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PRINCESS GAMES
CORDELIA K CASTEL
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
The Rebel: A Princess Trials Story
Gauntlet: A New Dystopian Series
The Princess Trials
Cordelia Castel’s Books
Writing as Delia E Castel
Copyright © 2020 by Cordelia Castel.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.
Download a Princess Trials short story at: http://rebel.theprincesstrials.com
Preorder Cordelia’s new series:
http://gauntlet.princesstrials.com
CHAPTER 1
Hours later, a distant voice pulls me out of slumber. Sunlight shines through
my eyelids, and I raise my hand to my brow. It no longer throbs from the air
rifle, and the pain in the back of my head from being shoved to the ground has
gone.
I twist around and squint into the dawn. The sun rises above the trees, casting
a haze of orange across the horizon and coloring the thin streaks of clouds
candle-flame yellow.
Rolling grunts sound across the meadow, and I realize that our safe sleeping
nook comes with a cost. How on earth are we going to get past hundreds of
bison without creating a stampede?
The voice sounds again. I stick my head out of the hideout and peer into the
sky.
A passenger drone hovers several feet above, its blaring what I hope is the
end of this challenge. The wind and sounds of the bison mean that I can’t hear
the message, but Guardians only ever send these vehicles in emergencies. I’m
too drowsy to panic, but I wrap a hand around Vitelotte’s ankle and shake.
She raises her head and stares at me through bleary eyes. “Good morning.”
“Time to go,” I say.
A moan sounds in the back of her throat. “We’ve got to discard the guns and
packs.”
Vitelotte doesn’t need to explain why. Even if the QuickBurn doesn’t reduce
the girls’ bodies to ash, the fact that anyone burned them at all indicates foul
play. If we arrive with their stolen backpacks, it won’t take a trial to work out
their murderers.
A cool wind swirls into our nook, removing all remnants of warmth. Cold
fear seeps through my jumpsuit and penetrates my bones. The muscles of my
chest tighten around my lungs like a dozen hangman’s nooses. I bolt upright
with a pained gasp.
“What’s wrong?” asks Vitelotte.
“What if the producers find the computer and work out that the girls were
tracking me?” My words tumble over each other.
It was bad enough last night to see the blood seep from one girl’s throat and
to watch Vitelotte bury the blade of her ax into another. It was self-defense. No,
she was protecting me from Ingrid’s assassins. But in the harsh light of the day,
nobody’s going to believe us. They’ll just see that two Harvesters killed two
Guardians, and they’ll extract every punishment from our bodies before they let
us die.
Vitelotte doesn’t answer at first. And as the silence stretches between us, the
pressure squeezing my lungs tightens. We’re both guilty. She may have killed
those girls, she may have poured the QuickBurn over their corpses, but it was me
who set them alight.
Finally, she exhales a long breath. “You threw the computer on the fire,
remember?”
“But aren’t all computers linked to a net—”
“No.” Her word cuts through my sentence like an ax. “One of them said she
blocked the camera frequency. That’s the time they needed to find and kill you.
Whatever those girls did to cover their attempt to murder you backfired because
it’s going to cover ours.”
My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. Networks, frequencies, channels…
they all mean nothing to Harvesters like us. I hope Vitelotte is right. If she isn’t,
it won’t just be General Ridgeback casting his accusing glare at me.
“Come on.” She swings her legs over the edge of our hideout. “Let’s make a
move before they leave without us.”
As she jumps down, I turn my gaze to the oversized drone, which now
hovers above the distant trees. Now would be an excellent time to dump the
Guardians’ bags.
With the threat of discovery hovering over our heads, the bison herd no
longer seems like our biggest threat. We keep to the edge of the field in single
file and try not to make eye contact. The huge, brown bovines are larger than
any creature I’ve ever seen. This particular breed stands ten-feet-tall. Eleven, if
you count the huge humps behind their necks.
Guttural noises, a mix of growls and snorts, fill my ears. I quicken my steps,
keeping my eyes front and fixed on the tall conifers a quarter-mile ahead.
As we reach the forest, a deep breath whooshes from my lungs, and the
muscles of my shoulders finally relax. I turn my head up to the sky, where the
drone broadcasts its message about a mile ahead.
Gentle splashing and the trickle of water reaches us from deeper into the
woods. We follow the path of a shallow stream, looking from left to right for
lurking contestants, cameras, or predators. Eventually, it leads to a beaver dam, a
ten-foot-tall mass of twigs and branches that spans a thirty-foot stretch of water.
“This is it,” says Vitelotte.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“If we continue further along this body of water, we’ll find a deep spot
where we can bury these packs.” She points further upstream and explains that
beavers burrow into the ground to make the water deeper. Nobody will think of
looking here when the girls’ bodies are so far away.
We fill the bags with stones, hurl them into the water, and watch them sink.
When we’re satisfied that they won’t rise to the surface, Vitelotte and I continue
on our way and follow the passenger drone.
Later, as we continue along a narrow track, a blonde figure walks ahead of us
in the distance. She limps with her head bowed and her shoulders slumped.
Sunlight streaming from the gaps in the canopy makes her hair shine like spun
gold. I nudge Vitelotte, who nods. This has to be Emmera.
Both of us break into a run. Emmera turns around and sprints.
“Hey!” I shout. “It’s us.”
She screams.
“Zea-Mays and Lotte,” shouts Vitelotte.
Emmera slows, allowing us to catch up. But the closer we get, the more I
realize she’s been hurt. Her left eye is swollen shut and resembles two tomato
quarters, but it’s nothing compared to her bottom lip. The camouflage makeup
only makes her look worse as it fades over the stretched skin.
My stomach drops. “What happened to you?”
She walks ahead and bends her neck to hide her fresh tears. Vitelotte and I
walk on both sides of Emmera, waiting for her to speak. Last night, she didn’t
seem so beaten up but we had watched her from up a tree.
Emmera tells us that a group of Noble girls captured her shortly after she
landed in the forest. They seized her glider, then forced her to become their
pack-mule and gopher. She had to carry their bags, fetch their snacks, and play
coal-mine canary by venturing into caves and hidden spots to look for the
statuette.
Based on what she understood from the Nobles, the computer tablet
pinpointed a number of possible locations for Gaia’s treasure, but many of them
contained traps such as snakes or nests of ants.
I lean back and exchange a nervous glance with Vitelotte, but we both
remain silent. The hiding-spot we blew up might have just been another trap,
which meant the game ended because someone retrieved the statuette.
Emmera hiccups. “They found a cave, but something inside it was growling.
It sounded like one of the ligers.”
“Maybe it was an android,” says Vitelotte.
The taller girl stops walking and stiffens. Huge breaths huff in and out of her
lungs, and she looks like she’s building up into a rant. But her face crumples,
and she wraps her arms around her middle. “I deserve it for flying away when I
should have stuck with you. I’ll never put my faith in a Noble again. Those girls
were violent and ruthless.”
I purse my lips and continue walking down the track. After helping them
hunt me with automatic guns, she’s only realizing this aspect of their
personalities now?
The slicing of a drone’s propellers reaches my ears, and its air currents blow
against my hood.
“What happened to you two?” Emmera asks.
For the benefit of whoever’s watching, we focus on the parts of our
adventure captured on camera and distract Emmera with descriptions of giant
crocodiles. The drone guides us in a winding route through the forest, and we
avoid meeting any groups of animals. Eventually, we walk up a dirt track that
leads to a wooden staircase where the drone hovers close to a bus that stands on
massive wheels.
Every ounce of air in my lungs leaves in a relieved breath as the doors hiss
open. A single row of double seats runs down its left with a kitchenette down the
other side. Like most of the vehicles in the Princess Trials, its windows are
blackened. Six girls sit like tin soldiers in the front seats. I check their hands for
signs of the golden statuette, but it looks like none of them won this contest.
Behind the Amstraadi sits a group of four whose haughty voices and bitter
complaints identify them as Nobles. As soon as we take our seats at the back, the
bus leaves.
“Aren’t we going to wait for the others?” I ask.
One of the Nobles twists around and sneers. “Ingrid won.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“You don’t know that,” her companion says.
“Why else would she and her Guardian dogs attack us with guns and blow up
that cave?”
My heart somersaults, and all thoughts of raiding the kitchenette fade as I
listen to the Nobles complain about Ingrid. The combined team of Nobles and
Guardians received eight packs, each containing equipment vital for surviving
and finding Gaia’s statuette. Ingrid seized the first aid, air guns, computer tablet,
and trail mix, which she shared with her Guardian allies.
I glance at Emmera, whose face is too swollen for meaningful expressions.
The Nobles probably used her tablet computer to find the hiding-places.
When the subject turns to politics, I walk to the kitchenette and open the
refrigerator. Most of the food packages require heating in an electromagnetic
oven, so I take some yogurts and bananas for the Harvesters. Emmera refuses to
eat, but throughout the journey, the Nobles are too busy griping about Ingrid and
her cheating to even bother about me.
Triumph fills my chest. If I can remain inconspicuous and let all the attention
slide to Ingrid, that’s one less group of people pointing a knife to my back.
Hours later, we reach the palace, and the production assistants guide us to an
empty classroom with eight tables that each seat two students. As I take a seat
with Vitelotte at the back, my gaze rises to the empty wall at the front of the
room. I wonder if this is where Prince Kevon had his lessons.
“Where is the winner?” asks one of the Noble girls from the front seat.
The production assistant who gave me the doctored water before my audition
hugs her computer tablet and can’t look the Noble in the eye. “If you’ll kindly
wait, there will be an announcement.”
I bite down on my lip. There’s no sign of the two Artisans who traveled up to
the National Park with us. One of them was blonde. My gaze flickers to the
Amstraadi girls who sit in front of me on the left of the room. If they’re all here,
that means the dead girl I tripped over was an Artisan.
But what on earth happened to her friend?
The entire front wall flickers to life, and the production assistant scurries to
the door. Prunella Broadleaf walks into the frame. Her long hair now hangs in
uneven strands at her chin, looking like she’s cut it herself with a knife. She
wears the same sackcloth dress as before, but the cuff around her neck stretches
from her collarbone to her throat.
None of the Nobles sitting on the right flinches at this new development. One
of them leans into her companion and whispers something that makes the other
girl snort. My experience with Gemini Pixel tells me this kind of punishment is
not unusual.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Prunella’s voice trembles and she lowers her lashes
as though unable to look at the camera. “I regret to inform you that due to
technical difficulties, we are unable to broadcast the completion of the task.
Please enjoy these highlights.”
Whispers fill the right side of the room, but they soon turn to angry
mutterings. The production assistant opens the door and rushes out into the
hallway.
I turn to Vitelotte. “Where are all the camerawomen?”
“I don’t know,” she mutters. “But something must have gone terribly
wrong.”
With a nod, I force my features into a neutral expression. Three dead girls
and not a single one of them is me. I can see how some might consider that a
catastrophe.
One of the Nobles shoots to her feet. “What’s happening?”
Byron Blake steps into the room and pinches the bridge of his nose. All
traces of the gleeful celebrity are gone, replaced by a man who looks like he’s
spent the past few hours staring into the barrel of Lady Circi’s gun.
“May I have your attention, please?” He raises his palms. “Six girls still
haven’t returned from the task. We have scoured the park and there are no signs
of the missing contestants.”
Nobody speaks, and the rapid thuds of my pulse echoes between my ears. At
any minute, the footage will switch to something that incriminates Vitelotte and
me. Silence stretches across the room until it takes the form of a pair of hands
squeezing my neck.
“Our drones have captured footage of two charred bodies.” His voice is
muffled, and I have to lean forward to catch what he’s saying. “One of the
corpses is possibly Ingrid Strab.”
CHAPTER 6
R yce pulls me through the crowd and down the gap between
the tomato stall and its neighbor’s, who sells pumpkins and
squashes.
He wears a regulation white shirt that’s either brand new or dipped in
laundry bleach. His brown vest and matching pants look pressed, and there isn’t
a speck of dust in his uniform. I guess that’s the only way a Harvester can blend
in among these Nobles pretending to belong to our Echelon.
I glance from side to side to see if anyone has followed us, but he wraps his
arms around my shoulders and pulls me into his chest.
“Zea,” he murmurs into my hair. “You look so good.”
His earthy scent engulfs my senses. It’s freshly-tilled soil, sugar beet… and
something unusually floral. I try to pull back to look into his eyes, but he holds
me tight and continues murmuring about being pleased to see me.
I relax into his embrace. Ryce reminds me of home, and that’s one step away
from Mom, Dad, Yoseph, and Flint. “Ryce,” I say. “Have you seen—”
“Zea.”
The way his deep voice curls around my name makes me pause. I hope this
means he’s about to tell me that the Red Runners took my family to safety so I
can complete my mission without worrying about their fates.
He releases me, draws back, and cups my face with both hands. It’s the
tenderest of touches, and his pale eyes soften. A corner of his mouth curls into
the barest of smiles.
My throat dries. He looks at me as though I’m precious.
“After seeing you on that glider, I’ve suffered nothing but sleepless nights,”
he says. “When you stopped answering my calls—”
“My family,” I blurt. Ryce is talking about the watch he gave Sharqi to hide
in her beak. The watch I left in my boot and haven’t thought about for days.
“Are they alright?”
His expression blanks, and the hands cupping my face stills. After a
significant pause, he says. “Yes.”
“But I thought there were guards outside—”
“They visited that time when you spoke to them on camera.” He doesn’t
allow me to complete my sentence, and there’s something in his assurance that
doesn’t ring true. “Nobody’s watching your home, I promise.”
My muscles tense, my spine turns rigid, and my insides numb. Adrenaline
courses through my veins, making my pulse thrash in my throat. I would sooner
believe Queen Damascena’s menaces than Ryce Wintergreen’s promises.
There’s no way she would ease up on her threat to murder my family just
because everyone has lost interest in the Princess Trials.
“How do you know?” My voice sounds far away.
Ryce frowns. Then his face breaks into a wide smile. It’s the first I’ve ever
seen anything but him looking grave. It’s a grotesque baring of both rows of
teeth, the type of expression a person makes during the rare times we get to see a
Guardian dentist.
“What are you talking about?” he says with a forced chuckle. “I should ask
why you ran past me in the gardens when I called your name or why you never
answer my attempts to call you on Netface.”
My nostrils flare. If he’s talking about the whisper I heard when I ran half-
blind for my life to the guesthouse after being gassed, I’m not going to
apologize. This whole conversation is a waste of my time. Ryce will say
anything necessary to keep me spying for the Red Runners, even at the cost of
my family’s life.
“Where’s Sharqi?” I snap.
He flinches. “Who?”
“My bird,” I say through clenched teeth. “The one you thought was a
kakapo. The one you said you would take care of. The one you sent to the Oasis
with a watch in her mouth.”
He lowers his lashes. “She flew home to spend time with her chicks.”
A tight fist of grief slams into my heart, making my eyes sting with tears.
Sharqi probably got shot while trying to find her way back to Rugosa. I jerk
away from his touch and turn to the side.
“Zea.” He tilts my head towards his and forces me to meet his hard eyes.
“While you’ve luxuriated in palatial surroundings, over two-hundred-thousand
Harvesters worked in back-breaking conditions. Our water rations are barely fit
for humans. People are dying every day, Zea. Dying.”
That last word hits like a punch in the throat, and I can’t breathe. They’re
dying… just like Mr. Wintergreen.
Ryce nods with confident satisfaction, as though he’s found the exact
sequence of words to manipulate my heart. “We’re all depending on you to find
a way into the palace and lead us to freedom,” he murmurs. “What is your
report?”
