The Hollow Ball

Chapter 12

Dawn approached without resistance. Moonlight bled into soft periwinkle hues on the horizon in a way that seemingly mimicked the crescent-shaped bruises beneath my eyes. Mother, without much thought or attention to her movements, brushed what little makeup she could along the cool tones, lining my eyes with the black kohl her family carried across the sea, dusting my cheeks with soft pink color, and placing crystal pins in my hair.

I waited—hoped—she would scream at me. Even strike me if it meant she showed some sort of emotion. I waited for Father to charge into my bedroom and demand that I take my words to Mayor Warren back, that a carriage awaited in some secret passage to the harbor where a ship was waiting to take us far, far away from Hunting Hollow.

Defeat stole such fire from them, and guilt, I feared, might take my soul before any Shadow could. And suddenly, all that remained was the Hollow Ball.

This is your fate. This is your destiny.

Standing at the top of the grand staircase, the fabric of my dress felt too tight against my skin, my slippers too small, and the opal necklace at my throat too tight. Below, at the base of the velvet runner Ms. Casas' blood once stained, West Shadeson waited as promised. Outside, torches light the early morning light, and the sounds of metal chains and impatient horses clinked and clattered together in a death march.

This is it. How did it come to this?

And how could I make it count?

With my mother and father on either side of me, I dared a final glance at the portrait of my smiling sister at the top of the staircase. Half shrouded in darkness, her eyes bore into mine with what felt like a warning. Do not believe what you see, she seemed to say. Keep your eyes open.

Clutching the crystal-accented mask in my gloved hands, I pursed my lips and nodded. No matter what happened, I would make her proud. Looking to my parents, and then to the staff that waited in the foyer, I vowed to make my sacrifice worthy of their love and devotion.

And with a final descent, my head held high, I stepped confidently past West Shadeson into the open air and into my destiny.

* * *

I did not fight when they loaded West and I into a metal carriage with other Founding Family tributes. I did not cry when I looked at my parents for the last time and told them that I loved them. I did nothing but meditate on the sound of the waves, of the cobblestone path from the gates of Castellano Manor, through Hunting Hollow, and out of the Gates I once raced toward for safety.

Artemis Hall was built shortly after the ratification of Hunting Hollow by Gabriel Shadeson in honor of his late wife, Artemisia. Built of white stone, the estate was as much a part of the land as the mountains that overlooked it. Dense forest caged it into the jagged landscape, the fleeting sight of a silvery lake flashing between the glow of the moonlight lilies and the mysteries of Hannover Forest.

West had not said a word to me. Nobody had. And neither have I said a word to him or the four others in our carriage. Quickly, we filed through the iron walls they called gates, and the doors flew open the moment we stopped.

The man standing before us wore a mask that covered his face from the tops of his brows to his pointed chin, but I recognized the gruffness in his voice when he ordered, "Out. Now."

Arlo Walford, the head chef at Castellano Manor.

I didn't look at him when he attempted to meet my stare. He didn't deserve it. He deserved one of my crystal hairpins right in the eye.

"This will all be for the best," he pressed as I fastened my black velvet mask to my cheeks, his voice soft as though he would be the one to convince me of the righteousness of this moment. That damn man who fed me and laughed with me and my family. Damn him. That demeanor vanished quickly, and Arlo shoved me in the direction of another set of gates. "Thank you for your sacrifice," he sneered.

Before I had the chance to spit in his face, he was gone, and I was swept into the crowd corralled to their final destination. Fifty tributes. Fifty men and women, boys and girls, I grew up with, moved collectively toward the same fate.

A tremor passed through the crowd. Our breathing synced. Our heartbeats fluttered like a great flock of birds.

And slowly, in an obscure cacophony of metal and wind, the gates separating the Hollow Ball and its victims opened. The sea of colors, suits, dresses, jewels, and masks moved together in one final march.

There would be no turning back now. 

* * *