06

"Miss Lovet, you are to meet your mother and Monsieur de La Reue in the ballroom." Agnes said from the doorway.

I glanced up at her, dread knotting my stomach. "Alright, Agnes, thank you." I shut my book and slid into my satin slippers and went to the ballroom.

As I entered, I saw Mother talking to Monsieur de La Reue in hushed voices. They both stopped when they saw me standing there. "Bonjour, demoiselle," Monsieur de La Reue greeted, bowing with a flourish.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur." I replied and curtsied.

De La Reue was a tall man with a beaked nose and sharp eyes. He had dark hair and dark, watchful eyes and was rather thin. He'd been my dance instructor as a child and I never cared much for him. He was very blunt and was not one to sugarcoat. He would tell one flat out what they were doing wrong and that they needed to fix it.

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Why are you standing so awkwardly? No one is going to want to dance with you when you look so unapproachable." He said, his French accent almost unnoticeable. "You should exude confidence, even if you don't really feel it. Stand up straighter—no slouching. Unclasp your hands and look me in the eye when I am talking to you."

I did as he said, glaring at him. His words did not do anything to make me feel more confident about myself. I felt as though he were picking me apart, counting every flaw, noticing every little detail.

Mother stood back, watching wordlessly. Her lips were pursed in thin line and her eyes were on me. She glanced at de La Reue. "Are you going to stand there all day and tell her what she's doing wrong, or are you going to teach her how to fix it?" She snapped.

He glared at her, but then turned to me. "Let us begin, shall we?"

Monsieur de La Reue was merciless. He pointed out all of my flaws, smacked my hand if I did something wrong—which was quite often—and would start speaking angrily in French if I didn't learn what I was supposed to do after he had told me twice.

By the end of the lesson, I wanted to cry and never dance again. And I did not understand how, after how upset I would make my teacher, he was pleasant and cheerful when we were done.

He bowed to me and to my mother, smiling. "Au revoir, Madame et demoiselle." And with that, he was gone.

"Well, that was . . . pleasant." Mother said slowly.

I sighed and nodded, even though it was anything but.

Mother cleared her throat and glanced at me. "I want you to practice a lot today and tomorrow. You will be dancing with potential suitors at the ball tomorrow evening."

"Yes, Mother." I said, feeling a little disgruntled at this.

She nodded her head stiffly and then exited the room, leaving me alone. And I did practice dancing by myself. I liked this better because there was no one watching me, waiting for me to slip up. It was a less stressful environment. Though, I couldn't pretend it was enjoyable dancing by myself.

I danced for the rest of the evening until dinner, when Agnes came to retrieve me. She smiled approvingly when she saw me dancing. I paused when I noticed her watching me. "You've already improved, Miss." She said softly, smiling at me.

I smiled back. "Thank you. I am trying."

She nodded. "You're doing well, but dinner is ready and your family is waiting for you."

I thanked her and hurried to the dining room, where, just as she said, my family was waiting.

My mother gave me an irritated look when I entered the dining room late, mumbling an apology. I took my seat and served myself.

"You know," Mother began, looking at Alice. "The prince will be at the ball tomorrow."

"And?" Alice asked, still looking at her food.

"You're going to dance with him." Mother said bluntly. "Be as charming and witty as always, and you should have no problem stealing his heart, Alice." Her voice was light and eager.

I stared down at my plate, listening to their conversation.

Alice smiled, her eyes hopeful. "You really think so, Mother?"

"I know so, darling. He would be lucky to have you," crooned Mother.

Don't say it. Don't you dare say it, Erika. I thought to myself, but it was no use. I was already speaking. "Does he have to marry Alice? What if he . . . and I . . ." I did not get to finish the thought before my mother laughed sharply.

"Don't be silly, Erika! He is meant for Alice and that's that."

"But would it really be so bad? You and Father would still have a daughter as Queen." I continued hesitantly.

She shook her head. "Alice is meant to be queen. She knows how to behave, how to speak, what to do . . ."

"I do too, Mother." I replied, my tone hinting on defensive. I'd learned all the same things she had.

"Oh, please," she said harshly. "You really don't. You always have your nose in a book, you're awkward and clumsy; His Highness would be ashamed to have you for a wife."

"Katherine," Father hissed, in an attempt to intervene.

But the damage had already been done. My fork clattered against my plate—which only seemed to prove her point about my clumsiness. "If you will excuse me," I said coldly, before turning and marching from the room.

"Really, Katherine." Father sighed. But that was all I heard as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, tears forming in my eyes, clinging to my lashes.

His Highness would be ashamed to have you for a wife.

Those words continued to repeat in my head as I sat on my bed. She wasn't wrong. I was awkward and clumsy, not as well-mannered as Alice, not as pretty as Alice, or as outgoing as Alice . . .

I brushed away a few tears. It had always been this way. I could never compete with Alice. She was the best at everything, I most certainly was not. I had always struggled to keep pace with my sister, who was, without a doubt, better than me. And Mother had never shied away from pointing it out to me.

She was right, though. There could be nothing for us. He would never take me as a wife when he had people like Alice to choose from. A feeling of hopelessness swept over me just then.

I pressed my lips together to keep them from quivering.

As I lay in bed that night, my thoughts swirled through my head, making it almost impossible to sleep. Tears dripped onto my pillow from the corners of my eyes. My breath shook from the effort to keep my crying quiet.

I wish it could be me. Just once, I want to be first. Where someone could look at me the way all men look at my sister. I just want that. Is that too much to ask?