Burning hatred sears my veins and makes the blood surging through my ears
roar. How could I have ever allowed Ryce and his mother to maneuver me into
such a perilous mission with little training and no backup? Guilt. Guilt for
having once been a nine-year-old girl too frightened to stop a brutal murder.
Now Ryce is using that guilt with a hefty dose of feigned affection to make me
sacrifice everything for the cause.
Now, when I stare into those eyes, they’re glacial. White striations run
through the frigid blue, revealing glimpses of a calculating, twisted soul.
Prince Kevon showed me how a man acts toward a woman he holds to his
heart. He pays her attention, helps her when she’s in trouble, and does his best to
keep her happy and safe.
Ryce only stopped ignoring me when I poisoned a guard. Then, on the
pretext of paving the way for a better world for our future, he convinced me to
join the Princess Trials as a spy.
I’m not selfish. I care about the wellbeing of my Echelon more than my own
happiness, but I can’t, I won’t, I refuse to sacrifice Mom, Dad, Yoseph, and
Flint.
“What have you learned, soldier?” he said.
I want to tell him about the secret entrance that leads from the navy barracks
into the palace, the secret underground river, or any of the other secret and
poorly manned passageways I’ve seen in the palace, but not if that means hurting
Prince Kevon.
My gaze drops to his shoulder, and I offer the only piece of information I
feel is safe to share. “Something’s wrong with King Arias.”
Ryce’s breath quickens. His fingers close around my arm, and he gives it a
hard shake. “What?”
“He’s dying.” I pull out of his grip. “From the way Prince Kevon talks about
things, it’s only a matter of weeks before he takes the throne.”
His eyes bulge, and he grabs my shoulder. “Is the king in the hospital?”
I shake my head. “They’ve put him in a secure room.”
Ryce nods, his eyes turning vacant. “Can you—”
“What?” I snap. “You want me to murder a dying man?”
He flinches. It’s the barest movement, and a look of realization sharpens his
eyes. The hands around my shoulder tighten, and his fingers dig into my flesh.
Wincing, I try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s too tight.
“Are your loyalties drifting toward the Nobles?” he snarls.
I shove against his chest. “You’re hurting me.”
“Answer my question,” he says from between clenched teeth.
“I’m loyal to my people.”
His fingers loosen so the grip no longer hurts, but he doesn’t release me.
“You’re falling for the prince.”
I shake my head. “How will the Red Runners protect my family from the
guards posted outside my house?”
“I’ll take care of it,” His hands slide over my shoulders and up my neck.
My skin tightens, and a tight band of alarm forces the air out of my lungs.
Will he strangle me for failing to report the secret passageways?
When one of his hands cups the back of my head and he strokes my
cheekbone with the other, some of the tension around my chest relaxes. Weeks
ago, being held by Ryce Wintergreen was my most fervent dream, but his touch
is unwanted and feels like yet another threat.
“Let go of me,” I say. “They’re going to notice I’m miss—”
His lips crash onto mine, and I open my mouth to scream, but he slips his
tongue between my lips. The taste of tannin floods my mouth, along with the
scent of bitter red wine. I’m choking. I can’t breathe. My fists pound on his chest
with all my strength, but he’s too big, too strong, too determined to force this
mockery of a kiss.
He draws back, breaking his assault. I strike out with my fist, but he catches
my wrist before I can land a blow.
“I love you, Zea-Mays Calico,” he says. “You’re the bravest, most
interesting girl I’ve ever met.”
The words hit a wall of shock. I can’t believe that Ryce Wintergreen, the
future leader of the Red Runners, and the man I once thought would rule
Phangloria, just forced himself on me.
He pulls my limp body into his chest, and it feels like torture. “Go back to
the others,” he murmurs in my ear. “Before they notice you’re missing.”
My entire body trembles, and tears fill my eyes. All those times I watched
Harvester girls get accosted by guards, I had been a bystander and never
imagined myself one of their victims. It turns out that Harvester men are just as
capable of such atrocities.
Something inside me cracks. Maybe it’s a sense of idealism that all
Harvesters are good and all Nobles are bad. Maybe it’s my indecision about
handing over the country to the Red Runners.
Ryce turns me around, swats me on the behind, and tells me to hurry back to
the cameras. I rush out from behind the marquee and through the space between
the stalls on legs that feel like brittle saplings. If the Red Runners want a
revolution, it won’t be through me. Prince Kevon will be the king to smash
through the inequalities in Phangloria.
The crowd around the tomato seller thins, and Nobles call my name. Some
chuckle and others call me the bucking bronco. Maybe they’re waiting for one of
my famous tantrums. Instead, I offer them waves and weak smiles.
Vitelotte stands at the edge of the crowd between Cassiope and her
production assistant. She sees me first and glances over my shoulder, not
commenting until I reach their side.
“There she is,” she says. “Chatting with fans as I told you.”
I shoot her a grateful smile, answer a few questions about the tomatoes I
weed, then a few people in the crowd ask me more tomato-related questions.
Afterward, we walk with the production assistants past fruit and vegetable
stalls. The sweet, warm aroma drifts across the market, and somebody rings a
bell. I raise my gaze to a triple-width marquee in the corner, where women
dressed as Harvesters sell pastries and freshly-baked bread.
“Be careful,” Vitelotte whispers in my ear.
“About what?”
“Ryce Wintergreen.”
A spasm of shock squeezes my chest and ripples up my tightening throat. I
glance at the assistants walking together at my side, but neither pays us any
attention.
I croak, “What are you talking about?”
She flicks her head toward the marquee next to the bakery, where a tall girl
clad in a scanty version of the Harvester uniform rises from a black cow and
holds up a pitcher. Ryce stands beside her and drinks a glass of milk.
“If that guy over there tries to talk you into something, ignore him,” she
mutters.
“Huh?”
Vitelotte’s sharp stare slices through my veneer of false innocence. “He’s not
a bad person, but he acts like he’s going to bring about a revolution for the
Harvester Echelon. He’s just a pretty boy who talks big and can’t even gain the
respect of his mother.”
“You know him?”
She nods. “His father used to run the cornfield my brother supervises.” She
raises a shoulder. “I don’t know if Ryce sees him as a mentor or something, but
he’s always coming to our house crying about how his mother makes him take
care of lost causes and ranting about becoming the president or something.”
Lost causes. My stomach hardens. Like Ryce’s Red Runners youth cell?
“Right.”
We continue past the bakery and past the milkmaid, who hands Ryce another
glass of milk. He raises it to the crowd and grins. The crowd cheers back.
I snatch my gaze away and focus on Constance, who waves, blows kisses,
and poses for photos with ageless Nobles. I don’t know what to believe, but I
don’t think it matters. This will be the last I see of Ryce Wintergreen until Queen
Damascena allows me to leave the Oasis, and by the time I return to Rugosa, I’ll
be done with the Red Runners.
I turn to ask Vitelotte about Carolina, but she’s gone.
“Oh, look.” Cassiope points at a crowd of reporters by the door.
“Ambassador Pascale is here. Let’s see if he will offer his support in finding the
missing girls.”
Vitelotte avoids me for the rest of the outing and sits with Emmera on the
journey back. I’m not being paranoid, but she hasn’t been the same since
pointing out Ryce. Part of me wonders if that’s because she spotted him
dragging me behind the tomato seller’s gazebo, but she didn’t mention having
seen us together.
When we reach the palace, there’s no sign of Byron or Prunella, and when I
reach my room, there’s no sign of Forelle and Georgette. Instead, I find Lady
Circi sitting on the velvet sofa, looking into the screen of her tablet computer.
She wears a teal jumpsuit today and balances a gun on the sofa’s arm.
I clap both hands to my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
She glances up then returns her gaze to the screen as though I’m not even a
threat.
“Wrong question.” Queen Damascena steps out from my walk-in closet, clad
in a carnation-pink one-piece with flared culottes that look like they belong to a
gown rather than a jumpsuit. Her blonde hair falls in a cascade of curls, framing
smoky eyes that glint with malice.
My pulse accelerates. All the moisture leaves my throat and gathers on my
palms. I place a hand on the wall to steady myself, and my legs collapse into an
awkward curtsey. “Your Majesty.”
“Breaking my son’s heart wasn’t part of the arrangement,” the queen snaps.
“What?” I whisper.
Lady Circi raises her head. “She told you to help him choose a suitable
Noble, not to leave the trials.”
Just because they once made an arrangement over a man, it doesn’t mean I
could be as heartless. I force my expression into a mask of calm. “How can I
guide him to someone else when he asked me to get engaged?”
“Do we need to spell everything out to you?” asks Lady Circi.
“Yes,” I say from between clenched teeth.
“Tell Kevon you’ve changed your mind.” The queen strides toward me
across the room, bringing with her the cloying scent of mandragon blossoms.
Resisting the urge to step back, I lick my dry lips. “But he won’t believe—”
“Convince him.” She hisses through bared teeth.
I gulp. “Alright, but there’s only so much I can do if he doesn’t come with us
on excursions, and we eat alone in our rooms.”
Queen Damascena’s eyes harden. She’s trying to work out if I’ve been
sarcastic, but a snort from Lady Circi seems to assure her that I’m merely stating
a fact. I want to twist my fingers around her curls and yank the blonde out of her
hair. What kind of monarch needs to go to such roundabout, underhanded
methods to influence the lives of others?
The queen relaxes her features and places her hands on her hips. “From
tomorrow, you will all share meals with Kevon, and tonight, you and he will
dine in front of the cameras.”
“But Vitelotte—”
“Has kindly allowed the other girls from her village to share her date with
the prince.”
She never mentioned that to Emmera or me on the journey to the farmer’s
market. This means that their next stop after threatening me will be Vitelotte’s
room. I hope she stays calm and doesn’t say something to make Queen
Damascena lash out.
I exhale my frustration in an outward breath. There’s no point in asking if I
can leave the Princess Trials, then. “So, you want me to make up with him, raise
his hopes, and then suggest he marries some other girl?”
“I wouldn’t put it so bluntly,” she says with a smirk.
I stare into her cold eyes, not quite believing she’s serious. “Why?”
Her lips tighten. “Like most men, Kevon doesn’t think with his brain.” She
lets her gaze linger down my body. “Using what you’ve learned from watching
mating cattle, I’m sure you can whisper into his ear and guide him to make the
right decisions.”
Bile rises to the back of my throat. Not about the animals, but she’s talking
about manipulating her own son. “And if I can’t—”
“You will do as I say if you don’t want anything to happen to those charming
twins.” Queen Damascena steps out into the hallway. “Circi, when does the
Immunology Committee administer vaccinations?”
“In Rugosa?” Lady Circi steps out of the door. “The end of the month.”
Her words hit like a flying kick. Yoseph. Flint. The annual vaccinations
protect us from a strain of the influenza virus that mutates every year. Without it,
old people die and young children perish. There are a number of ways they could
hurt the twins: withdrawing the vaccination, swapping the vaccine for water, or
replacing it with a poison that will mimic a natural death.
Lady Circi closes the door, leaving me gasping for air. The imaginary noose
around my neck is so tight that the fibers of the rope chafe against my skin—
that’s how much it hurts. I can no longer afford to interpret Queen Damascena’s
words—I must do exactly as she says until I can find a way to hide Mom, Dad,
and the twins.
I sit alone for hours, staring at the wall and trying to work out a way to help
my family. If I told Prince Kevon, he would help, but that help might come too
late. What about Colonel Mouse, the man from the Amstraad Republic who tried
to save me from the fake hijacking?
Shaking my head, I toss that thought aside. The Amstraadi might turn it into
a game and get them killed just to place my reaction on their show.
My only way forward is to hope that Prince Kevon becomes the king before
Queen Damascena carries out her threat. Then he will outrank his mother and
overrule any of her orders.
Later, Forelle and Georgette step into the room and ask about my day. I give
them snippets about the fake Harvesters I met in the market while they ready me
for our group date. I barely notice the outfit, a silver, off-the-shoulder dress that
reminds me of the blue ballgown.
They arrange my hair in a braided updo and weave strands in a mix of Oasis
sophistication and Harvester charm.
I step out into the hallway, where Emmera and Vitelotte await. Emmera
wears a form-fitting dress with a split up the side and has dyed her flaxen hair
auburn. I guess she has worked out that Prince Kevon prefers girls with dark
hair.
Vitelotte wears a fuchsia dress with a deep V that shows a little cleavage.
The garment’s short sleeves and the way the fabric skims her figure reminds me
of something Lady Circi would wear but without the pants.
As Emmera walks in front, I lean into Vitelotte and whisper, “Are you
alright about us joining your date?”
She raises a shoulder. “I really don’t mind.”
“Thank you.” Emmera turns around and flashes the other girl a grin. “You’re
so generous to share your time with His Highness.”
If I wasn’t so preoccupied with the threat hanging over the twins, I would
bristle at the implication that I should share Prince Kevon with her. My gaze
flicks to Cassiope, who grins. I can’t even smile back.
“Tonight’s going to be fun,” I murmur, thinking the opposite.
A limousine takes us to a Japanese restaurant called Peko Peko. We learned
about Japan in Modern History. It was an archipelago of hundreds of islands but
got swallowed by the Pacific Ocean. All that’s left of the country are millions of
people living on crowded mountaintops.
Carolina says it’s a lie because Phangloria doesn’t have aircraft, and its navy
wouldn’t waste resources traveling halfway across the world. According to her,
they teach us about Japan to make us feel grateful for our lives in Phangloria.
I shake my head. Carolina says a lot of things, but she offers no guarantees
for the safety of her Runners.
Peko Peko is in the middle of a block of seven-story buildings. Instead of the
usual awning of solar tiles, the restaurant uses ceramic roof tiles illuminated by a
hexagonal, white lantern with Japanese lettering. Long strips of curtains hang in
front of the doors, and wooden shutters obscure the windows.
“This place looks very exclusive,” Emmera says with a giggle.
My insides crochet themselves into tight knots. It’s an unpleasant sensation
that’s mostly trepidation and mounting dread. Prince Kevon will never believe
I’ve changed my mind, and he’ll believe me even less if I steer him toward one
of the Noble girls.
Our driver informs us to wait for the production assistants to shoot footage of
us stepping out of the limousine. When they arrive with cameras and lighting
equipment, Emmera shoots out first and poses by the camera. Vitelotte and I
continue toward the restaurant and are the first to meet Prince Kevon.
Prince Kevon stands a few feet from the doorway, dressed in a velvet jacket
the color of eggplants with a pale purple shirt. The shades complement his blue-
black hair and olive skin, and the fabric skims his athletic frame.
His gaze meets mine, and the smile on his lips freezes. I hold my breath and
wait for him to react. Apparently, nobody told him it would be a group date.
Emmera bustles in behind us, breaking the tension, and he kisses Vitelotte’s
hand first, then Emmera’s, and then mine.
The touch of his lips on my knuckles sets my skin on fire. My breath hitches,
and my cheeks heat.
A frown crosses his features, but he smooths out the expression and turns to
Vitelotte. “I must be the luckiest fellow in Phangloria to dine with three ladies.
Was this your idea?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” she lies.
He places a hand on the small of her back and guides her through the empty
restaurant. Emmera and I walk behind the pair, and I can’t help but stare at his
large hand on her narrow waist.
As expected from watching Prince Kevon’s date with Ingrid at the beginning
of the Trials, the restaurant is empty. Paper lanterns illuminate dark wood floors
that stretch out to walls that look like they’re made of paper and matted straw.
All the dining tables are low, with crimson floor cushions that match a red-
and-gold embroidered robe that hangs on the wall. I’ve never heard of people
displaying clothing like art, and Prince Kevon assures us that the women of
Japan used to wear such fine garments.
