Page 16 of Kingmakers, Year Three

“Nothing,” I say.

“You look stressed.”

“I’m fine.”

There it is again. Nobody is ever actually fine.

I watch Rakel arrange her collection of brushes and pots, then begin the delicate process of painting her face.

Anna Wilk tends toward classic goth makeup, but Rakel’s oeuvre is much more varied. Some days she looks vampiric with dark red lipstick and chalk-white cheeks. Others she looks consumptive with pink all around her eyes and dark shadows under her cheekbones. And some days, like today, she resembles a wicked fairy with thick black liner, two-inch lashes, and shades of sparkly purple all over her eyelids, cheeks, and even the tip of her nose.

She finishes her look with three different nose rings, a spiked eyebrow stud, and a serpentine cuff that winds up her ear.

“You’re an artist,” I tell her.

Rakel smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “That actually means something, coming from you.”

“I filled half my sketchbook this summer,” I say, with a glimmer of happiness. “The Bean, the Willis Tower, the Ferris wheel . . . now I’ll never forget what I saw in Chicago.”

“You should show me after class.”

I look at my own decidedly less-interesting reflection in the mirror.

I’ve never dressed with much panache. I’m so petite that my clothes swim on me. Half the time I look like a kid playing dress-up. My hair is a mess of black curls. My face . . . cute, I suppose. But nowhere near as stunning as Zoe’s. She’s the beautiful one. I’ve always just been the kid-sister.

“Could I borrow a little makeup?” I ask Rakel.

“Sure.” She shrugs.

I stare at the rainbow array of products, having no actual idea what I’m doing.

Rakel laughs. “You want some help?”

“Yes, please,” I say gratefully. “I mean . . . I’m not trying to dazzle anybody. I just want to spice my face up a little.”

Rakel surveys my features with a professional objectivity.

“Your eyes are your best feature,” she pronounces. “And we’ll keep your freckles.”

She starts painting my face.

I watch in the mirror to see what she does.

It really is like painting, in the sense that she outlines and shades the contours of my face just as you would paint a portrait to show depth and perspective.

I’m mildly frightened to have those pointed nails so close to my eyeballs, but Rakel works with surprising gentleness. The brushes and powders and creams feel quite lovely against my skin.

Rakel uses shades of plum, peach, and golden brown that match my Mediterranean coloring quite nicely. When she’s finished, I look older. Confident and glamorous. But still myself, not a wicked fairy.

“That’s really good!” I say, thoroughly impressed.

Rakel is pleased. “I watch a lot of tutorials.”

The fresh look cheers me up a little. I’d rather be Glamorous Cat. She’d know how to keep out of trouble, and how to stand up to Dean without him torpedoing my entire life.

With new energy, Rakel and I return to our room to change into our uniforms.

I kept all the same clothes from last year. Yet, as I pull on my skirt, I notice one tiny inch of bare flesh between the top of my knee socks and the bottom of the pleats.

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