The weeks following my audition are an anxious nightmare. Everyone keeps asking how I’m doing, even though I’m doing just fine and don’t worry about getting picked at all. It’s like my whole family is trying to deal with their own anxiety by projecting it onto me. The worst part? It works. I start getting more and more nervous as the end of the year and the announcement of the contestants creeps closer, and I don’t even care. Their worry and excitement rubs off on me to the point where my IBS flares up like I’ve been on a spicy food binge for the last six months or so. 

At least it will all end once New Year’s Eve is over. Not before Mom and Dad absolutely destroy the last threads of my frayed sanity during the night itself, though. After the fancy dinner (pre-grilled chicken from the grocery store and baked potatoes), I remove myself into the living room. I tell the others I need space to tinker with my arm, but really I just want to tuck into bed and maybe sleep through their disappointment.

My parents aren’t merciful enough to let me do that. They’ve turned on the TV and cranked the sound a third down the bar as if to make sure I don’t forget the damn thing. I nearly wish I could take a sip of that cheap champagne they bought without setting a bad example for the kids. 

“Good evening and happy new year, Astria! My name is Renata Chancellor and tonight is the night! Tonight, we, along with the contestants themselves, will finally know who will be in the race for the crown prince’s heart!”

Renata’s voice breaks through into my distracted thoughts and makes me almost drop the screwdriver. 

I curse when the tiny bolt holding together the middle and proximal phalanges of my ring finger tumbles to the floor and gets lost in a sea of old rug bristles. Great. If only someone had taken pity on the one-armed girl and offered some help instead of watching trashy reality TV — like, say, a family member. I dislodge the arm and let it drop to the makeshift workbench at the end of my cot before bending down to look for the screw.

After a minute of searching, I poke the screw back into the tiny hole, tighten it, and secure it from inside the hollow finger. Then I put the arm back on and test it; there’s still a millisecond of resistance when I bend the finger. Which, on top of the already slacking connection between the mechanism and my brain, feels practically sluggish. 

My metal arm functions as my other one, except I can’t really feel much with it aside from the soft pads on the fingertips that give me a general idea of temperature. It’s just a slab of wires and strings, wrapped around titanium bone, naked after the modesty silicone that covered up its inner workings got too grotty to pass as skin and I had to rip it off. It was the best we could afford after the fire. 

I turn my attention back to the TV for long enough to know that the king is having a talk at the populace about the importance of solidarity and trust, how our great nation has entered a golden age, and how this is the royal family’s way of showing their commitment to the people, by having one of the people become royalty. 

Except the poors. You don’t get to become a princess unless you’ve managed at least one tax evasion. He doesn’t say that.

After the king’s speech, there’s more commentary from Renata and Beau, who discuss the royal family’s outfits. Beau shills for Rhett’s suit designer, who’s is the same as his own. Renata remarks on Queen Cressida’s crisp dress resolution. Judging by their reverent tones, this is Very Important. They also mention the renovations done to the royal palace in Cerise, from which the announcement event is livestreamed, and note dukes and viscountesses and other Very Important People who are attending the event wearing their most designer-est getups. 

Somehow, despite the sound being just barely quiet enough to avoid a noise complaint from the neighbors, this nonsense is so boring that I do eventually manage to nod off. Maybe it’s the full belly and the ease with which I can ignore discussions about ugly clothes on people I don’t care about. 

The bliss lasts less than an hour before my mother bursts into the room and shouts: 

“It’s started, Kit! Come quickly!” 

She disappears again before I can even sit up or remember where I am.

“I thought it started a while ago?” I murmur to Sheri, who came in while I was napping and is on her bed reading another book above her grade level.

“She means the announcements, I think.” 

I don’t move to obey Mom’s request, but listen in regardless. 

Queen Cressida’s voice is cool and commanding, “From the province of Agra: Bellatrix Cruz.”

I can’t remember who Bellatrix is, but the fact that I know her name if enough for me. Beau and Renata helpfully explain that she’s an actress. 

The queen’s dramatic pauses seem almost designed for them to inform the public about each contestant, “From the province of Alton: Stevie Amber.”

The name sounds annoyingly familiar, like the name of a kid who once wronged you in kindergarten. I think she’s the singer of those catchy pop songs every public facility has blasted for the last couple of years. 

“Figures they’re all famous. Ugh, I’m going back to sleep.” 

But I can’t. I hate to admit it, but I’m actually a bit curious.

“From the province of Ascia: Blythe O’Niel.” 

Another familiar name, though I have no clue why.

The next ten girls are all some flavor of celebrity — even the artistic prodigy has had her paintings sell for millions. Their names all begin to float in and out of my consciousness in a soup of utter irrelevance and I begin to nod off for a few seconds, jolting awake again when the next girl is announced.

“From the province of Legare: Myra Kamal.”

Who? Even Renata and Beau admit it’s an obscure name, before Beau tells us she’s a white hat hacker who helped develop a security software that protects our online infrastructure from foreign hacking attempts. Does that make her a preemptive war hero? Seems like unfair competition for the other girls. 

“From the province of Lennel: Cressida Pomeroy.” 

Beau chimes in to say that the girl is a model, and I despite my facing the wall, I can’t help but roll my eyes. Even bumpluck-nowhere Lennel is represented by a model. Did they run out of farmers somehow? I guess she shares her name with the queen. That’s a free marketing strat. 

I begin to sweat a little. We’re closing in on Viera — it’s just my luck it’s last on the list. 

“From the province of Roseden: Lady Odette Napolenne.” 

A lady, huh? They really went and picked nobility from the province where the monarchs live. Not that that’s surprising. Maybe they straight up don’t have commoners in Roseden.

Taiverra gives us Kendra, who is a mental health coach, and Talenne offers Delaney, who is a mechanic. I’m too hopped up on adrenaline to be pleasantly surprised by the normal-sounding occupation.

The contestant from penultimate Thury is June Liu, the result of a union between the cousin of a foreign empress and an Astrian duke. Her being picked by the Totally Random Lottery isn’t suspicious at all. Sometimes luck is just very politically calculated.

“And finally,” says the queen, “from the province of Viera: Katrien Sullivan.” 

Mom screams.