A man stands in front of a doorway at the far end of the restaurant, an
auburn-haired chef, wearing a tall hat and white robes. He dips into a bow that
bends his body in a ninety-degree angle and sweeps his arm toward a private
dining room.
In the middle of the room is a U-shaped table set for four. Its interior consists
of a flat griddle that’s already smoking with heat. Raw ingredients sit in square
bowls around the hotplate, and it looks like the chef will cook them as we watch.
Prince Kevon helps Vitelotte into the seat on the widest part of the U and
places Emmera on the other side, next to Vitelotte. My stomach tightens as he
holds out the seat perpendicular to his.
“Thank you.” I fix my gaze on the place setting of little bowls and away
from the handsome prince.
“It’s my pleasure,” he murmurs back.
The chef positions himself behind the hotplate and explains teppanyaki to
Prince Kevon and the cameras positioned behind us. After encouraging us to try
a clear soup that tastes of fermented soybeans, he pours oil on the hotplate, then
another clear fluid. He points a lighter at the hotplate, which bursts into three-
foot-tall flames.
Emmera shrieks, Prince Kevon laughs, and I clap a hand over my mouth to
stifle my shock.
As soon as the flames ebb, the chef wipes the hot metal with a cloth and then
juggles a pair of spatulas that look sharper than blades. They clank and click in a
rhythm that would be entertaining if I had been forewarned about bursts of fire
and sharp, flying instruments.
I bite down on my lip and turn to Prince Kevon. “Is this supposed to
happen?”
“This is my first time in a teppanyaki.” Prince Kevon turns to Vitelotte and
smiles. “This will also be my first time trying this cuisine, so thank you for
expanding my horizons.”
A tight fist clenches my heart. That’s the sort of thing he would say to me. I
glance up to find two cameras pointed at my face.
It’s only when the chef places a large fillet of beef on the hotplate that I can
finally relax and enjoy the show, especially when he pours an oily sauce over it,
and fills the air with the scent of spices and garlic.
Over the next several minutes, the chef performs an array of culinary feats
with knives as large as short-swords, giant forks, and a selection of spatulas. He
places shrimp, chicken, lamb, and lobster on our plates, and busies himself
cooking vegetables.
We eat rice and drink miso soup in between courses, and Vitelotte picks up
the chopsticks, arranges them in her fingers, and pops a scallop in her mouth.
Emmera gasps. “Where did you learn to eat with sticks?”
“My brother and I used to practice picking up stones with twigs,” she replies
with a shrug.
Prince Kevon chuckles and picks up his chopsticks. “Would you two like to
learn?”
Emmera leans across her table. “Yes, please!”
He turns to me and smiles. “How about you, Zea?”
Heat rushes to my stupid cheeks. Doesn’t my body realize I’m in the biggest
trouble of my life?
We spend the next five minutes practicing with our chopsticks. When Prince
Kevon turns around to help Emmera, I pick up the meat with my fingers, and
Emmera does the same when he turns to help me. Vitelotte watches us both with
narrowed eyes but doesn’t mention our cheating.
As the chef sets down his knife and fries a mound of rice with vegetables and
finely chopped meat, Emmera leans forward. “Have you been to the farmer’s
market, Your Highness?”
“Many times,” he replies. “Did you enjoy your visit, Miss Hull?”
“Those people selling produce aren’t even Harvesters,” she said.
He tilts his head to the side. “Really? They wear the Harvester work
uniform.”
My brows draw together. Are they telling people that we get to wear such
fine clothes, grow a wide array of beautiful produce, and get to visit the Oasis to
sell our wares?
“Ask Zea.” Emmera flicks her head at me.
The chef raises both brows and pours soy sauce over the rice.
My mouth drops open. Of all the times to bring up such a contentious
subject, why did Emmera choose now, in front of the cameras?
As Prince Kevon turns to me to ask, Vitelotte plunges the chef’s knife in his
chest.
The prince’s body stiffens, his face freezes, his eyes lock onto mine, and
blood bubbles from his lips.
CHAPTER 9
The throbbing of my head forces me awake, and bright lights shine through
my eyelids. I squint to find myself lying on the floor of a six by six cage
surrounded by metal bars. On my left, Emmera curls into a ball and sobs. Behind
the bars on my right, Vitelotte stares down at me with concerned eyes.
Thoughts of Prince Kevon with a knife in his chest flood my mind, and tears
flood my eyes.
“Why?” I whisper.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
Beyond our cages is a featureless, white room about thirty feet in width. Flat
light panels run down the length of the ceiling, drenching the room with light. I
have no idea if we’re in the palace or a dome or a Chamber of Ministers
basement awaiting trial. I’m no longer wearing the silver dress but a canvas
jumpsuit with metal loops around its reinforced seams.
A shiver runs down my spine as I imagine straps running through them and
securing us to torture chairs.
Carolina once taught us that when imprisoned, Red Runner operatives must
remain quiet or say they acted alone. Betraying their organization and their
comrades will lead the Nobles to believe that every Harvester is a rebel, and that
will mean sanctions for all.
Everything I’ve seen of Vitelotte leads me to believe she has been sent to the
palace by Carolina. She executes attacks with precision. When she warned me
that Ryce didn’t have the respect of his mother and led a group of no-hopers, I
think she got that information directly from our leader.
The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Why would Carolina only
send one girl to the Princess Trials? Knowing that it was an opportunity to
infiltrate the palace and knowing that the selection process was arbitrary, she
should have sent every eligible girl within her organization.
My poisoning the guard who attacked Emmera only attracted the
Wintergreens’ attention, making me a last-minute addition to the number of girls
sent.
I stumble to my feet and place a hand on the bar, but an electric shock races
through my arm. When it reaches my heart, I scream.
Emmera raises her head and stares at me through bloodshot eyes. “Careful,
those bars are electrified.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “What’s happening?”
“When you were helping His Highness, guards stormed the restaurant and
brought us here.” She breaks into a sob. “I think they killed the chef.”
“What?” I whisper. That poor man only made the mistake of setting down a
knife.
Emmera wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “They shot
electroshockers at him, and bolts of electricity covered his body. How could she
do this?”
I turn to Vitelotte, who pulls her gaze away.
My heart sinks. Vitelotte probably thinks she’s making a sacrifice for the
good of the Harvesters. All she has done is condemn us and our families. I can’t
voice any of this because it will make no difference to our plights. Someone is
watching us on a screen to see what secrets we might divulge, and anything we
say will be used to prove our guilt.
As the hours stretch out, my legs ache from standing between the bars on the
floor. I can’t lean against the wall bars for fear of being shocked, so I follow
Emmera’s example and sit. Vitelotte does the same on my right but all I can see
is her back.
“Why did you do it?” Emmera stares into my eyes.
My brows draw together, and I wonder if she’s referring to putting my hands
on his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“You and Lotte,” she says. “Why?”
I rear back with a shocked splutter. If this is an attempt to throw me under
the tractor blades, it won’t work. “Why did I save Prince Kevon’s life? Why did
you stand in the corner and scream when you could have helped?”
“I gave you a napkin,” she whispers.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” I snap.
Emmera lowers her head into her lap and sobs. I turn to Vitelotte, who rolls
her eyes, acting as though we’re still friends. Right now, I want to charge
through the bars and tear out her purple curls. What the hell gave her the right to
stab an innocent man?
Nobody speaks after that, and the silence stretches out for hours. We sleep,
we sit, we stare at the bars, the walls, at each other, but nothing changes except
for the deepening of our hunger and thirst. Not knowing what’s happening on the
outside is a cruel form of torture, and I ache to see Prince Kevon.
I lie on my back and think about the rebel’s dilemma, a revolution tactic
Ryce once explained to our youth cell. If the guards arrest two accomplices, one
can betray the other and go free, meaning execution for their comrade. If both
betray each other, they each die and the guards might even find others in their
cell. But if they both stay silent, they might each get a whipping and return to
their families.
Carolina added that the rebels who went free for betraying their comrades
might live, but they would suffer the wrath of the Red Runners. I wonder if this
is why Vitelotte is remaining silent.
I lose track of time. We might have been here for seventy-two hours or a
week. It’s hard to tell when the lights remain forever bright and we don’t mark
the days. The throbbing of my skull turns into pounding blasts of pain, the
rumbling of my stomach turns to spasms, and the membranes of my throat
become so dry that they stick together. My heart aches for a sign that Prince
Kevon survived.
Footsteps echo from afar, and I scramble to my feet. My heart beats a fast
and irregular pace, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
The person who emerges from around the corner isn’t the royal torturer, but
a tall man dressed in black Amstraadi armor that clashes with his blonde hair and
crystal-blue eyes.
“Mouse,” I whisper.
“You three ladies of the harvest seem to be in a spot of bother,” he says with
a smile.
My gaze lingers on the leather strap around his chest. I’ve seen guards use
that type of holster to carry guns. A fist of dread clenches at my gut as I picture
Ambassador Pascale bribing Montana for the opportunity to televise our
executions.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He steps close to my cage. “Is that any way to speak to your savior?”
“I didn’t do anything.” Emmera clutches the bars and snatches her hand
away with a scream.
Mouse wags a gloved finger and frowns. “Be careful. They’re electrified.”
My eyes narrow. Something tells me he’s been watching us this entire time
or at least listening to our conversation while supposedly building a juvenation
hospital.
“Would you like to hear some exciting news?” he asks.
I gulp. Based on my few interactions with Mouse, whatever he’s going to say
will be part of a game. He’s probably the Amstraadi equivalent of Prunella
Broadleaf, and here to make the Princess Trials more exciting for export.
Despite knowing his intentions aren’t entirely benevolent, I nod.
“Ingrid Strab returned from the wilderness.” He spreads his arms wide. After
several beats, he asks, “Would you believe a Foundling captured her in the
Gloria National Park, saying that he wanted to hurt the prince by stealing his
beloved?”
“No,” I rasp.
His symmetrical features split into a grin. “Don’t worry, her purity is still
intact.”
Mouse steps back to watch our reactions. I don’t know if any of this is a lie
or why he’s sharing it. The buttons on his collar flick on and off, and two small
discs gleam on the epaulets on each shoulder. I guess he has at least three
cameras.
“Alright, then.” He reaches for the strap.
My heart flip-flops, and all three of us inhale sharp breaths. I take a step
back, my pulse fluttering in my throat.
Instead of pulling out a rifle, he reveals a shoulder bag, reaches into its
depths, and pulls out a bottle of Mountain Water. Droplets bead from its surface,
making it look fresh from the refrigerator. He twists open the seal with a crack.
I gulp and rub my dry throat. Why on earth are they allowing this man to
speak with us before we’re interrogated? Mouse drinks several long swallows
and releases a loud exhale. It’s the long, refreshed sound people make when
getting their first mouthful of water directly from the tap before the sun turns it
lukewarm.
“Answer this question for a watery prize.” He holds up the three-quarters-full
bottle. “Which of you have no feelings, good, bad or indifferent, toward the
prince?”
“Me,” Emmera rasps.
I turn to the girl and frown, but her eyes are fixed on that water.
“Congratulations.” He steps toward Emmera’s cage and hands her the bottle.
Emmera opens it and takes tiny sips.
“And now for the next question.” He pulls out another bottle of water from
his bag. “Who helped Miss Solar in this assassination?”
When nobody answers, Mouse opens his bottle and takes a long sip.
“I had no accomplices,” says Vitelotte.
“Wonderful.” He walks to her cage and hands her the bottle.
My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. I don’t know if Vitelotte is trying to
save us or just speaking up to receive a drink.
Mouse turns to me, his blue eyes twinkling like jewels. “How about you,
Zea-Mays Calico?”
“What?” I whisper.
He steps in front of my cage, and his expression turns serious. “Do you love
Prince Kevon, or have you been playing with his heart? Tell me it was all a
game, and I’ll whisk you where no one will ever cause you harm.”
I drop my gaze. He wants me to denounce Prince Kevon in exchange for my
freedom? This is just like the cryptic warning he gave me before the ball, only I
know what will happen to me if I stay. A brutal interrogation, and if Prince
Kevon doesn’t survive to get me out of this cage, I’m guaranteed a messy
execution.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Your beloved?” The smile in his voice tells me he doesn’t believe I care for
the prince.
I raise my chin and meet eerie blue eyes set within an unsettlingly perfect
face. The first time I met Mouse, I thought he was a statue that had come to life,
but now I’m thinking he’s an android or at least someone whose face was
modeled by an artist obsessed with symmetry. He tilts his head to the side like an
owl but somehow keeps his eyes fixed on mine.
“When I left Prince Kevon, his skin turned silver. They said it was the
nanobots,” I say. “What’s happened to him since?
Mouse frowns. “Do you love the prince?”
Queen Damascena’s threat wraps like a pair of hands around my throat, and I
choke on thin air. The white walls around my cage seem to close in on us, and
the lights shine brighter. The last time I tried to break things off with Prince
Kevon, she threatened to tamper with the twins’ vaccinations. Escaping with
Mouse will only lead to their deaths.
I nod. It’s not just to save my little brothers, but because it’s the truth.
Watching Prince Kevon gunned down after the ball was heart-breaking, but it
was nothing compared to seeing him stabbed. I’ll never forget the pulse and flow
of his warm blood through my fingers, I’ll never forget staunching his death with
my hands.
Mouse raises his brows with a nod meant to encourage me to say it out loud.
“Yes, I love Prince Kevon.”
“An unexpected response,” he murmurs. “I commend your loyalty to the
prince.”
He stares at me with intense scrutiny. The calculation in his eyes tells me
he’s no longer playing a game, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad.
Mouse reaches into his bag. I lick my lips, hoping he’ll give me a bottle of
water. Instead, he pulls out a bag of trail mix and slips it through the bars of
Emmera’s cage.
Emmera tears it open and sprinkles a handful in her mouth, then Mouse
walks to Vitelotte’s cage and hands her a pack of the same mix. She murmurs
her thanks and rips it open.
My stomach clenches, and my shoulders droop. Pride dictates that I should
remain silent and not beg, but I’m so hungry and thirsty that it hurts.
“May I have some water?” I ask.
“You may have a token of my esteem.” He sticks his arm through the bar and
hands me a small box. “A girl who wants to be the queen should always look her
best.”
Without a word, Mouse walks out of the room.
Vitelotte pushes her trail mix and water bottle through the bars. “Have
some.”
Her voice grates on my nerves. How dare she be nice to me after what she’s
done? I turn and meet her wide, brown eyes set within a pretty face framed by
burgundy curls. She looks so innocent and incapable of murdering someone in
cold blood, but all the signs were there. I just ignored them because the people
she killed were my enemies.
“How could you?” My voice breaks.
She scowls. “Do you know why I did nothing when those Nobles were
hunting you?”
“You said you were scared.” The words feel false on my lips. Vitelotte is
fearless.
“Harvesters don’t belong with Nobles, let alone with Royals,” she said.
“Prince Kevon sold you a dream, but at the end of the Princess Trials, he’ll
choose one of his own. You needed to experience these Nobles first-hand.”
Bitterness coats my tongue. If she had bothered to ask about the naked
footage, she might have gotten the chance to understand my friendship with
Prince Kevon. I exhale a weary breath and tilt my head toward the ceiling.
“Why did you change your mind?” I ask.
“Prunella Broadleaf’s trial was telling. Maybe she kept trying to kill you
because you were a threat.”
“Prince Kevon is the kindest, most noble person I’ve ever met. Because of
you, Phangloria might lose a sympathetic king.”
“Zea,” whispers Emmera. “What did that man give you?”
