Venus City 1

“Aspen? What are you doing here? Where's Mother? She said she'd—”

“I'm sorry...” His usual soft voice was strangely amplified in the grand foyer. Aspen shoved his hands into his pockets, a black notebook awkwardly tucked under one of his arms, and lowered his head apologetically. He was troubled by something, she could tell. Aspen never minced words, never stalled. This must be bad indeed, she realized with a pang.

“Charlotte decided I should be your Witness in her stead.”

Braya scoffed, hoping to hide the fear his news brought her. “Why on earth would Mother do that to me? That can't be right.”

Well, it couldn’t be right. Why would her mother choose him of all people?

“By the way,” she sneered. “Call her mother. Or mom, at the least. It's so rude to address her by her name like that.”

Aspen always did that. Likewise, Braya always corrected him.

Her voice echoed through the foyer just as Aspen's did, and suddenly she became acutely aware of their surroundings. There were two curved staircases on either side of the foyer winding up and meeting at the second-floor landing. Delicate black railings of coiled designs edged each staircase. In the center of the foyer there was nothing but a polished floor of white marble that Braya could nearly see her reflection in. She’d never liked this part of the house. In the worst of situations it often had the tendency to remind her how small she was. Braya didn’t like reminders of her vulnerability.

“She must have a good enough reason for changing her mind,” her brother shrugged his shoulders. His words were halfhearted, like he didn't believe them as they came out of his mouth. His demeanor, his expression, his apology—they were all halfhearted, and for a moment Braya felt an irrational rage fill her up like water soaking paper.

“You could at least
act
like you care about this, then,” Braya hissed, taking a step toward him. “There would be nothing more dishonorable than
you
being my Witness. It
has
to be Mother, or at least Aunt Rosamund—”

His magenta eyes flashed up to meet hers and for a moment she thought she saw something spark behind them—something fierce, something challenging. Something decidedly
not
her brother, and it made her recoil.

“Why would you say that, Braya? You know I care about this,” he said softly, his eyes cast down to the floor again. “I care about you. This is the most important event of your life, and I'm sorry that I'm not Char—Mother, but I will do my best to help you.”

Braya felt guilt sweep over her, and forced herself to fight it. She schooled her features into a sneer.

“You're no help at all,” she let out in tone she hoped would sound cold and unyielding. “Never mind, I can face this interview alone. You're Mud. How would that reflect on me, Aspen?”

He didn't flinch at the insult. He was used to it. “If you're sure, then. I'll see you afterward.”

He made toward the staircase on the right—she had a suspicion it had something to do with the fact that their mother only used the staircase to the left—and then slightly turned so she could see the side of his face. He didn't make eye contact.

“Are you sure—”

“God, Aspen. I know what I'm doing.”

He was looking at her now. The look stamped into Aspen's delicate features—features so alike her own—told her he thought otherwise. That small flare, the one she'd noticed a moment ago—the one she could easily be misjudging—was back in his gaze and Braya didn't know how to address it.

Braya chose instead to adopt an air of indifference and waved her hand dismissively. She turned from him and continued her way through the spacious foyer and down the vaulted hallway indented with elegant archways.

Aspen was her older brother by two years and she always held a soft spot for him—she knew she shouldn't, that such an unfavorable softness brought her character into question, but it couldn't be helped. She had a growing suspicion that he knew it, too. That, unfortunately, couldn't be helped, either.

Having her mother sit in as a Witness—a crucial element of the Career Interviews—would help her immensely because of her mother's position in the Fair Lady's Court. Having no one would be better than having Aspen as a Witness. A minor detail he should know by now.

The end of the hall diverged into two hallways that led to her left and right. In the center, directly in front of her, was a lounge that the Malister family tended to entertain their guests in.

Its subtle entryway was arched and the room itself deep set, making it appear as if it were added on as an afterthought. The walls were thick with white wainscoting and the entire back wall was dominated by massive, rounded windows. White daylight filtered through the heavy drapes of cream and gold. A circular rug held two elegant divans facing each other and a small, low-to-the-ground coffee table rested between them.

