both know I’m who he’s looking for.
“Headmistress, I need some privacy with… Miss Ceil.” It isn’t a request, but a command. Just like everything that’s ever come from his mouth.
I can feel Whitley looking towards me, perhaps looking for some sort of assent, but my eyes don’t leave him, and I make no movement. Finally, she just leaves on her own.
He gestures to a chair in front of the desk. “Sit.” Another command.
I stand.
Shaking his head, he reclines into the Headmistress’ seat, parading his obvious power. “You always were stubborn, weren’t you, Lilly?” He doesn’t look angry or confused. More amused than anything.
In response, I sit on the large windowsill. The shades are drawn and outside the stifling island rain continues, so no natural light brightens the dreary office.
“You know why I’m here,” he says. I do. I don’t care. “So tell me, why am I here?”
You’re here because I hate you. I don’t say that though. I’m not sure I could. I’m not sure I do.
Instead, very controlled, I say, “You’re here because family is suddenly so important to you.” My words are cutting, and I half expect to see blood pool at his feet. But then I remember: hearts of ice can’t bleed - only melt. And nothing I say is going to accomplish that.
He pretends I was sincere. “Good. Why else?”
“I’m not coming h-” I catch myself. That place isn’t my home, not anymore. It never will be again. “Back there,” I finish my sentence. I refuse to meet his eyes.
“And that’s where we meet our problem.” He rises and circles the desk to where I sit; I turn my head to face the window. “Before you make up your mind completely, there are some things you should know. If you came back, things would be different.”
Something angry stirs inside me.
“Different how?”
I jerk my head around and find it a mere foot from his. A shiver runs through my spine as I realize, despite our age difference, just how far our resemblance carries. His hair’s thicker than my golden-orange waves, with a twinge of brown in it, and his eyes are darker than my hazel ones - but we both have unrealistically light skin, large eyes, and slight features. Neither of us is large, but not quite petite. A safe middle. Only on him, this all adds to the affect of compressed power, a fatal trait. Something we don’t share.
He doesn‘t react to my anger. “You wouldn’t resume your lessons. Instead, I want you to become my military adviser.” I raise my eyebrows. “Not right away of course,” he hastens to say. “You’d have to train to be a soldier first, and go through several camps before it’d be taken into serious consideration. But if you complete those, I can think of no one more fitting for the job.”
I have to check to see if he’s lying. But I can’t tell - it’s a skill he’s too well mastered. Still, why bring it up if he wasn’t sincere? If he was lying and I got there, he’d have to forcefully contain me to keep me from leaving, and if he was going to do that why not just abduct me now?
He notices my quizzical expression and, reminding me to keep my face unreadable, says, “I understand that you’re skeptical. But believe me, with Father gone, there have been considerable changes. Things will be better for you.”
I want to believe him, I really do, but I know he’s lying - either that, or there’s a catch. He’s never strictly honest.
“And why do you care how things are for me?” You never did before. I don’t have to say the last part, though; he already knows.
He hesitates, and it’s his turn to look like he’s thinking. I almost smile - I can’t wait to hear what he thinks up now. He always did have the best excuses.
When he does speak, his voice is soft, rueful. Sorry. That’s how I know it’s an act.
“Adds,” he begins, using his pet name that’s too familiar for comfort, “I know I was horrible before. But I’m trying to make up for it now. I miss you. Everyone at the palace misses you. Even that boy still comes around asking about you - what was his name? Gavin?”
This is it, then. His weapon against me. He’s going to persuade me with thoughts of my childhood friend. Either that, or threaten me with him. Or maybe he’ll be more original and bring me a severed finger of Gavin’s, claiming he was mutilated in war and that his dying wish was that I might humbly take his place on the battlefield.
“I’ve already arranged for you two to commence training together, as partners. And as you only get one partner, unless death or sickness intervenes, if you don’t come it’ll be a tragedy to say he’d never have the opportunity to advance in his career.”
Or maybe he’ll just threaten me. And it just might work.
All our childhood we dreamed together of the intense training, the heroic battles; a life in the military. And entering the Combat Zone. We never could wrap our minds around that.
I narrow my eyes, and even he must find it hard to side-step my contempt.
“Adds.” He can‘t help looking triumphant. “I only have so long. My ship leaves tomorrow. I need an answer.” He says this because he knows he’s won. He wouldn’t force me into a decision unless he was sure I’d choose what he wanted.
Resisting the urge to slap him, I curtly say, “I’ll be in the main hall at seven.” I exit and don’t look back.
This is the first draft of my new novel The Deserter. I know it's not that great - that's why I'm here. Tear it to shreds - I dare you. Mostly, I want to know about things like pacing, dialogue (which I suck at), description, setting. Was it easy or hard to follow, and why. Did it make you want to read more or not, and why. Grammar I can do for myself. Any reviews, even sentence-long ones, are helpful. If you like it, press Like. =)
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