I open the box and find a pair of iridescent pearl earrings with clip-on
fastenings. Hope seeps through my insides, and I almost forget about my thirst.
Mouse might act like a creep, but he’s always offering me help.
I place the earrings on and turn to Emmera. “How do I look?”
She pushes her water bottle through my bars. “Like you just spent ten days
without food or water.”
“Thanks.” I open her bottle, take enough to wet my throat, and hand it back.
Over the next several minutes, Emmera shares her trail mix and water with
me. My Red Runner instincts tell me that Vitelotte is my true ally. When
Emmera wanted to ditch me, it was Vitelotte who let me ride on the back of her
glider. Vitelotte also rescued me from those murderous Guardian girls when she
could have walked away. I know all this, yet when I think about Prince Kevon
bleeding to the brink of death, I can’t bear to look at her.
“I’m sorry for always trying to get you into trouble,” says Emmera.
I stare at the other Harvester girl. Her blue-gray eyes shine with unshed tears,
and she forces a trembling smile through dry, cracked lips. Emmera’s hair hangs
limp down both sides of her face, and the roots are darkened with grease.
“Why are you saying this?” I ask.
“We’re going to die,” she murmurs. “I hope Prince Kevon survives. He
seemed like a nice man and didn’t deserve to be stabbed. I can understand why
you spent so much time with him. I should have been more of a friend instead of
allying myself with the Nobles.”
“At least you know better for next time,” I mutter.
It’s not much of a comfort because nobody in this society believes in
reincarnation. Maybe it was an option in the cradle of civilization when humans
built the pyramids, but there were thirty billion souls alive before the first of the
bombs struck. Nobody knows how many million remained after the slew of
natural disasters that decimated the world populations.
When we die, our bodies will burn to ash, and the ashes placed in recyclable
containers. Most families bury those containers in the earth and plant a seed.
Then the plant can feed on the earth and ashes, and the soul will become one
with nature. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s better than coming back as a
Harvester.
The footsteps return. I sit up, thinking it might be Mouse with more food and
cryptic comments, but General Ridgeback walks in, followed by Lady Circi.
My mouth drops open. What’s Berta’s father doing here? “What’s
happening?” I rush to the bars. “Did Prince Kevon survive?”
The general’s gaze locks with mine, and I stiffen under his scrutiny. He
points a gun at Vitelotte and pulls the trigger. Emmera screams, and a shocked
breath whistles between my teeth. Vitelotte drops her trail mix as she falls to the
concrete floor.
They both ignore me and stand side-by-side in front of Vitelotte’s cage.
When they’re sure she’s unconscious, Lady Circi places her palm on a bar, and
the front of the cage springs open.
General Ridgeback steps in, wraps a meaty hand around Vitelotte’s ankle,
and drags her out of the room. As they’re leaving, Lady Circi turns around and
fixes me with a glare. The look in her eyes says that I’m going to be next.
Fear plummets through my stomach like a lead weight. I wrap my arms
around my middle and resist the overwhelming urge to join Emmera’s
whimpers.
But one of my earrings starts to hum.
CHAPTER 10
Bright lights shine in my face, and beeping sounds fill my ears. I awaken
secured to a plastic chair. Thick straps wind through the loops of my canvas
jumpsuit, and bands of plastic also secure my ankles and wrists. I can’t see
anything beyond the lights, and I can’t tell if I’m alone in the room or
surrounded by interrogators.
My gaze drops down to my exposed forearm, where an intravenous tube
delivers clear fluid from a bag suspended on a metal pole. This has to be the
truth serum.
I try to raise my arm, to break free of my bonds, but my limbs feel like lead.
I should be panicked because I didn’t drink an antidote and there’s no telling if
the injection worked, but I can barely feel my pulse. Slow breaths ease in and
out of my lungs, and it feels like I’ve just woken in the middle of the night.
Someone shines an even brighter light into my pupils and announces that I’m
ready for questioning.
After some general questions, General Ridgeback asks about Berta, and I
answer with a variation of what I said to the Chamber of Ministers. Berta chased
after me, I ran, and we both tumbled down the mountainside.
“Where did you fall?” asks General Ridgeback.
“Into a sewer,” I say for the benefit of Lady Circi. When the queen hears this
recording, she’ll think her secret underground river is safe.
“How did Berta die?” The General’s voice is hoarse.
My heart clenches. At this rate, he’ll never get the truth about what happened
to his daughter. “I heard that she drowned.”
General Ridgeback asks several more questions, such as if I saw Berta in the
sewer, why Berta’s blood had traces of the Foundling’s poison, but I say that I
don’t know.
“So, it really was an accident.” Lady Circi sounds apologetic. It’s the most
human thing she’s said since she asked Prince Kevon if he loved me.
The General’s heavy footsteps recede across the room and a lighter set
approach. I stare ahead into the light, letting my vision blur. A male voice asks if
I know Ryce Wintergreen, and I tell them about having witnessed the death of
his father at the hands of a guard. Anyone who has checked my record is aware
of our connection because of the witness statement I recorded years ago. Ryce
was one of the last people to visit me before I left Rugosa.
“Did Ryce Wintergreen send you to the Princess Trials?” the male voice
asks.
“No.”
“Why did you volunteer for the Trials?” asks Lady Circi.
“I wanted a few days off work,” I say in a monotone.
Someone in the back of the room snorts. A door opens, and a set of footsteps
hurries out. I’m sure the person left to laugh. If I didn’t feel so numb right now, I
might have smiled that my lie was incriminating enough to sound true.
“Have you communicated with Ryce Wintergreen during your time in the
Oasis?” asks Lady Circi.
Unease stirs in the back of my mind. This is a tricky question because I’ve
spoken to him at least twice. If they catch me in a lie, they’ll just wait for the
antidote to wear off before resuming the interrogation, but if I tell the truth, it
will mean my execution.
“At the farmer’s market,” I murmur.
“What did he want to know?” she asks.
“If Vitelotte was falling in love with Prince Kevon,” I reply.
I should feel guilty for giving Ryce an even bigger motive for wanting Prince
Kevon dead, but the serum running through my veins suppresses my emotions.
Or it could be an effect of the drug in Mouse’s earring.
“Did you know anything about a plot to murder members of the royal
family?” asks the male voice.
“No.” It’s the first time I’ve told the truth in minutes.
The next few questions are about the murder I witnessed all those years ago,
and they ask me if Ryce ever confided in me about wanting revenge against
Phangloria for not finding his father’s killer. I tell them the truth. Ryce barely
spoke to me over the following years because I watched his father die and was
unable to provide the Guardians with a meaningful description of the murderer.
Eventually, one of the voices says that the serum is wearing off. The needle
withdraws from my arm, and someone drags me through the hallways and into
the back of a van. As the vehicle jostles and rolls me across its metallic floor, I
send Mouse a silent word of thanks. He probably doesn’t know how much he
saved me with the antidote and listening device, but I resolve to be nicer the next
time I see him.
By the time the van’s doors swing open and a pair of female palace guards
pull me to get out, I’m still drowsy and unable to walk. My vision blurs as they
walke me through an underground parking lot, through a maze of passageways I
recognize as the palace and into my room.
Light from the setting sun streams in through tall windows on the right side
of the space. As soon as the door clicks shut, Relief loosens my chest muscles,
and I exhale a long breath. I stumble past the velvet sofa and dining chairs to
reach the bed, where I collapse face-down into a nest of pillows and groan.
If they’ve returned me to the palace, I’m no longer considered an immediate
threat. I place my palms on the soft mattress, try to push myself up so I can turn
on the Lifestyle Channel for an update on Prince Kevon, but exhaustion pulls me
into a deep sleep.
Gentle hands turn me around, and soft voices whisper in my ear. Forelle’s
floral scent fills my nostrils. All this time I spent in the cage, I hadn’t once
wondered how my friend might be faring. She’s also from Rugosa and might
have also come under suspicion along with Emmera and me.
Someone hooks their hands under my arms and pulls me off the bed, while
another set of hands takes my feet. I crack open an eye and see that it’s only
Georgette. She’s wearing one of the white robes that hang on the bathroom door.
I drift off again and wake up to a warm bath and meet a pair of huge, gray
eyes framed by a shock of red hair.
“Zea?” A familiar voice echoes in my ears.
“Forelle?” I murmur.
“We’re getting you ready,” she says.
I blink myself into awareness. Firm hands massage something cool and
gloopy into my hair, and my nostrils fill with the scent of lemon balm. On my
left, a large close up of Prunella Broadleaf murmurs something
incomprehensible into a wall screen. On my right, is the rest of the bathroom.
“Ready?” I croak. “For what?”
“The Princess Trials is about to restart.” Forelle scrubs a brush under my
fingernails and scowls.
My breath catches. “What about Prince Kevon?”
She meets my gaze with a sad smile. “He’s still in the Royal Hospital.”
“He woke up this morning and gave an interview.” Georgette’s fingers
withdraw from my hair. She walks around and stands beside Forelle. “He just
wants life to go back to normal.”
My shoulders slump, and I exhale my relief through my nostrils. “How’s his
skin?” When they exchange puzzled looks, I ask, “How long have I been gone?”
“Eight days.” Georgette dips a washcloth into the bathwater and rubs at a
spot beneath my ear. She places the cloth on the edge of the bath and heads
toward the walk-in shower.
Forelle gulps. “When we saw all that blood on your skin and that silver paint
on your hands, we thought the worst.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t mine.”
The fog over my mind clears, and heat rushes to my cheeks. “You undressed
me?”
“Only down to your underwear.” Forelle’s brow wrinkles. “Sorry, but there
isn’t much time.”
The wall switches from Prunella to footage of Ingrid Strab sitting by Prince
Kevon’s bedside. Something about her looks different. Prettier. The camera
zooms into his paler-than-usual face. His eyes are closed, and his features are
more chiseled than ever. He reminds me of a lot of Harvester men his age, who
expend more energy than they consume. Someone has slicked his hair off his
face, making it appear darker.
A gasp slips from my lips. He survived.
The camera swings to Ingrid, who reads from a leather-bound book. She’s
either wearing a wig or the producers have softened her pinched features and
added several inches to her hair. Instead of the usual jumpsuit, she wears a knee-
length ivory dress with a matching jacket that looks like something from the
wardrobe of Queen Damascena.
Georgette returns with a carton decorated with pictures of coconuts. She
huffs an annoyed breath, stabs it with a plastic straw, and holds it in front of my
face. “Ever since Ingrid returned from being held captive, she’s been sitting with
the prince.”
“Why?” I nod my thanks and take the proffered drink.
The carton’s exterior is cool, and when I pull its contents from the straw the
taste of coconut floods my mouth. It’s sweet and somehow more refreshing than
Smoky Water. The cool liquid moistens my dry tongue and slides down my
throat, making it feel less like parched earth.
Forelle tightens her lips. “Byron Blake is desperate to present them as a fated
couple, separated by tragedy. That footage they kept playing while she was gone
doesn’t help.”
My brows furrow. “Footage?”
Georgette waves her hand. “A montage of romantic moments she supposedly
shared with Prince Kevon.”
I gulp my coconut water, remembering that pile of horse manure, which
included Ingrid replacing me in our near kiss at the fountain and my fight with
the hijackers. So much has happened since then that it fades into insignificance.
“Does Prince Kevon know she’s there?” I ask.
“They only let her in when he’s sleeping,” says Forelle. “Garrett spends most
of his time in the hospital, making sure he’s well-guarded.”
“How are things going between you two?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him in days, but we talk every night on
Netface.”
The girls help me out of the bath. My head spins and I nearly lose my
footing, but they hold me steady and walk me across the gray tile to the huge
shower, where there’s a stool propped against the tiled wall.
Thick globs of conditioner-covered hair fall onto my face, but I’m past
caring. A mix of fatigue, hunger, thirst, and the remnants of the drugs make my
legs tremble with each step. When I finally reach the security of the seat, I rest
my head against the wall and exhale ragged breaths.
Georgette rushes to the right of the bathroom and turns on the sink’s taps,
then she runs the bath again before raising the volume and returning to us. The
sound of running water and the Lifestyle Channel fill the room, and I remember
the servants’ trick for fooling the hidden microphones.
I’m about to speak when Forelle turns on the shower and drenches us with
warm water.
She kneels at my side and places her hands on my lap. “Sorry for not letting
you sleep, but this is important.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Georgette hands me another carton of coconut water. “People know what’s
really happening, and they’re outraged.”
My stomach clenches and my fingers turn numb. There are so many hidden
truths, I don’t dare to ask which they’ve uncovered. “What are you talking
about?”
“Someone leaked footage of the stabbing on Netface,” says Georgette.
My mouth drops open, and the straw slips from my lips. “Who?”
She raises her shoulder and shakes her head. “They saw you help Prince
Kevon when everyone else panicked. They also heard what the emergency
technicians said. You saved his life.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I stare into my lap. All the weight I gained
during my time in the Oasis is gone, leaving me with legs like a grasshopper.
Even the fingers holding the carton appear thinner.
“The nation saw how the guard electrocuted and punched you unconscious
on the street then dragged you into the back of a van,” Forelle adds with a sob.
“What else happened? You look terrible.”
I mumble a few sentences about being held in a cage with Emmera and
Vitelotte, but then remember that I stepped out of the restaurant covered in
blood. “Did people think I tried to kill Kevon?”
Georgette wraps her hand around my wrist and brings the straw level to my
lips in a silent cue to continue drinking. “The Lifestyle Channel said nothing for
the first few days and just played Princess Trials reruns. By then, the rags
reported the leaked footage, which made the Nobles scream for answers in the
Chamber of Ministers.”
“Then Ingrid conveniently emerged from her ordeal,” adds Forelle.
I stare at my friend and frown. She was never this skeptical before. “You
think she was faking?”
“Of course,” says Georgette. “They’re just trying to replicate what happened
with you.”
I slump against the wall and try to take in all this new information.
According to Georgette, whose family is addicted to the Lifestyle Channel, the
production assistants came under pressure the evening of the ball when nobody
could find Berta or me. With Prunella Broadleaf confessing to making an
attempt on my life, they all thought I was dead until I entered the Chamber of
Ministers with Prince Kevon.
My brows draw together. “That explains the huge round of applause.”
Georgette nods. “They made such a big deal about Ingrid going missing and
they probably would have stretched out the suspense for longer, but they needed
a distraction from Prince Kevon’s stabbing.”
I run a hand through my wet hair. “But there were so many guards searching
the National Park…”
Georgette snorts. “I can point out six of these so-called guards from my
theater school.”
“Actors?” I glance at Forelle.
She places a comforting hand on my shoulder and grimaces. “Sorry, but
they’re trying really hard to make Ingrid look like she was meant to become the
next queen.”
Bile rises to the back of my throat, and I clench my teeth. “Why did they
even bother to keep me in the Trials when they could have just sent me home?”
Forelle turns her gaze to Georgette, who pulls her brows together in a look of
contemplation. I gulp, and try to calm my breaths. What aren’t they telling me?
“Remember how I said that there’s footage of you saving Prince Kevon?”
asls Georgette.
I nod.
“That’s not all someone has leaked on Netface,” she says.
“What’s there?” I whisper.
“Everything,” says Forelle. “Clips of you and Prince Kevon falling in love
along with footage that could only have come from his Amstraad device. I don’t
know how they got it, but anyone who searches Netface can see the truth.”
The carton of juice slips from my loose fingers and falls into my lap. Cool
coconut water oozes out from the straw, and I lean forward with a groan. “Do
they think it came from me?”
“Of course not.” Forelle rubs my back.
