“When we arrive,” Marco says, breaking the silence, “I’ll show you and your entourage to your rooms. King Lazuli is hosting a welcome party tonight. That’s when you’ll officially meet him. Tomorrow morning the peace talks will commence.”
Our car passes through the gates and the security checkpoints. A row of Italian Cypress trees lines the drive. Beyond them is an expanse of green lawn. The symmetry and colors assault my eyes, and something sharp and painful lodges in my throat. A dim memory of how things used to be. The king’s estate reminds me of life before war. But the beauty here is duplicitous; the king lives a fantasy. The city outside these gates—that’s the unpleasant truth. The world is a mess, and no amount of paint and landscaping can cover that up.
Eventually the car comes to a halt in front of the estate. The doors open and someone reaches for my hand—like I need help exiting a car. Brushing aside the offer, I step out of the vehicle.
I gaze up at those white, white walls, and the only thing I can think of is that, somewhere inside, dwells the devil.
And tonight, I’ll meet him.
Chapter 4
Serenity
Seven years ago I killed a man. Four men, in fact. I was only twelve. My father was off at work, and I’d just gotten home from school when I was ambushed. Four men had followed me back to my house. I’d watched them hang back behind me, far away enough to appear as though they were casually strolling. But I’d seen them before, heard rumors about them. No one tells you that in war, sometimes the enemy is your neighbor.
So as soon as I entered my house, I moved into my room and opened the lockbox that held my gun. Just in time too.
The front door smashed open and the men were shouting, no doubt to work me up into a frenzy. And it worked. I screamed at the sound. My heart hammered in my chest.
The weapon was preloaded for an occasion just like this. I clicked off the safety and knelt at the foot of my bed, breathing slowly to calm my racing heart. Gripping the gun with both hands, I aimed at the doorway to my room.
It only took them several more seconds to find me. As soon as the first man came within my line of sight, I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him right in the middle of the chest. I’d mortally wounded him, but he wouldn’t die instantly.
Two of his friends pressed into the doorway, their eyes wide. They were now more interested in what was going on than grabbing me. I shot both of them before they could react.
The fourth man must’ve seen his friends go down because I heard the pound of his footfalls moving away from my room.
If I didn’t kill him now, he’d return for revenge. That was how this new world worked. I knew that even at age twelve.
By the time I’d left my room, the three other men lay on the ground moaning, the fourth man was already out my front door. I sprinted down the hall, past the living room, and followed him outside. As soon as I made it to the front yard I saw him running down my street. I knelt, took a calming breath, aimed, and fired.
His body jolted, then collapsed unnaturally.
By the time the ambulance arrived, all four were dead.
I got away with it too. The courts were too flooded with other cases to hear about the twelve-year-old girl who killed her would-be assaulters. The justice system proclaimed it self-defense, and the case was closed.
As evening descends in Geneva, I sit in front of the vanity in my new room. The yellow glow of the light makes my features soft. With my hair loosely curled and a touch of makeup on my face, I realize for the first time in maybe ever that I’m pretty. It’s a shock, and not a pleasant one either.
In war, beauty is a curse—it catches your enemies’ attention, and you don’t want that. Better to blend in. But sitting here in my borrowed scarlet dress, blending in is the last thing I’ll be doing.
My eyes move to the room behind my reflection. A four-poster bed large enough to swim in rests directly behind me, and next to it are shelves and shelves of books. The ceiling is a mosaic of painted tiles.
In this lavish place, I might not blend in, but it appears I might just fit in.
There’s a knock on my door, and one of my guards pokes his head in. “Your father and Marco are waiting for you out here, Serenity,” he says. Out there in the sitting room.
Back at home I slept in a room with seven other women; here I have an entire room to myself, my father has another, and the guards another; we all share a sitting room.
I stand up and take in my appearance one final time. My scar catches the light. I might look sweet as syrup, but here in the lion’s den I won’t hesitate to kill my enemies, diplomacy or not. We’re still at war, after all.
Out in the sitting room my father chats amicably with Marco. I’m not fooled by it at all. My father’s lethal ability is presentation. He can lie like he’s telling the truth. And not just about the little things, either. He can pretend entire relationships into and out of existence. It’s not a very honorable talent, but it’s the least violent means to an end in war.
In order to convince your enemies you must convince yourself—believe your own lies for a moment. One of his primary rules of diplomacy.
Time to put it into practice. “Hello Marco,” I say, cutting into their discussion.
Marco’s eyes move from my father to me—or rather, my plunging neckline. “Miss Freeman.” He nods. “How do you like your rooms?”
They are a constant reminder of your king’s corruption, I think. Instead I say, “They leave little to be desired. Your king is very generous to host us here,” I finish off the sentence with a brittle smile. I don’t think I can make a long-term career of diplomacy; those words felt like poison coming out.
In contrast to my own disquiet, I can practically feel my father’s approval across from me.