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Verity

It’s not crossingthe boundary into East End that does it. Lots of students go into East End, which has the best shops in Forsyth, plus, every kingdom has its more neutral spaces closest to the campus. I wring my hands into my sweatshirt–DKSemblazoned on the front–but feel mostly fine. Aside from the fancy luxury car, whose driver I don’t even know, it could be any other outing to the pristine streets of Ashby’s kingdom.

It doesn’t really hit me until the car approaches the bridge.

The water is murky, dark, and perfectly still, reflecting the afternoon sun like a mirror as we cross it. Part of me is fascinated, wanting to press my face to the glass and soak in the details. The Princes live in a sprawling estate. It’s tucked away on the outskirts of their territory, the most eastward thinginForsyth, and it’s completely surrounded by brackish water. I could probably count the West End girls who’ve been invited here on one hand, and for good reason. The Princes are the enemy, and I don’t belong here.

Alone.

Isolated.

On an actual fucking island.

My phone dings just then, reminding me that I’m notreallyalone. It’s not my actual phone–I’d left that behind, just in case. This is one Story smuggled to me just for this purpose, and it only has two contacts.

Chrysalis:You there?

Vivarium: Going over the bridge now.

Chrysalis: Keep us in the loop!

Instar: Don’t take any bullshit. Remember who your King is.

Some of thepanic falls away at Lavinia’s reminder. She’s right. I may be in East End, but I have the power of the DKS frat behind me. The cutsluts. The Dukes, including Simon Perilini, their new King. Not to mentiontwoQueens.

The Monarchs.

I put my phone away to keep focused on my surroundings. Seeing the large, ornate Victorian mansion rising in the distance, I straighten my back and remain alert, eyes scanning the property. It’s surrounded by a fence, and the car comes to a stop at an enormous, wrought-iron gate. Both gates have an intricate letter “P”, but they’re mirrored so that one is backwards, and everyone knows what they stand for.

After a moment of stillness, the gates swing open, and as the car crawls through, I see a whole bank of cameras pointed at us.

I begin gnawing at my thumbnail. The Lady hadn’t mentioned it being this heavily surveilled, but who knows? Tonight is the Royal masquerade, and just like Friday Night Fury, it’s open to any Forsyth elite, no matter which kingdom they’re from. Security will be heightened.

It’sfine.

Probably.

Rolling up the drive, I begin noticing the other cars, identical to the one I’m in, parked in a perfect row along the path. And the house…

The mansion.

Thepalace.

It’s breathtaking.

The imposing stone structure is even more beautiful than everyone said it’d be. Its big turrets and slender chimney stacks soar above me, the roofline a collection of glass, tile, and stone that stands regally against the clear sky overhead. The fine detail and heavy ornamentation puts even the West End’s signature clock tower to shame.

The moment I step out of the car, it’s easy to forget how this place gets its name.

ThePurplePalace.

It’s not the pale stone facade. It’s the vines that crawl up like capillaries to the bright roofline. Right now, the wisteria and roses covering the side of the building are dormant and wilted, gray and brown, lifeless in the January winter. But I’ve heard that when they’re blooming, it turns the mansion a deep purple with stipples of white.

Today, it just looks sickly and anemic.

A lot like I feel.