I bet she thinks I’ve gone crazy. Anyone else would celebrate that the whole
of Phangloria knew about their budding romance with the future king, but these
videos could mean my family’s death.
I raise my head and meet my friend’s worried eyes. “Have you heard
anything from Rugosa?”
“A few journalists went to your house and tried to interview your parents,
but they seemed confused because they only watch what’s available on
OasisVision.”
Georgette walks around the bathroom and turns off the taps. I pick up the
carton of coconut water and drain its contents in several long gulps. This isn’t as
bad as I initially thought. Queen Damascena can’t blame me for actions that took
place while her security people held me in a cage, can she?
After giving me some energy pills, which taste like orange and fizz on my
tongue, the girls leave me to finish bathing alone. I peel off my underwear and
rinse the conditioner out of my hair. It doesn’t matter if everyone in the Oasis
knows the truth about Prince Kevon and me. As long as the queen outranks him,
I have to obey her to protect my family.
When I step out into the walk-in wardrobe, Forelle and Georgette are ready
with a hairdryer, makeup brushes, and an eggplant-colored jumpsuit they say
will look wonderful on my skin. I sit in front of the dressing table and let them
go to work, but as soon as they’ve done my hair and makeup, they step back for
me to get changed.
Forelle says she’ll order me some soup, and Georgette leaves with her. As
soon as the door clicks shut, I examine the wardrobe. Two rails of clothes stand
opposite each other from within the ivory cabinets. I rifle through an array of
outfits that include short dresses, long gowns, more jumpsuits than a person
could use in a year, and find my Harvester Uniform.
Tomato juice no longer stains the apron, and there’s no sign of the small
pocket I stitched into its side. The palace staff must have replaced it with a
replica when they couldn’t make it pristine.
Behind another door are shoes arranged in shelves that stretch up to the wall.
There’s no sign of the boots I wore during the previous round but then I give
myself a mental slap upside the head. I didn’t return to the navy barracks after
Prunella gassed the room, and I changed at the guesthouse.
“Zea?” Forelle knocks on the door.
“Coming!” I hurry back to the clothes rail and pull on the jumpsuit.
When I step out into my room, Garrett rises from the sofa, looking grave. He
wears an officer’s jacket, but instead of navy blue, it’s the same purple as the
one worn by palace guards. With his blue-black hair and dark eyes, he looks
more like a prince than the man I saw in the hospital bed.
I pause at the door and gape. This is the first time I’ve seen him since the
ball.
“Zea, I’m glad you’re well,” he says. “Kevon wants to see you immediately.”
CHAPTER 11
D ays pass and very little happens until early one morning,
someone shakes me awake.
“Zea,” says Georgette. “They want everyone ready for the
next challenge.”
I crack open an eye. Morning sunlight streams through the wall windows on
the left. It’s so bright that it casts the other girl in shadow. I squint to focus on
her features. “What’s happening?”
“The Royal Hospital just released Prince Kevon.”
The words hit like a jolt of caffeine, and I bolt upright. Cassiope stands at the
foot of the bed, wearing a green jumpsuit and her usual camera glasses. I stretch
out a palm, not wanting her to shoot me when I’m half-dead with my hair
looking like corn silk left out in the sun.
On my right, Forelle sticks her head out of the walk-in wardrobe. “Your
shower is ready, madam!”
With a groan, I swing my legs out of bed. My head still throbs from the time
I spent in the detention center, and my muscles still ache. It’s been days since I
last saw or heard from Prince Kevon, but Garrett tells me he was placed in a
coma to remove the device that regulated the artificial tissues in his heart.
I shudder as I walk into the walk-in wardrobe. There’s nothing I can do but
hope that this is the best course of treatment for Prince Kevon.
The lights over the dressing-table mirror make me squint, and my nostrils fill
with the mingled scents of coffee and curling irons. I trudge past the display and
step into the bathroom, where images from Rugosa’s cornfields play behind the
bath on the back wall.
A pang of longing strikes my chest. I regret not asking Prince Kevon for help
with my family and wonder if I could have turned to Garrett for intervention.
After peeling off my nightgown, I step into the shower and let the hot jets of
water massage away my tension. Sometimes the best way to deal with an
opponent who holds all the power is to wait.
I scrub at my skin with a loofah and wash away the remnants of the detention
center. If Prince Kevon is arriving today, then his mother will most likely
accompany him to the palace. I’ve got to be on alert and act like I’m carrying out
her orders.
This will be the first time I’ve left my room since returning from the
hospital, and my nerve endings tremble with trepidation. I’ve spent the past days
coming to terms with everything from watching Prince Kevon nearly die, being
imprisoned with his attacker, discovering the increased Harvester water rations,
to that incredible kiss.
Someone raps on the bathroom door, pulling me out of my musings. “Zea,”
says Forelle. “We need you, now.”
I shut off the water, slip on a robe, and join my friends. Most of the other
girls have a stylist, a makeup artist, and a lady’s maid, but Georgette carries out
all those tasks with Forelle as her assistant. According to Forelle, Prince Kevon
only wanted people around me he could trust.
Because Cassiope is recording this session for the Princess Trials, I sit in
front of the mirror and keep the conversation light as Georgette dries my hair
and arranges it into a high ponytail of long, mahogany waves. Cassiope asks if
I’m excited to see Prince Kevon, happy the Trials are restarting, and I give her
bland but enthusiastic answers.
The girls dress me in a khaki-colored jumpsuit with flapped pockets on the
chest and at the hips. Each pocket is held down by a chocolate-brown button and
belted just like the outfit Ambassador Pascale wore to the garden party. I stare at
my thinner-than-usual reflection and frown. This is a peculiar choice for
welcoming back the prince, but Georgette isn’t allowed to share the instructions
she received.
Cassiope escorts me through the hallway, and a blonde-haired figure walks
several feet ahead. A knot of worry forms in my stomach. This is the first time
I’ve seen Emmera since the interrogation. I tried to visit her room, but her lady’s
maid kept telling me Emmera was resting.
I give her space and continue down the hallway with Cassiope without
calling after her. Now that Emmera has left her room, there’ll be time to speak in
private.
When we reach the top of the palace’s grand staircase, the morning sun
filters through arched windows and illuminates a set of chandeliers more
elaborate than the ones that fell in the ballroom. I climb down, keeping my gaze
on the light fitting, which consists of dagger-sharp tiers of crystal. Ten-inch-long
prisms dangle from concentric rings of chrome, each layer descending until the
entire display reaches five feet.
My throat dries, and I glance at the pair of camerawomen at the foot of the
stairs filming my descent. Then my eyes dart back to the heavy chandelier. It’s
been ages since someone made an attempt on my life.
Two rows of contestants stand at either side of the palace’s double doors. Six
Amstraadi girls wait on the right, each clad in identical Harvester-beige
jumpsuits. On the left are five Noble girls and an Artisan. I gulp, wondering if
that means Paris Kanone, the final unaccounted-for Guardian, is still missing in
the National Park.
Constance steps out of formation and places her hands on her hips. She
wears a strapped-top with pockets at the front that exposes her chest and arms
and scandalously short culottes that show her knees. Her dark hair is slicked
back, with a ponytail of ringlets.
“Look, everyone,” she says. “It’s the agricultural assassins.”
I clench my teeth and curl my hands into fists. A hundred responses roll to
the tip of my tongue, but I hold them back. The camerawomen are recording,
and I won’t let them make me seem unsympathetic.
Emmera pauses at the foot of the steps and clutches her chest. The
production assistant at her side places a hand on her shoulder, urging her to
continue. I’m not sure if anyone offered her support since her release from the
detention center. Without my friends and my visit with the prince, I might have
gone mad from the ordeal.
I continue down the steps and stand at Emmera’s side. “Are you alright?”
She turns her wide, gray eyes to mine and blinks. “Zea?”
I lace my fingers through hers. “Let’s welcome Prince Kevon.”
“What if those people come back?” she asks.
“They wouldn’t have let us go if they thought we did something wrong.” I
give her hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on.”
Emmera inhales several ragged breaths before nodding, and we walk hand-
in-hand down the stairs. I ignore the voice in the back of my head that whispers
that she will turn on me. Berta did, even though we had twice fought side-by-
side. I might not trust Emmera, but I can’t leave her to fall apart in front of the
cameras.
We cross the entrance hall, where a production assistant ushers Emmera to
stand beside the Artisan girl on the left. Another guides me toward the
Amstraadi girls. I purse my lips and wonder if this is a deliberate attempt to
position me as an outsider.
My gaze turns to Ingrid, who stands at the end closest to the door. She is
dressed in a fitted shirt and fitted pants with the same oversized, flap pockets.
The three Nobles to her right wear jumpsuits, but Constance is the only
contestant revealing her bare legs.
Someone clears their throat on the left, and I turn to the half landing, where
Byron stands in a sand-colored suit. My stomach roils with anxiety as memories
of the Detroit Depression tumble through my mind. They’re ignoring Prince
Kevon’s demand for a safer Princess Trials and taking us somewhere equally as
horrific. And I’ll be the one who suffers all the attacks.
“May I have your attention, ladies?” Byron waves and grins. “Thank you for
your patience, and I hope you’re ready for this next exciting round of the
Princess Trials.”
Constance stamps her foot. “Where’s His Highness?”
Byron raises his palms. “We’re just waiting for everyone to arrive before he
makes his grand entrance.”
I glance down the rows of girls, wondering who might be this late arrival.
The palace round started with eighteen girls, and now there are thirteen. Two
Guardian girls are confirmed dead and one missing. With one Artisan dead, and
Vitelotte banished, only the Nobles and the Amstraadi teams are intact.
With a rumbling on my left, everyone turns for the opening of the palaces’
double doors. Two guards in black helmets and armor escort Prunella Broadleaf
past the cordon of girls and through the entrance hall. She wears a trouser suit
made from brown sackcloth, and the collar around her neck is missing.
As the guards close the door, the girls opposite break into excited whispers.
Maybe the viewers got sick of the lack of activities and petitioned for the return
of Prunella, who at least organized dance classes and sessions at the gymnasium.
Prunella walks up the stairs and takes her place beside Byron. The guards
who escorted her stand at the bottom of the stairs, and camerawomen point their
lenses at the front door and toward specific girls such as Emmera, Constance,
Ingrid, and me.
“Welcome back to the Princess Trials!” Prunella sweeps her arm to the side
and curtseys. “I would like to thank the viewers at home for all your support
during these difficult times—”
“And of course, the real purpose of today’s show, the arrival of Prince
Kevon,” Byron drawls.
Prunella’s shoulders sag, but she steps forward and beams. “We have an
exciting challenge for our remaining hopefuls. One that will broaden their
horizons and take them outside the Oasis.”
My insides tighten, and this morning’s coffee rises from my stomach to the
back of my throat. They must be taking us into the desert.
“Careful, Pru,” says Byron. “You’re going to spoil the surprise for everyone
and upstage the prince!”
Prunella falls silent, and a pair of palace servants wearing white ruffles
beneath their purple livery hurry to open the double doors and let in the morning
breeze.
Prince Kevon stands on the doorstep with Garrett at his side. There’s no sign
of Queen Damascena or Lady Circi, only a wall of guards in purple armor.
Sunlight shines through his dark hair, making its ends glow indigo. His skin
looks vibrant against the pale green of his lightweight jacket, and excitement
ripples up my spine and settles in my heart. He looks so much stronger than the
convalescing prince I kissed on the hospital roof garden.
The epaulets on his jacket emphasize his broad shoulders, and the flap
pockets over his muscular chest highlight his athletic frame. All the girls
standing opposite let out wistful sighs.
On legs that won’t stop trembling, I dip into a low curtsey along with the
other girls. This is the first time we’ve seen each other since that kiss.
Remembering the feel of his lips on mine and the closeness we shared makes my
head spin. It takes an effort to rise, and I have to splay my arms out for balance.
I’ve never had such an intense reaction to anyone, not even to Ryce
Wintergreen, and I long to speak to Prince Kevon alone.
He greets each girl individually, starting on the Amstraad side with Sabre,
the red-haired girl, before crossing to Ingrid, who laughs at something that
probably wasn’t even a joke. The closer he progresses, the drier my throat
becomes, and the more my limbs tremble. By the time Prince Kevon reaches me,
I won’t be able to form words.
This movement across the lines continues, and Prince Kevon reaches the
Amstraadi girl standing next to me called Tizona. She’s the ebony-skinned girl
with bleached hair. Sweat pools on my palms and I dab them on the fabric of my
jumpsuit. After Emmera, he’s going to talk to me.
I expect Prince Kevon to exchange a few words with Emmera, but he
murmurs something to her that makes her burst into tears. My throat dries, and I
strain my ears to listen. Prince Kevon wraps his arms around Emmera and pulls
her to his chest.
Tizona leans into my side. “Hey, Popcorn,” she whispers. “It looks like you
have some competition.”
I turn to her and smile. If she thinks I’m going to throw a tantrum because
Prince Kevon is being nice to a girl unfairly imprisoned, she clearly needs to
stop watching the Lifestyle Channel’s fake footage.
Prince Kevon releases Emmera and walks across to me. Affection shines in
his eyes, making my heart flip. If he kisses me in front of the cameras, all that
animosity Ingrid built up will have gone to waste.
“Zea.” He offers me his hand and presses a kiss on my knuckles. “It’s
wonderful to see you.
I bob into a curtsey. “You’re looking well.”
“Thanks to you.” The intensity of his gaze makes me wonder if he’s thanking
me for something other than saving his life. Heat rises to my cheeks. I also can’t
tell if he’s talking about the kiss or about giving him another chance.
“Your Highness,” Prunella gallops down the stairs. “Welcome back to the
Princess Trials!”
Prince Kevon releases my hand and draws back, while Garrett steps forward
and stands between Prunella and his cousin. I place a palm on my chest and
glance at the prince who stares at her with such fierce loathing that my throat
tightens.
As she reaches the bottom of the stairs, the guards in black step forward,
making her freeze. Her eyes widen with alarm, and her mouth falls open. “Wait,
I didn’t mean to—”
“Ladies and Gentlemen.” Byron descends the stairs with a satisfied grin. “No
matter how much you campaign for the humane treatment of Prunella, she just
can’t help overstepping.”
I place a hand on Prince Kevon’s arm. “What’s happening?”
He shakes his head as the guards jostle Prunella out through a side door.
“Among other complaints, the viewers demanded that Miss Broadleaf rejoin the
Princess Trials as a presenter rather than a prisoner.”
“I don’t understand why she’s not in prison.”
Prince Kevon’s lips tighten. “As the aggrieved party, Rafaela’s parents
allowed Prunella to finish the Trials before her execution. Despite my protests,
Montana agreed to this as long as she maintained a distance of fifty feet from
me.”
I nod. For a corrupt Noble like Montana, allowing the wife he discarded to
perform for the audience would be far easier than making his employees
broadcast the truth. I still don’t know how much involvement Prunella really had
in the murder of Rafaela and in the attempts made on me, but I would feel better
with her back in the studio.
Byron positions himself at the foot of the stairs. Garrett claps Prince Kevon
on the back and guides him to Byron, who apologizes to the viewers for
Prunella’s misbehavior.
“On the subject of apologies, I wish to offer two more,” says Prince Kevon.
Bryon leans back with an exaggerated frown. “Surely not, after everything
you’ve suffered.”
“Imagine then, the anguish of discovering the unjust imprisonment of two
innocent young ladies.” Prince Kevon turns to us. “Emmera Hull and Zea-Mays
Calico, Phangloria’s justice system was based on Gaia’s wisdom, yet it failed
when we punished you for being witnesses.”
