The Selection series 1-3. Кира Касс

I asked.

      There was a comical bewilderment in his expression. “Nothing in the world is more confusing!” he whispered urgently. “I haven’t the faintest clue how to stop it.”

      This was the man who was going to lead our country: the guy rendered useless by tears. It was too funny.

      “Try patting them on the back or shoulder and telling them everything is going to be fine. Lots of times when girls cry, they don’t want you to fix the problem, they just want to be consoled,” I advised.

      “Really?”

      “Pretty much.”

      “It can’t possibly be that simple.” Intrigue and doubt played in his voice.

      “I said most of the time, not all the time. But it would probably work for a lot of the girls here.”

      He snorted. “I’m not so sure. Two have already asked if I’ll let them leave if this ever ends.”

      “I thought we weren’t allowed to do that.” I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. If he had agreed to let me stay on as a friend, he couldn’t be too concerned with technicalities. “What are you going to do?”

      “What else can I do? I won’t keep someone here against her will.”

      “Maybe they’ll change their minds,” I offered hopefully.

      “Maybe.” He paused. “What about you? Have you been scared off yet?” he asked almost playfully.

      “Honestly? I was convinced you were sending me home after breakfast anyway,” I admitted.

      “Honestly? I had considered that myself.”

      There was a quiet smile between us. Our friendship—if I could even call it that—was obviously awkward and flawed, but at least it was honest.

      “You didn’t answer me. Do you want to leave?”

      Another something hit the wall, and the idea sounded appealing. The worst attack I’d gotten at home was Gerad trying to steal my food. The girls here didn’t care for me, the clothes were stifling, people were trying to hurt me, and the whole thing felt uncomfortable. But it was good for my family and nice to be full. Maxon did seem a bit lost, and I’d get to stay away from him for a little bit longer. And who knew, maybe I could help pick out the next princess.

      I looked Maxon in the eye. “If you’re not kicking me out, I’m not leaving.”

      He smiled. “Good. You’ll need to tell me more tricks like this shoulder-patting thing.”

      I smiled back. Yes, it was all wrong, but some good would come out of this.

      “America, could you do me a favor?”

      I nodded.

      “As far as anyone knows, we spent a lot of time together yesterday evening. If anyone asks, could you please tell them that I’m not … that I wouldn’t …”

      “Of course. And I really am sorry about everything.”

      “I should have known that if any girl was going to disobey an order, it would be you.”

      A collection of heavy objects hit the wall at once, making a handful of girls scream.

      “Who are they? What do they want?” I asked.

      “Who? The rebels?”

      I nodded.

      “Depends on who you ask. And which group you’re talking about,” he answered.

      “You mean there’s more than one?” That made the entire experience much worse. If this was one group, what could two or more do together? As far as I knew, a rebel was a rebel was a rebel, but Maxon made it sound like some could be worse than others. “How many are there?”

      “Two generally, the Northerners and the Southerners. The Northerners attack much more frequently. They’re closer. They live in the rainy patch of Likely near Bellingham, just north of here. No one really wants to live there—it’s practically all ruins—so they’ve made it a home of sorts, though I guess they travel. The traveling is one theory of mine—one no one listens to. But they’re far less likely to break in, and when they do the results are … tame almost. I’d guess that this is a Northern job right now,” he said over the din.

      “Why? What makes them so different from the Southerners?”

      Maxon seemed to hesitate, unsure if this information was something I should know. He looked around to see if anyone could hear us. I looked around, too, and saw that several people were watching us. In particular, Celeste looked like she was trying to set me on fire with her eyes. I didn’t keep eye contact for long. Still, even with all the onlookers, no one was close enough to hear. When Maxon came to the same conclusion, he leaned in to whisper.

      “Their attacks are much more … lethal.”

      I shivered. “Lethal?”

      He nodded. “They only come about once or twice a year, as best I can tell from the aftermath. I think that everyone here is trying to protect me from the statistics, but I’m not stupid. People die when they come. The trouble is, both groups look alike to us—dingy, mostly men, lean but strong, no sort of emblem as far as we can tell—so we don’t know what we’re getting until it’s all over.”

      I looked around the room. A lot of people were in danger if Maxon was wrong and they happened to be Southerners. I thought of my poor maids again.

      “But I still don’t understand. What do they want?”

      Maxon shrugged. “The Southerners appear to want us demolished. I don’t know why, but I’m guessing some dissatisfaction or another, tired of living on the fringes of society. I mean, they’re not even Eights technically, since they have no part in the social network. But the Northerners are a bit of a mystery. Father says they just want to bother us, disrupt our governing, but I don’t think so.” He looked rather proud for a moment. “I have another theory about that as well.”

      “Do I get to know it?”

      Maxon hesitated again. I guessed this time it wasn’t so much out of fear of scaring me, but perhaps not being taken seriously.

      He came close again and whispered, “I think they’re looking for something.”

      “What?” I wondered.

      “That I don’t know. But it’s always the same around here after the Northerners come. Guards are knocked out, injured, or tied up, but never killed. It’s like they just don’t want to be followed around. Though some people get taken with them, and that’s a bit disturbing. And then the rooms—well, all the ones they can get into—they’re a mess. Every drawer pulled out, shelves searched, carpet upturned. Lots of things get broken. You wouldn’t believe the number of cameras I’ve replaced over the years.”

      “Cameras?”

      “Oh,” he said bashfully. “I like photography. But despite all that, they don’t end up taking much. Father thinks my idea is rubbish, of course. What could a bunch of illiterate barbarians be looking for? Still, I think there must be something.”

      It was intriguing. If I was penniless and knew how to break into the palace, I think I’d take every piece of jewelry I could find, anything I could sell. These rebels must have something in mind beyond a mere political statement or their day-to-day survival in mind when they came here.

      “Do you think it’s silly?” Maxon asked, bringing me out of my wonderings.

      “No, not silly. Confusing, but not silly.”

      We shared a small smile. I realized that if Maxon had simply been Maxon Schreave and not Maxon, future king of Illéa, he would be the kind of person I would have wanted to be my next-door neighbor, someone to talk to.

      He cleared his throat. “I suppose I should finish my