Once by Anna Carey Page A

“So you’ve read one article and now you think you know me?”
    I stared out into the conservatory gardens, at Reginald, the King’s Head of Press—the very man who’d written the story. He was tall, with chestnut skin and cropped graying hair. The King had briefly introduced us the day after I arrived at the Palace. Reginald never bothered to ask about the pink marks on my wrists or the stitches on my arm. He didn’t ask me much at all. Instead he’d completely fabricated a story about how I’d escaped the School to find my father, who I didn’t even know was the King. How I’d traveled through the wild until I was kidnapped by some vicious Stray. The article ended with a quote from Stark detailing how I’d been “saved.”
    â€œI’ve never understood Strays.” The man shook his head. “Who would choose that life when they could have this?” He gestured around the room.
    My thoughts drifted to Marjorie and Otis at their kitchen table, content to live by themselves, free from the King’s rules. “A lot of people.”
    The man narrowed his eyes at me, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard me correctly. I was about to excuse myself when the King started toward us.
    â€œGenevieve!” he called out, his face breaking into a genuine smile. “I see you’ve met Charles Harris. He’s the one I was telling you about.” He gestured at the domed ceiling, the planted gardens and marble floor. “His family has overseen nearly every building and restoration project inside the City walls. The City of Sand wouldn’t be what it is without him.”
    So this was the Head of Development. He seemed surprisingly normal with his crisp buttoned shirt and huge blue eyes. Every inch of him seemed to imply he was decent, nice even—a person to be trusted. I wondered if he was the one who worked the boys in the labor camps, or if he made someone else do it.
    â€œI was just telling Genevieve how incredible it is that she arrived here safely. A testament to her strength, I’m sure.”
    â€œI’m happy she’s home.” The King held a glass in his hand. “Charles here has been in the City since it was founded. His family was one of the lucky ones—both his parents survived the plague. They donated assets to help fund the new capital. His father was the Head of Development until he passed away last year.” I studied Charles, his shiny, clean-shaven face and mop of thick black hair. He couldn’t have been more than five years older than me. So little separated him from the boys in the dugout—their parents had died, and his hadn’t.
    â€œIt’s been an honor to take over my father’s legacy,” he said matter-of-factly.
    The King gestured at the domed ceiling above us. “This was Charles’s first project. He spent a good six months studying the recovered plans for the conservatory, looking at pictures from before the plague to get it all just right. With a few improvements, of course.”
    Charles pointed to the far end of the dome. “A small plane had crashed into that side of the conservatory, leaving a giant hole in the ceiling.”
    The string quartet in the corner struck up a song, and a few couples ventured into the center of the room to dance. People clinked their glasses together, toasting. The King raised his hand, waving two women over. The younger one seemed about my age, with straw-colored hair and thin, glossy lips. The other woman looked similar but older, her eyelashes clumped together with thick mascara. Her hair was styled in a stiff gold bob. “Perfect timing,” the King started, resting his hand on the older woman’s back. “Genevieve, I’d like you to meet my sister-in-law, Rose, and my niece, Clara. Rose was married to my late brother.”
    The King had mentioned them the day before—my aunt and cousin. I offered my hand