I bite down on my lip, not wanting to smile in case Queen Damascena or the
Minister of Justice blames me for Prince Kevon’s veiled attack.
“It is corrupt, unacceptable, and we will do better,” he says. “When I come
into my power, I will dedicate my reign to making Phangloria a place where
everyone can enjoy Gaia’s gifts, regardless of their circumstances of birth.”
Someone behind us gasps, and I imagine it’s Ingrid or one of the other
Nobles. The unfair Echelon system benefits them the most, as does a justice
system where nobody cares about a person’s murder unless they come from a
position of power.
I dip into a curtsey and hope this footage will reach OasisVision. People
need to know that our future monarch is serious about making Phangloria a
fairer place.
Byron claps his hands and nods to the production assistants to also applaud
the prince’s speech. Emmera and I clap first, then a smattering of applause
comes from the girls behind.
“Thank you, Your Highness for such rousing words,” Byron says. “I’m sure
we’ve kept these young ladies in suspense for long enough.”
A production assistant gestures for Emmera and me to retreat to our places.
When we’re both standing in line with the other girls, and the applause dies
down.
Prince Kevon clears his throat. “I spent some time guarding the Great Wall
during my apprenticeship, which gave me an understanding of how Phangloria
expanded over the centuries. People travel miles across the desert to reach us,
and Phangloria welcomes them all.”
“Will the young ladies patrol the wall?” Byron asks with a nervous laugh.
“Not quite.” The prince tilts his head to the side and smiles. “Each of you
will spend a day shadowing one of the dedicated professionals who work in the
Barrens. Those whose performance falls in line with the principles of Gabriel
Phan will progress to the next round.”
I glance at the scowling Nobles. It looks like Prince Kevon wants to weed
out those anyone who balks at spending time with Foundlings. When he explains
that his future queen must commit herself to all levels of society, I imagine
Queen Damascena spitting with rage.
He, Garrett, and Byron walk past us and out of the double doors and stand at
the palace steps and pose for photos. Instead of reporters, two of the production
assistants stand behind cameras on tripods. They arrange us around the trio and
position me at the back with Emmera and the Amstraadi girls.
“Calico,” says Tizona. “Have you ever been to the Barrens?”
I shake my head. “Have you?”
She huffs a laugh. “Our republic is exactly like that wasteland, only without
the heat.”
My brows draw together. Her words sound familiar. They’re related to what
Ambassador Pascale told me in the garden party about not being able to grow the
seeds in the food they imported from Phangloria.
Before I can ask what she meant, the production assistants usher us over the
red carpet toward two vehicles: a large stagecoach and a smaller van that
resembles Queen Damascena’s mobile dressing room. Prince Kevon boards the
smaller one with Garret, while the rest of us board the stagecoach.
The interior contains only one row of seats on the left, and bunks on the
right. The seats are widely spaced with some of them reclining completely flat. I
pass Ingrid, who sits alone in the front and glares at me with a sour scowl.
Behind her, the other Nobles sit in pairs with the Artisan girl behind them.
I stop at the next seat, where Emmera sits alone.
“May I join you?” I ask.
She glances up at me with sad eyes and nods.
I slide into the aisle seat and lean forward to catch her eye. “Are you
alright?”
She shakes her head. “They won’t let me go home.”
“Why not?”
“It’s in the contract we signed. We can’t leave unless we’re eliminated.”
My lips form a thin line. We didn’t even sign a contract. The production
assistants told us to press our thumbprints on a computer tablet. I want to assure
her that Prince Kevon won’t let anything terrible happen to us, but even he can’t
have eyes and people everywhere.
Byron stands at the front and claps his hands for our attention. “Ladies, the
journey to the Great Wall will take several hours, so make yourselves
comfortable. One of you will breakfast with Prince Kevon, and the rest will eat
on the journey. After that, His Highness will invite you to share a cup of tea.”
“Who gets to eat with Prince Kevon?” asks Constance from the front.
Byron turns a dazzling smile to Ingrid, who shoots out of her seat. Groans fill
the coach’s interior, and some of them even come from the Amstraadi in the
back seats.
I reach beneath the armrest, ease open the refrigerator door, and pull out two
bottles. “Drink?”
“Thanks.” Emmera takes the proffered bottle and drinks.
A screen comes down from the ceiling displaying Prince Kevon’s departure
from the hospital. Even though it says that the footage is live, it looks like
they’re an hour behind real time.
The coach’s doors hiss shut, and I read the bottle’s label. This one says
CALM. I open it with a crack, take a sip, and let its cool contents wash away the
bitterness of the coffee.
As we travel down the driveway, the windows darken until they’re
completely black. Droplets of water rain down from the palace’s fountains,
giving me a sense of peace. We watch the Lifestyle Channel, which now shows a
montage of Ingrid’s visits to Prince Kevon’s hospital room.
Emmera frowns. “Don’t you care that Ingrid’s cheating? I’ve been watching
the Princess Trials for days, and they keep repeating those scenes.”
I shake my head. “They can show whatever they want on the Lifestyle
Channel. It’s not like Prince Kevon will decide which girl he wants on the
popular vote.”
“Zea,” Emmera whispers.
“What?” I reply.
“They asked me if you were in love with someone else.”
I stare into her gray eyes, and it takes a few heartbeats for me to realize she’s
talking about the interrogation. “What did you say?”
“They injected me with something, and I couldn’t say anything but the
truth.”
The knots in my stomach tighten. If the bottle Mouse gave Emmera didn’t
contain an antidote, what does that mean about Vitelotte’s answers? She’s far
too level-headed to stab a prince just to prove her love to Ryce, but she might do
it as a martyr to the revolution. And what on earth does Emmera know about me
that she could reveal to Lady Circi? I lean close, waiting for her to answer my
question.
She pulls on her collar. “I told them I didn’t know, but they kept asking if I
thought you were in love with someone, or who you might be in love with.”
“What else did they ask?”
“Nothing about the person who actually stabbed the prince,” she whispers.
“Only you.”
“Oh.” I’m not surprised they’re trying to dredge up things from my past to
prove I already have a boyfriend. Let them try. The only men I spend time with
in public are Dad and the twins.
Less than an hour later, the vehicle stops, and Ingrid steps in. All the
conversations stop, and Ingrid casts us all a triumphant smirk before returning to
her seat. Byron calls Sabre to take her turn for tea with the prince. The
Amstraadi girl walks out of the vehicle, and we continue along the road.
I glare at the screen, where they’re playing footage of Ingrid dancing with an
Amstraadi soldier alongside close-ups of Prince Kevon looking worried. I shake
my head at the pathetic attempt to manufacture a romance and wish they would
replay Ingrid’s disastrous first date with the prince.
Prunella Broadleaf stands in front of a screen, wearing her neck collar.
Behind her is a close up of border guards at what looks like the Great Wall.
They’re aiming guns at a crowd of naked people.
My heart sinks, and I exchange a frantic glance with Emmera. Is this how the
producers of the Princess Trials will circumvent Prince Kevon’s order to keep
the contestants safe?
“Why are those Foundlings attacking?” she asks.
Sabre stands over us, her freckled face splitting into a grin. “Those aren’t
Foundlings, they’re wild men. How much do you want to bet that our next task
will involve those cannibals? ”
CHAPTER 13
T he wild men’s faces fill the screen. They look nothing like
Firkin, the deformed Foundling I met in the woods or even
like the Foundling who worked in Carolina’s underground
watch station. Their features are completely human, save for the madness in their
eyes.
One of the men, a brute with a scraggly blond beard, bares perfect teeth at
the camera and wags a black tongue. Horrified gasps fill the front of the coach.
Dark red pigment colors the skin around his eyes, and the rest of his face is
encrusted with dirt.
Emmera leans into me and whispers, “Are they actors?”
With a frown, I meet the other girl’s worried eyes. This is actually a good
question, considering what we saw in the farmer’s market. Most of the people
selling produce were either Artisans or Nobles, and that manhunt for a
supposedly missing Ingrid consisted of people Georgette recognized from
theater school.
Twenty-five thousand people make up the Artisan Echelon, but what do they
actually do? Five-thousand Nobles can’t need that many artists.
I chew the inside of my lip. “Maybe?”
Prunella steps in front of the footage and explains that the first round of
nuclear attacks on America resulted in damaging amounts of radiation
poisoning. Some unborn children suffered impaired brain development, which
only worsened with subsequent generations and further nuclear attacks. In
certain regions of America, humans regressed into a wild state akin to an
advanced form of ape.
The camera cuts to a wide shot of hundreds of wild men gathered around a
spot on the great wall. They draw back and then rush at a set of gates with loud
roars. I place a hand over my mouth and lean forward as guards release a
pronghorn through a gap in the wall.
All the wild men chase after the beast, which runs toward the horizon. When
the group is out of range, an explosion brings up a huge cloud of dust. I shake
my head. This has to be fake.
Each hour of the journey, the bus stops to allow one girl to board and another
to spend time with Prince Kevon. It’s a fair distribution as he alternates between
Phanglorian and Amstraadi, and each Noble girl returns elated with her time
spent with the prince.
The screen plays Prince Kevon’s date with Sabre. They sit side-by-side on a
leather sofa, looking into a computer tablet. Based on their conversation, she’s
showing him pictures of Phangloria-style growing domes set up within the
Amstraad Republic. We can’t see the images Sabre shares with the prince, but
his furrowed brow tells me that their efforts don’t match anything in the
Botanical Gardens.
Later, one of the girls gets to eat lunch with Prince Kevon, and even later,
Byron selects another Noble to share dinner with him.
Emmera and I exchange irritated glances over a meal of steak Diane served
with mini roast potatoes cooked in rosemary and butter. Byron is not even trying
to hide his bias toward the Nobles.
After the dinner date, a production assistant collects our trays, and I slip the
steak knife in my pocket. A blonde-haired Amstraadi girl visits the prince next.
When she returns, Byron stands at the front and claps his hands together for our
attention.
“We’re about to reach the Fort Meeman-Shelby, where Prince Kevon will
stay overnight for health monitoring.”
Worry clutches at my chest, and I clench my water bottle. Did he overexert
himself?
“He’s not coming to the Barrens with us?” asks Ingrid.
“His Highness also has a prior commitment in the Harvester Region,” Byron
replies.
I turn to Emmera, whose mouth drops open. This must be related to
Vitelotte’s banishment. Meeman-Shelby is on the border of Rugosa and
Panicum.
“What could a prince possibly want in that backwater?” asks another Noble
girl.
Byron turns his gaze from the girl and doesn’t dignify the remark with an
answer. Behind him, the screen displays a map of Phangloria that tracks the
route we have taken from the Oasis. The Oasis is located at the foot of the Great
Smoky Mountains in a place that used to be called Sweetwater, Tennessee.
The map shows the old landmarks along our route, such as Nashville and
Memphis, Tennessee, which are both within the Harvester Region. We’re
currently outside the minor wall that separates Phangloria from the Barrens and
our final destination is Fort Worth. It’s located in the place that used to be called
Dallas.
“The next stretch of our journey is five-hundred miles,” says Byron. “From
now, it will be a non-stop drive to Fort Tyler for a shower and breakfast, then on
to the Great Wall at Fort Worth. I suggest you all get some sleep.”
As the Nobles all rush to the left of the vehicle to secure the bottom bunks, I
turn to Emmera. “Are you going to take one of the beds?”
She shakes her head. “What’s the point, when these seats recline all the way
back?”
The Artisan girl sitting in front rises to take a top bunk, but none of the
Amstraad girls leave their seats. I turn my gaze back to the screen, which still
displays the Phangloria map. The minor wall runs along the dry beds of the
Mississippi and Ohio Rivers and ends at the Baltimore coast. Even though the
Harvester Region takes up most of the land within the Echelons, the Barrens is
the largest mass within Phangloria.
Only fifty-thousand people live in the Barrens. Mom says they’re gathered
close to the Forts, where there’s a supply of food and water, but Firkin lived in
the mountains. I don’t understand why Phangloria keeps moving its borders
across the desert when there is already so much unproductive and desolate land
within the Harvester Region.
The screen turns off, and all the lights in the coach dim. I close my eyes and
wrap my fingers around the steak knife I saved from dinner, just in case
someone attacks in my sleep.
W ith all the people on camelback safe, Sabre stops the truck
a few hundred meters away from the gates to allow whoever
is shooting at us to get rid of the wild men. The sand around
the truck turns red with their blood. I swallow back my bile, wishing there was a
better way to deal with these people.
I force my gaze away from a wild man slashing through the entrails of a
female comrade and wonder if any other species eats its own dead. My insides
have gone numb, the way they’re starting to become when someone who
threatens my life dies.
Thomas whimpers beside me and flinches each time a wild man drops from
the vehicle. Some of his camels have disappeared into the distance, but others lie
dead on the ground, their broken and bloody carcasses dragged across the sand
by the horde.
“Do you have wild men in the north?” I ask no one in particular.
“If we did, they probably froze to death,” says Tizona.
“Some think they traveled south to escape the nuclear winter,” says Katana.
I rub my temples. Until now, I hadn’t given these strange humans much
thought. Bullets spray across the land, hitting a group of wild men who stopped
to feast on a dead camel. When a pronghorn bolts out from the Great Wall, I
squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the explosion.
Moments later, a blast sounds from far away, and I remember Gemini’s
explosive death and Berta’s cheerful description of bunny bombs. Despair
washes through my veins like sour milk, only broken by the roar of the engine as
Sabre starts the truck and moves toward the opening gates.
The marquee is empty, save for a row of helmeted guards pointing automatic
guns at the van. My insides deflate. What have we done, now?
“What’s happening?” Thomas’ voice shakes.
“I’m not sure,” I reply.
“But you’re the border guards.” His voice rises in pitch. “How could you not
know?”
“It’s probably decontamination,” says Sabre.
“What?” he asks.
“They do this when people come in from the desert,” I reply, remembering
everything I’ve learned today about the Foundling welcoming process. “It’s to
make sure you’re free of radiation and diseases.”
Thomas relaxes, but one of the guards opens the door and asks him to step
out. The truck’s back door opens, and the men we saved exit the van. There are
eleven of them, and their faces are obscured by kerchiefs. One of them points at
the van, presumably to ask about his bags, but the guard shakes his head and
guides them through a door on the left.
Somehow, I don’t think these people will be allowed to keep their
possessions, but that will be the least of their problems.
Sergeant Travis steps forward and guides us through the door on the right.
Instead of a blast of light and heat, there's a shaded walkway that leads to our
coach.
Byron stands by the driver’s seat and flashes his whitened teeth. The beds on
the left sides are folded into the wall, their space now occupied by about thirty
production assistants wearing sand-colored jumpsuits.
“Let’s have a round of applause for the brave team of rescuers.” Byron grabs
my wrist and raises it into the air.
Ingrid and Constance, who are already seated, rise from their seats and stand
in the aisle, blocking the camera’s view of our faces. They grin and wave at the
applauding contestants and camerawomen.
Tizona leans into my side and mutters, “What’s so brave about shooting
people from a tower?”
I snort. Before the Trials, I would have quipped that someone else did the
shooting for Ingrid and Constance, but at least one of them has proven herself
adept at killing humans.
When the applause dies down, Byron releases my wrist and lets us walk back
to our seats. Emmera stares up at me with a smile and hands me a bottle of
Smoky Mountain water. I flop down on the seat, so thirsty that I forget to check
its label. She opens up a large packet of chipped vegetables and holds them
under my nose.
Byron claps his hands together for our attention. “Those of you who
completed this challenge will progress to the next level of the Princess Trials,
and the rest of you will return to the palace for a farewell dinner before going
home.”
