Chapter 1
The mirror didn’t shatter.
Her head hit it only at the edge. The majority of the weight went to the wall beside it. A few strands of hair and a dark red splotch where her skull must have cracked against the eggshell white wallpaper.
Hand painted blue flowers now lightly splattered in red.
She was pretty and only a year or so older than me.
They chose her sister to clean up the mess. She swooned at the gesture, an honor in its own way. They had been twins. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop watching her scrub down the bathroom. It’s as if I’m watching a ghost clean her own murder scene.
We all knew it was happening. We live in the same house, it was impossible not to hear. In her last moments, her faith had weakened. She had cried out for us, for her sister, for anyone. She had panicked.
It looked like a war scene when I first saw it. But her sister has been diligent. The room is pristine as usual, only a few spots left to be wiped away.
The door is open and I’m the only one in the hallway. A few had gathered to watch, I had seen what I could bear from the edges. They’ve all disappeared behind locked bedroom doors or shuffled into nearby rooms to be out of the way when they took the body.
She smiles lightly at me as she wrings out the wash cloth she’s been using. The bucket’s contents is a strange shade, murky and dark. The cloth will need to be thrown out.
She looks just like her sister. Usually her hair is down, that was the one easy distinction between them. But she has it pulled back with a delicate bow keeping it in place. Her wrists and hands are thin and she scrubs at the red stain on the floor with vigor.
Her sister was an inch taller, with the prettier name. Georgina. With her dead, we’re down to seven.
Gwenyth pauses her work, her hazy brown eyes peek up at me under a thick layer of lashes, “You were here, right? The whole time?”
I swallow before nodding. A ghost is speaking to me. A splintered half.
Gwenyth sits back, knees splaying slightly as her weight drops, “Was she…”
She bites her lip and the almost question holds in the air. Georgina had started nervous, ended terrified. She had been crying until the very last moment. I heard the crack that silenced her. It might have been her skull, maybe it was the wall. But I don’t dare say any of this; I wait.
“Was she scared?”
It comes out in a meek whisper.
“No, she was really brave about it.” I don’t feel like a liar when I spit the words out quickly and planned. The truth feels cruel, and I don’t have the stomach for it.
Her shoulders relax and she nods slowly, “I didn’t know, you know? I didn’t know she had a lover.”
We’re the chosen. Eldest daughters from good families. Our entire purpose is to birth the sons and daughters of the high ranking families. We’re not meant for anything more.
My gut twists with a sensation close to jealousy. But you can’t truly be jealous of the dead.
“Oh?” Curiosity sits on my tongue. Who was it? Who was it? Is he dead, too?
Georgina was favored by Agnes, the mate of our top ranked warrior. Wren is handsome, not like the beauty of alphas or betas who are born noticeably superior. Yet, he is attractive in his own way. Agnes has stronger features, a polarizing look to her. A respectable couple.
I’ve never seen a person as enraged as Agnes was. Screaming of a tainted womb, a ruined bloodline. Impurities.
Agnes managed to birth her first two naturally, the heirs of their family, but the pregnancies were so hard on her body that another would have killed her. And Georgina and Gwenyth have her smile, her coloring. The son Georgina produced for them blended perfectly.
Georgina had been on bed rest for five months. She lost weight weekly and they had to cut the boy out once he was far enough along to breathe on his own. Heavily monitored. She did well. Agnes had held her hand through it all.
And again, Agnes stayed for it all. She had paced the hall as Georgina was beaten to death for her sins. She cried, even in her rage, she cried.
Gwenyth stops there, her smile is removed and polite as she leans forward and dips the rag back in the bucket of dirty water. She’s devoted. No slander on her tongue.
I watch for only a minute longer.
She doesn’t look up as I start walking away. I wonder if Agnes will turn her favor to Gwenyth, how quickly Wren will take his dead breeder’s twin to bed.
He wasn’t the one who came to punish her. Usually, they prefer to be involved. But he’s more sensitive, one of the few who would stay after the deed. He’d bring Georgina flowers. Agnes brought with her rage and her brother, a violent male to begin with.
Agnes doesn’t come from a bloodline aligned to her mate’s. It is always the hope and prayer on our packs tongues that mates will be of even rank. The pregnancies are easier that way, manageable. They can have a dozen without intervention. It’s when genetic ranks mix that things can become lethal.
Her brother looks like he’s from a warrior line, tore Georgina apart as if he was born for it.
Passing an open room, two of the others are sitting together. They’re whispering back and forth with heads leaned close. Rebecca’s red hair acts as a veil hiding their faces from view. I have the instinct to eavesdrop, but another part of me is too giddy to slow down.
I saw the blood, I spoke to the sister. My head buzzes, it’s dizzying. I have the most details.
They don’t pay me any mind. This gossip with be on the tip of tongues for the upcoming weeks. The horror of it, the opportunity that will come from it.
Quickening steps, I make it to my bedroom and shut the door quietly behind me. I throw myself on my bed and spread myself wide so that I overtake the entire space. The comforter crinkles in my ears and I picture the scene in my head. Georgina’s pink dress, her teary eyes. The vein in Agnes’ forehead pulsing to life.
I feel beyond my body.
Georgina’s death changes things. One less, no replacements.
I can imagine Wren and his sorrowful eyes. His smile that almost feels shy when we greet him at the door, invite him into the house for his weekly visit. Gwenyth will be his next chosen. I’m sure of it.
Closing my eyes, I can still feel the heat of Agnes’ hand on my shoulder as she passed by me through the front door. Her whisper of, “Georgina’s home, isn’t she?”
I could be next.
It’s lonely being isolated and groomed for surrogacy. It’s worse being isolated without use, no purpose. There is one less among us for them to pick from. One less pretty face to be compared to.
I can be next.