Braya settled onto one of the divans. Her hands sought each other, twisting and knotting in her lap as she glanced at the delicate watch she wore under her white gloves. The Interviewing Committee—they would be there in mere moments.

Braya let out a hitched sigh. There was no reason to be nervous—she was overly qualified for any position available in the entire city, with or without her mother as a Witness. Right. Absolutely no reason to be nervous.

She smoothed over her long white dress and made sure her thin matching cardigan—essentially a pair of ruffled long sleeves separated from the dress and fastened with a couple buttons along her collar—was smooth and wrinkle-free. It was always her bad habit. It was as if the clothes were an extension of her. Smoothing them over when she was anxious, it was like smothering all of the bumps and creases in her canvas of nerves. A canvas she liked to keep blank and taut. Braya would never be caught wearing something a knit out of style, so the actual act of running her hands over her person the way she did might only enhance her appearance of nervousness, something she hardly liked to contemplate.

The doorbell rang.

Braya's heart was sent clattering through her chest like a bell tossed down stairs. She furled her fists together in her lap and stared at the floor with a dizzying intensity, intent on appearing proper and nerve-free when the Committee appeared before her.

Harmony, their Maid Bride, materialized at the entryway to the lounge. She must have answered the door. God, of
course
she opened the door, that was her job. They certainly wouldn't just let themselves in.

Braya slowly rose to her feet. There were three figures trailing behind Harmony, their interest apparently lost in the designs of her home. She didn't know why, but that made Braya even more nervous.

“Elegant home you have,” the first woman said. Braya blinked at her, surprised at how closely she resembled a bird. Bird-woman gestured toward the lounge. “Is this where we'll be conducting the interview? The lighting is just divine.”

Braya nodded mutely.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Harmony said. If she was trying to step in to save Braya the embarrassment of clamping up and forgetting herself, then she should butt out. Pronto. Braya didn't need anyone's help, especially not Harmony's.

Casting the Bride a withering glare, Bray stepped forward. Unfortunately, that was the same moment the other two figures came into view—sharply, and startlingly.

Braya felt something hammer against her ribcage—Mother Ophelia and some
man
were standing before her—with all intents to burst through her stomach.

“Mo-Mother Ophelia.” The words stumbled out of her mouth before she could help it. Hastily composing herself, Braya let her gaze drop to the floor as she gestured toward the lounge. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Repeating Harmony's words like that—how embarrassing. Braya was consumed with a fresh wave of irritation and shot the Bride another glare, as if to dismiss her. She nodded in acknowledgment and scurried away.

Brides were so useless Braya wondered why they still existed. Apparently Mother Cordelia had formed the organization seventy years ago in hopes of promoting beauty, elegance, and refinement. The girls selected for the program had always been attractive, hence the title of Brides. A girl was always her prettiest while she was a bride, right? At least, that’s what Braya had heard.

As the years had whittled by, the Bride organization had slowly transformed into something different. It was during Mother Olivia’s time that it’d been changed into a means of breeding attractive children. Before then, the Brides had never had to actually
marry
a Groom. They had only been required to promote peace and honor within the city. But under Mother Olivia’s reign, that had all changed. The girls were strapped into a marriage and ordered to create an abundant amount of attractive children. Nowadays, the inane practice had become an actual career. That’s right—smile pretty, and you may be lucky enough to live on the opulent Heartland property with all the other Brides and Grooms and raise a lively brood of sparkly-eyed kiddos. Unable to conceive? That’s okay! You can just become a Maid Bride, like her dear nanny, Harmony.

Miserable, pointless career it was.

“My name is Hera Sens,” the bird-woman introduced. She was circling the lounge now, gazing out the windows almost wistfully. It only added to her resemblance to a bird, Braya mused. “I'm the head of the Interviewing Committee, and as supporting Witnesses you are graced with Mother Ophelia and...Sir Channing.”