Sucking in a sharp breath between my teeth, I turn to Emmera, whose eyes
bulge.
A noble girl with a thick braid around her hair shoots out of her seat. “What
bearing does rescuing Foundlings have on the suitability for becoming the next
queen?”
Byron pulls at his collar. “I was clear about the rules—”
“When our guide asked if we wanted to help Calico and a bunch of Amstraad
drones save some Foundlings, he didn’t say the consequences for refusing was
elimination.”
“Villosa is right,” says another Noble. “This is completely unfair.”
Ingrid stands and places her hands on her hips. “Don’t complain because the
rules won’t bend for you.”
“You’re one to talk,” Villosa spits. “Everyone knows they’ve rigged the
Trials in your favor.”
The two other Noble girls rise from their seats and join the argument, but
there’s no sign of Constance Spryte, who has taken up the role of Noble
spokeswoman since Ingrid fell out of favor with her peers. They talk over each
other and hurl accusations—some of them dating back from when they were
children.
Byron tries to get them to return to their seats, but they ignore his pleas to
remain calm. The back door hisses open, and the production assistants not
holding cameras stream out and hurry toward a large van. I can’t tell if they’re
trying to escape or desperate to edit footage of what’s shaping up to become a
one-sided catfight.
I turn to Emmera, who takes several long gulps of her water. “Are you
looking forward to going back to Rugosa?”
She licks the moisture from her lips and exhales a long sigh. “Actually, I
am.”
“Really?” I reach into the bag of chipped vegetables and take what looks like
a dried piece of kale. It’s crunchy and tastes like bacon. My brows draw
together. The sun-dried tomato slice I eat next also has the same delicious taste.
“The Oasis people might have all the food and water they can drink, but
they’re miserable.” She flicks her head at the squabbling Nobles. “They’re not
capable of loyalty or love. What’s the point of being rich if everybody wants to
stab you in the back.”
I stare at my lap and ponder her words. She’s right to an extent. I think
Prince Kevon’s apprenticeship in the Barrens made him so different from those
power-hungry harpies. Being born into ultimate power also meant he never
needed to seek more.
A pang of sadness touches my heart. Emmera is the last Harvester girl in the
Trials. Now, it will be two Nobles, three Amstraadi, and me.
She meets my eyes. “What will you do?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Even a scarecrow with buttons for eyes can see how much they’re trying to
push Ingrid and Prince Kevon together.” Emmera takes another sip of her water.
“Will you step back and let him go, or will you fight for the prince?”
My gaze darts to the light flashing overhead. I think I have an ally in the
Amstraad Republic. Both Mouse and Ambassador Pascale have made enough
cryptic comments to suggest that they want me to win the Trials, and I’ve got to
see if there’s a way to neutralize the threat of Queen Damascena. There’s no way
I’ll broadcast any of these intentions to my enemies, but I also don’t want my
words twisted at a later date.
“You know what?” I pluck a long piece of chipped carrot from the packet. “I
want Prince Kevon to end up with the girl who’s both right for him and for
Phangloria.”
Emmera tilts her head up and smiles. I think she’s caught sight of the
camera, but she seems satisfied with my answer.
“Miss Calico.” Byron stands at my side.
I draw back. Apart from grabbing me ten minutes ago, he has barely
acknowledged me since he interviewed Forelle before our auditions. “Yes?”
“The coach will make a detour in Rugosa.”
Emmera leans forward. “Can I go home?”
Byron’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “A representative from the court of
Queen Damascena will meet you in Fort Meeman-Shelby with instructions.”
Sweat breaks out across my palms. That’s where Prince Kevon stayed last
night, but he would hardly refer to himself as part of his mother’s court. “What’s
this about?”
Byron shakes his head. “They didn’t specify.” His gaze wanders to the
squabble taking place at the front of the coach. “Excuse me, I have more
important things to do than relay messages.”
“Miss Hull asked you a question,” I say.
He frowns, not seeming to understand my words. “Pardon?”
“Can I get off the coach in Rugosa?” Emmera asks.
Byron waves his hand. “If she’s prepared to find her own transportation
home, she’s free to go wherever she wants.”
As he walks back to the screeching Nobles, Emmera leans close and
whispers, “He was better as Prunella’s assistant.”
I raise a shoulder. Byron might be incompetent, but there’s only been one
attempt on my life since he has taken charge of the Princess Trials. “He must be
here to make sure Ingrid wins.”
Villosa shoves Ingrid in the chest. Ingrid grabs onto the braid wrapped
around the other girl’s head, making her screech. Another Noble tackles Ingrid
to the ground, allowing Villosa to stomp on her head. The other girls join the
attack, and the Amstraadi girls rush down the aisle to cheer.
My head pounds, and questions swirl around my mind. What if there’s a
firing squad waiting for me in Fort Meeman-Shelby? What if I disappear? What
if that’s where they’re holding Mom and Dad hostage? I can’t think of what I
might have done to incite the queen’s wrath apart from my hospital visit with
Prince Kevon.
Byron orders the driver to open the coach door. Any satisfaction I might
have gotten from seeing Ingrid get her comeuppance pales with the gut-churning
worry of what Queen Damascena plans to do to me in Rugosa.
A pair of camerawomen set down their equipment and escort Ingrid out.
Emmera taps at me to let her watch Ingrid leave the coach, and I swing my legs
to the aisle. From what I can hear between the girls’ hooting laughter, Ingrid is
having difficulty walking. I tune out the voices and focus on the challenge
ahead.
An hour later, the coach stops at Fort Tyler, where Byron joins us for a late
lunch in the dining room. I pick at my food and tune out the other girls’
grumbles about how Ingrid probably got an even better room of her own.
We drive through the day and most of the night, only stopping for the
production assistants to bring dinner. The Lifestyle Channel broadcasts
highlights from the dates with Prince Kevon. While the Nobles flirt with the
prince, the Amstraad girls tell him about their struggles to grow food in an
Arctic landscape.
Their reporting of the last challenge centers on Ingrid’s prowess with the
gun, with commentary on her valiant effort to protect me from my own stupidity
at confronting a hoard of hungry wild men. I close my eyes and stop paying
attention.
Sometime after three in the morning, we reach Fort Meeman-Shelby, and a
production assistant guides me off the coach. It’s cool outside, and the moon
shines down within an indigo sky that reminds me of Prince Kevon’s eyes.
An ache forms in my heart as I walk through the darkened courtyard. It’s
hexagonal and covered mostly with lawn, unlike the sandy courtyard of Fort
Tyler. The assistant guides me to a private room, where a scandalously low-cut
dress lies on the bed.
Alarm seizes my heart. I spin around and gape at the production assistant,
who is already backing out of the room and wishing me good luck. As I rush to
the door, a key turns in the lock, but I try the handle anyway.
“Hey.” I pound on the door. “What’s going on? Let me out.”
I run to the window, but its fastenings won’t budge. So much for a stealthy
escape.
With a snarl, I turn back and glare at the outfit. The two strips of sheer fabric
that make up its front are cut so low that it would expose the wearer from
shoulder to waistband. My stomach churns at the minuscule skirt. On legs as
gangly as mine, it would land at mid-thigh.
With an outfit like that, Queen Damascena has got to be setting me up for
something scandalous. I lean against the wall and fold my arms across my chest.
If there’s a lecherous lieutenant waiting outside the door, I won’t go down
without a fight.
Moments later, a knock on the door causes my heart to somersault into my
throat. I glance around the room for a weapon, snatch the chair, and hold it in
front of me like a shield.
The lock turns, the door opens, and I charge on my would-be attacker. In an
instant, the chair flies across the room and the back of my head hits the hard
floor. Pain explodes across my skull. I kick out at my attacker but he’s not
hovering over me.
I struggle to my feet and find Lady Circi standing on the other side of the
room. She wears a black catsuit with a hip holster and carries only one gun.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” she says.
“What are you doing here?”
She pinches her nose. “You agreed to be present at the banishment of
Vitelotte Solar.”
I pause, not remembering having agreed to anything of the sort. Somehow, I
don’t think calling her a liar will help my predicament. “In that dress?”
Lady Circi raises a shoulder. “If you wanted to choose your own outfit, you
should have negotiated that with Her Majesty.” She snaps her fingers. “Hurry up
and get dressed before someone puts a bullet through your friend’s skull.”
“May I have some privacy?”
“Sixty seconds.” She crosses the room, picks up the dress, and flings it into
my arms.
I clench my teeth. Sometimes, it’s hard to work out which of them I dislike
the most: the queen or her lady-at-arms. I shake my head and change into the
dress. Lady Circi is gruff and occasionally unpleasant. Queen Damascena is just
plain evil.
After I change into the dress, Lady Circi makes me slip on a pair of high-
heeled shoes, then marches me through the fort’s angular hallways. Seeing as
she’s a general, the few guards we pass salute, but their gazes linger on my
barely-covered chest. For once in my meager life, I’m glad my figure is nothing
like Emmera’s or Forelle’s. This outfit is obscene.
I smooth out the fabric. “Why do I have to wear this dress?”
“A girl stops Prince Kevon’s heart with a knife, and you’re complaining
about what to wear for her pardoning?” Her brows draw together. “You must
admit that it was generous of Prince Kevon to spare your friend’s life.”
Prickly shame rises to my cheeks, and anger flushes through my veins. I
grind my teeth and snarl, “That still doesn’t explain this awful outfit.”
Ignoring me, Lady Circi places a hand on the small of my back and ushers
me out of the building’s double doors. It’s still dark with no sign of sunrise, and
only four jeeps are present in an asphalt forecourt that could accommodate
hundreds.
A black car waits at the bottom of the steps, its headlights illuminating the
space. The driver, a pale-skinned woman wearing a similar black outfit to Lady
Circi, opens the door.
She motions for me to get inside. With no means of escape, in a hideously
revealing dress, and under the threat of something terrible happening to
Vitelotte, I have little option but to obey. I slide into an interior that smells of
polish and settle into the leather seat.
Lady Circi enters and hands me a computer tablet. “You’re giving a speech.
Her Majesty has ordered marksmen to shoot Miss Solar if you don’t read exactly
what you see.”
“What?”
She turns to me, her green eyes as hard as malachite. “Do as you’re told, read
what’s on the tablet, and you’ll get to rejoin the Princess Trials. Mess this up,
and your regicidal little friend gets shot along with whoever stands with her.”
My throat convulses, and I tap the screen of the tablet.
The speech doesn’t seem too atrocious. It’s mostly innuendo about how I
convinced Prince Kevon to increase the water rations, along with a warning
against attempting to murder the royal family.
“Prince Kevon believes in making Phangloria a better place for all,” I say.
“That includes making sure everyone has enough water for drinking and
growing food.”
Lady Circi snorts. “What is it about men and naive farm girls?”
Irritation tightens my skin, and a barrage of retorts gather on the tip of my
tongue. If she wasn’t the lady-at-arms, wasn’t carrying a gun, and wasn’t in the
position to beat me to within an inch of my life, I would tell her exactly what I
thought of her cynical view of life.
I clutch the tablet so hard that my knuckles turn white. “Maybe Kevon wants
to rule Phangloria with compassion instead of cruelty. Maybe he wants to fall in
love instead of making an arrangement. Maybe—”
“Do be quiet,” Lady Circi snaps.
My mouth clicks shut, and we speed through the lamplit highways in silence.
Lady Circi reaches into a pocket behind the front passenger seat and pulls out
another computer tablet. I let my gaze wander around the vehicle. It’s similar to
the car Prince Kevon drives, except there are four seats instead of just two. The
driver must be important because she wears the same Amstraadi monitor in her
ear as Lady Circi.
I turn to the window and watch the cornfields rush past. The moon
illuminates the tassels swaying in the breeze, and my heart aches for home. As
the car turns down the road that leads into Rugosa, I twist around to Lady Circi
and pluck up the courage to interrupt her reading.
“What’s happening to my family?” I murmur.
“Nothing apart from the inconvenience of guards around their home,” she
mutters without glancing up. “Your father, on the other hand…”
My breath catches. “What?”
The car stops at one of the streets that leads to Rugosa Square, and Lady
Circi steps out. I scramble out after her with a question on my lips, but the sight
of the square steals my breath.
All the floodlights are on at full force, lighting up the giant geodesic dome
and the paved expanse that make up the square. Along three sides of the space
are more black trucks than I can count, as well as a marquee similar to the one
used in the first round of the Princess Trials. It’s also the same structure the
guards use whenever performing mass raids.
An invisible rope wraps around my neck and tightens into a noose.
Lady Circi walks ahead of me with rapid strides.
I wrap my forearm around my chest and jog after the woman. “What were
you going to say about my dad?”
“He’s another one who doesn’t know his place.” She turns to me with a
raised brow, and her lips tighten with what might be a suppressed smile. “He’s
wearing the guards’ patience with his endless questions, but they won’t harm
your family unless you displease Her Majesty.”
Blood drains from my face, and my feet freeze into place.
Sirens blare across the square and over the streets beyond. I glance at the
dark sky and back at Lady Circi. It isn’t even four o’clock and people are still
sleeping. What on earth is happening?
Lady Circi continues toward the dome without looking back. She knows I
won’t run away when the guards outside my home are itching to hurt Dad or
when not saying the words on the tablet exactly as Queen Damascena demands
will result in Vitelotte’s death.
I follow her across the square, past guards in black saluting by their vehicles,
and we step into the Rugosa Dome. Two people stand on the stage across the
wide, empty expanse. Mayor Shoepeg, a stout, little man with a bald head and
Carolina Wintergreen who stands as tall and as unsteadily as a cornstalk.
Ropes of resentment tighten around my chest until I can barely breathe.
Despite Vitelotte’s confession, I still think it was Carolina’s idea to murder
Prince Kevon.
The mayor rushes down the side of the stage and across the dome’s expanse.
“Zea-Mays, thank you for taking a break from the Princess Trials to introduce
the new water rationing.” His gaze lines on the exposed skin that stretches down
to my waist. “I appreciate the efforts you made to influence Prince Kevon.”
Heat flares across my cheeks and travels to my ears and down my chest. My
gaze darts to Carolina, whose glare is sharp enough to cut me in half.
“Welcome back, Zea-Mays.” She offers me a cold smile. “I trust that you are
progressing within the Trials.”
Lady Circi waves them away. “Miss Calico needs to practice her speech.”
The two Harvesters return to the stage, just as the first sleepy people shuffle
into the dome. I dip my head and follow Lady Circi up the stage steps and to
leather seats occupied by high-ranking guards in black armor.
I cast the senior Harvesters a wistful glance. That’s where I belong, not with
these Guardians.
Over the next twenty minutes, the dome fills with bleary-eyed Harvesters.
It’s about four-thirty, at least an hour before most people awaken, and everybody
looks confused at the early roll-call.
As thousands of people fill the dome, the screen behind us broadcasts the
floodlit square now crammed full of Harvesters. The pulse between my ears
muffles the blare of the Phangloria national anthem, and I place my damp palms
on my lap to soak up the excess moisture.
The mayor introduces me, and the crowd roars with applause. I gulp, not
knowing what on earth Montana has shown them on OasisVision. I’m shaking
so hard that Lady Circi helps me up and walks me to a wooden lectern. If she
wasn’t part of the duo holding the lives of my family hostage, I would have
described her gentle support as an act of kindness.
I keep my gaze fixed to the screen that projects from the dome’s ceiling and
away from the faces a mere ten feet away and read the first lines of the speech. It
contains a light-hearted greeting, an apology for the early start, and assurances
that they will make up for lost time on the fields with a shortened lunch break
and an hour added to their workday.
