Lupercalia. The challenge is here.
I’m taken from Aconitum Hall to the ceremony grounds in a chauffeured car. I sit by myself, across from two unsmiling, armed royal thralls. I get the feeling that they’re protecting a piece of disputed property. I’m not the future queen tonight.
Not that I wasn’t pampered like royalty. Before I left there were manicures and waxes, a makeup artist, a hairstylist, all of them sent to prepare me for my mating ceremony. There had also been a tailor, who nipped and tucked an off-the-rack suit for my testimony before the council; black pencil trousers and a single breasted jacket over a light blue silk chemise, all of it making me look much older than I am. My hair is in a careful twist, knotted at the nape of my neck, and it will, the stylist assured me, loo