A stony silence spreads across the dome, and a shudder runs across my
stomach. Of course, they’re not going to cheer at the prospect of longer hours.
Whoever created this speech made it sound like the directive is coming straight
from me.
When I tell them that each Harvester will receive double their usual water
rations, the air fills with gasps, but the sound does nothing to quell my anxiety. I
glance down at the screen, where words appear that weren’t in the version of the
speech Lady Circi showed me before.
“In exchange for this generous boon, we require more. More hours, more
output, and more reporting of those who contravene our laws.”
My throat dries. This isn’t what Prince Kevon wanted. That water was freely
given without requirements. I want to shout this out to the masses, but the lives
of Vitelotte and my family are dependent on delivering this exact speech.
I glance down at the tablet and read the next words. “Phangloria accepted
your ancestors through the Great Wall on the condition that they contributed to
our society. They readily agreed to our stipulations in exchange for sustenance
and shelter. Most Harvesters have performed their duties, and we have punished
the exceptions.”
Every cord in my voice box quavers. Queen Damascena is making me sound
like I aspire to become a Noble. New words pop up on the screen.
“A Harvester who was welcomed to the Princess Trials planned a heinous
attack on the royal family.”
Whispers spread through the crowds, indicating that news of Prince Kevon’s
stabbing didn’t reach OasisVision.
“Bring forward Vitelotte Solar,” I rasp into the microphone.
Marching feet sound on my left, where a cordon of guards create a walkway
from the stage to a side door. Huge guards walk toward us, dragging Vitelotte to
the stage. She’s barefoot, covered in ashes, and wearing a sack with holes for her
neck and arms. A silver collar stretches from her chin to her collarbones, and
bruises mar her face.
I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a cry.
They release her arms and step back, letting her fall onto her hands and
knees.
Closeups of Vitelotte fill the screen, making people in the crowd cry out.
They’re the same sounds of anguish that rang through my ears each time I
received a whipping for attacking a guard.
Despair turns my insides to chalk, and my heart crumbles into dust. They’ve
twisted Prince Kevon’s mercy into prolonged torture. The computer tablet’s
screen flashes, indicating for me to continue reading—or else.
I clear my throat. “This young woman nearly condemned her entire town
when she committed a heinous act of violence against Prince Kevon. Such an act
would have gotten the entirety of Rugosa sent out to the desert from whence you
came.”
Shouts fill the air. There are so many voices, I can’t tell if they're in support
for Vitelotte or for her condemnation. My chest tightens, and my breath quickens
until only the barest amount of air grazes the tops of my lungs. I want to stop
reading, but new words appear on the screen.
“I pleaded for the traitor’s life and explained to his Highness that Harvesters
have forgotten the promises of their ancestors.”
My mind stutters with a new thought. What if those who came to Phangloria
seeking refuge did so after having seen the broadcasted images of the Oasis?
Why do the border guards tell Foundlings to leave their possessions behind?
Tizona implied that genetically perfect Foundling children went to the Oasis to
become servants. What if she was right?
Thoughts spin through my head, and I have to hold onto the lectern for
balance. Foundlings come here under false pretenses. The lucky ones get to grow
food for the Nobles, and those whose offspring reach a certain level of perfection
lose their children—also to the Nobles.
Spots fill my vision, and clouds fill my head. My fingers curl around the
lantern, and I force every ounce of my concentration into not joining Vitelotte on
the floor.
A slender hand wraps around my arm. I don’t need to glance over my
shoulder to know it belongs to Lady Circi. “Keep reading.”
“Bring the Solar family,” I murmur into the microphone.
The guards drag a dark-haired man about the same age as Dad, an old lady
with wrinkled skin and gray hair, and a young man clutching two infants to his
chest. The children don’t even look like they’ve reached their first year.
“Vitelotte Solar.” My voice cracks. “For the crime of attempted regicide, I
banish you and your family into the Barrens, where you will all serve out life
sentences for three generations.”
She raises her head, her face twisting with anguish.
The old lady collapses onto the stage, and the guards leave her where she
lies. Vitelotte crawls to her grandmother and cries for her to wake, but she won’t
move.
Rumbling shouts reach us from beyond the dome, and the distant sound of
machine-gun fire fills the air. The crowd surges forward, and a sea of angry
faces snarl my name. This is just like Montana’s daily quota reports, where he
pits Harvester against Harvester by making us compete for the prize of extra
rations. Except nobody can see that I’m not the person banishing the Solar
family.
I want to scream my innocence, but Lady Circi’s warning rings through my
ears. If I say anything other than the words written on this tablet, the guards will
shoot Vitelotte and whoever stands with her.
They’ll kill the grandmother, if she isn’t already dead. They’ll kill Mr. Solar
and Vitelotte’s older brother. And they’ll kill the babies in his arms. I’ve got to
keep reading because they’ll also kill Dad.
“While we watch the repercussions of one selfish young Harvester on her
father, grandmother and siblings, consider your actions. Those of you who spurn
our hospitality and flout our laws will no longer face punishment as individuals,
but as entire families.”
I gulp at the next sentences that appear on the screen. “Hours ago, the
following Harvesters condemned their entire households to the Barrens. Cole
Taylor for the crime of brewing alcohol, William Packham for the crime of
gambling, and…” My breath catches. “Ryce Wintergreen for conspiracy to
commit regicide.”
Carolina shoots out of her seat. A guard drags her across the stage and
throws her face-down onto its floor. She falls beside Vitelotte and the old lady.
Roars of anguish spread across the crowd. Harvesters surge forward, their
faces twisted with rage. The guards spray bullets into the air, but people continue
onward.
Nausea swirls through my insides, and the muscles of my stomach spasm. It
doesn’t matter how many guards they post in Rugosa. There are enough
weapons underground to arm every Red Runner, and I’m guessing there are
plenty of us in the crowd.
Queen Damascena has just made a fatal mistake.
CHAPTER 16
Later, Prince Kevon wraps an arm around my waist as we walk through the
courtyard. The first traces of sunlight emerge from the distant hills, but the sky is
a dark indigo, still illuminated by the moon. There’s no sign of the production
vehicles, and I assume they’ve already left for the Oasis. I wonder if Emmera
found a way back to Rugosa or returned to the palace.
A stout, male guard in black uniform waits for us at the door. When we
approach, he bends into a low bow. “Your Highness, Colonel Snath requires
your attention immediately.”
“That can wait,” Prince Kevon snaps. “Where are you holding the Calico
family?”
The guard straightens and draws his brows together. “I’m unaware of new
prisoners.”
“Did Lady Circi visit earlier this morning?”
The guard’s gaze darts at me and back at the prince. “To pick up Miss
Calico.”
“And to deposit her family,” Prince Kevon snarls, impatience lacing his
voice. “Do not for one minute presume that the authority of the lady-at-arms
exceeds that of the crown prince.”
The guard steps aside and lets us into a hallway, where a female guard rushes
toward us. “Your Highness,” her voice shakes. “Colonel—”
“Where are you holding the Calico family?” asks the prince.
“But Colonel Snath ordered me to bring you—”
“I will not ask you again,” he barks.
My heart somersaults, and the guard clutches her chest. I’ve never heard him
sound so fierce, and it’s a testament to how much he cares. I only hope that they
haven’t moved my family to another location.
Prince Kevon presses his lips together and exhales a slow breath through his
nostrils. “Whatever the colonel wants can wait. Please lead us to where you’re
keeping Loam, Oria, Yoseph, and Flint Calico.”
I shake off my confusion. Of course, he knows their names. He was the
guard who let visitors in and out of my room when I passed the marquee round
of the Princess Trials.
Fear flashes across the guard’s eyes. It’s the conflicted look I’ve seen on
people torn between following orders and doing the right thing.
I place a hand on Prince Kevon’s arm. “Maybe we should see what this
colonel wants.”
“After ensuring the safety of your family.” He laces his fingers through
mine.
“Of course, Your Highness.” The guard inclines her head. “Follow me.”
She leads us through the hexagonal hallway. Parts of it branch off into
smaller corridors that lead into dormitories, and one side passage is crammed
with guards lining up for the infirmary. I’m too preoccupied with the wellbeing
of Mom, Dad, and the twins to concern myself with the ironic justice of the
guards falling to their own chemical weapons.
The guard reaches a white door and presses her palm to a wall panel, making
a screen appear on its surface. It’s a bedroom similar to the one from earlier.
Mom and Dad sit on a bed beside each other, clad in their nightclothes with a
twin on each lap. Nobody moves for several moments.
Guilt squeezes at my chest. They look so small, unworldly, and frightened.
This is probably their first time in a Guardian fortress, and I can’t imagine what
they’re thinking. I’m about to ask if this is a still picture when one of the twins
shifts on Mom’s lap and wraps his arms around her neck.
“Did anyone explain what's happening?” asks Prince Kevon. “Have they
been offered food or drink?”
She grimaces. “I’m not sure, Your Highness.”
Prince Kevon brings our interlaced hands to his lips and presses a kiss on my
knuckles. “I will leave you alone with your family. Please explain that they have
the option to return home.” He turns to the female guard. “Let’s see what your
colonel wants.”
The guard taps a command into the screen, which turns white again. A
mechanism within the door clicks, and I inhale a deep breath.
Prince Kevon places a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
As he follows the guard down the hallway, I push the door open and step
inside. Mom and Dad stare at me with their mouths agape, and the twins slide
off their laps and rush at me.
“Zea.” Yoseph wraps his arms around my hips and cries.
“Those bad men took us away.”
I can barely hear Flint through his sobs.
The ache in my heart spreads across my chest and up my throat. I stare down
at the little, blond heads pressed into my body, and tears fill my eyes. If they
knew I was the cause of their troubles, they wouldn’t turn to me for comfort. My
gaze rises to Mom and Dad, who stare at me through haunted eyes.
“I’m sorry.” My voice cracks.
Mom is the first to rise. The rims of her eyes are as red as blood, and her lips
tremble from holding back her emotions. “What is happening in the Oasis?”
A dozen answers surge to the back of my throat. When I was young, I could
tell Mom and Dad everything. Dad was the first person I ran to when I saw that
guard smash the butt of his rifle into Mr. Wintergreen’s head. Mom was the
person who held me through my nightmares, even years after the event, when
twin babies kept her awake.
I shake my head. “There’s so much I can’t tell you.”
“One of the guards showed us that footage,” says Dad.
I gulp. Now they’ll hate me for condemning so many innocent Harvesters to
life in the Barrens. “Those things I said—”
“You and the prince in the hospital.” He glances away.
Shock hits my gut like a fist. Dad is talking about the video someone made
of my head on the body of a naked girl. How can I tell them it was fake when
even the Noble girls believed it to be true? I part my lips to speak, but anything I
say would sound like a lie.
“Zea.” Mom places her hand on her chest. “We’ve been so worried.”
“And they showed us the speech you made in the dome,” Dad adds.
My chest tightens. They’re poisoning Mom and Dad against me. Now,
they’re going to think I’ve forgotten my Harvester roots and become the worst
kind of elite.
“Is the prince threatening our lives?” he asks. “Is that why you’re …” Dad’s
face tightens as though completing his sentence would hurt.
His words shatter my heart into pieces, and I draw the twins closer. Dad
thinks Prince Kevon is forcing me to become his royal mistress when it’s the
opposite.
“It’s the queen,” I rasp, hoping she isn’t listening. “She’s sending people to
harass you because she doesn’t want Prince Kevon to choose a Harvester. That
footage from the hospital isn’t even me. We’ve fallen in love, and he’s been
nothing but a gentleman.”
Mom’s brows draw together. I can tell she doesn’t understand, but she nods
anyway and glances at Dad, who mirrors the expression. She turns back to me.
“Did he send that rice?”
“Did you eat it?” I ask.
“We thought it might be poisoned,” says Dad.
My shoulders sag. “Who knows what might have happened to it on the
journey.”
They exchange another glance and don’t look at all reassured. It’s because I
haven’t told them why they’re in Fort Meeman-Shelby. “Lady Circi brought you
here for your protection.”
“Supposedly,” Dad mutters. “I don’t know anyone who ever returned after
being snatched from their beds.”
“Do you want to go back home?”
“Of course,” says Mom.
“But there was nearly a riot—”
Dad crosses the room and places a large hand on my shoulder. The warmth
of his touch melts my tense muscles. After everything I’ve endured these past
weeks. I’ve forgotten how much I miss his comfort. “Whatever they say and
whatever images they show us, you are still our daughter. I won’t hear anyone
disparage you. Even when we believed our eyes, we knew there had to be a
reason for your strange behavior.”
“We brought you up better than that,” Mom murmurs.
All the tension escapes me in a long exhale, and I collapse against Dad’s
shoulders. Yoseph protests about being crushed, and Dad hoists him into his
arms. Flint grabs my jacket sleeves, climbs me like a monkey, and clings to my
neck. When Mom joins the hug, I finally feel like we’re complete.
We stand together in a tight embrace for several heartbeats. I inhale the
mingled scents of my family. It’s baking and cornsilk and home.
“What should I do?” I whisper.
Dad squeezes me extra tight. “If Prince Kevon makes you happy, you should
follow your heart.”
Mom draws back and nods. “Don’t worry about us.”
My lips part. How could they say this after I told them about Queen
Damascena? “But—”
“Those guards want to intimidate you into dropping out of the Princess
Trials,” says Dad.
“You told me I should make a deal, like Lady Circi,” I said.
Dad shakes his head. “She was the favorite, but I don’t think the king had
fallen in love with Lady Circi around the time she paired up with Queen
Damascena.”
“This is more than the love between two people, Zea.” Mom squeezes my
hand. “You could become the Queen of Phangloria. Think about the reforms you
and Prince Kevon will make and don’t listen to idle threats.”
“She’s serious,” I mutter. “The last time we spoke, she hinted at swapping
the twins’ vaccinations for poison.”
Mom shakes her head. “It makes no sense to act against the future queen.
Not when you can so easily retaliate when you come into her power.”
My arms drop to my sides. I thought they would discourage me and demand
that I returned with them to Rugosa, but even Dad wants me to continue. A
knock on the door makes us break away from our family hug. I hand Flint back
to Mom, and usher everybody to the back of the room.
I smooth down my borrowed jacket and pull back my shoulders. “Come in.”
The door opens, and Prince Kevon walks inside, his features slack.
Mom and Dad bow and curtsey, the twins offer him enthusiastic waves, but
Prince Kevon returns their greetings with practiced politeness.
I place a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my father,” Prince Kevon whispers. “He’s dead.”
CHAPTER 17
The intensity of the sun shining through the tall windows of my room tells
me it’s between two and three in the afternoon. Georgette sits on the velvet sofa
with a computer tablet, the ends of her mahogany hair turning red in the light.
Her usual waistcoat and pencil skirt is white.
As soon as our gazes meet, she tosses the tablet on the low table and rises to
her feet.
“Have you heard?” Georgette rounds the table, rushes across the room, and
grabs me by the hands.
“About the king?” I ask.
“The funeral is tonight.” She sweeps her gaze down my borrowed uniform
and purses her lips. “I’m going to dress you in something so dignified that
they’ll forget about that hideous outfit that’s streaming all over NetFace.”
“This one?” I unbutton my jacket.
Georgette winces. “Where did you get something so anti-Harvester?”
My cheeks flush. I’m about to tell her it wasn’t my choice of outfit when the
door behind us slams open with a bang. My heart leapfrogs out of its resting-
place, and I spin around.
The queen wears an ivory jumpsuit with a fitted, one-button jacket. Her
golden hair does nothing to hide the hatred seething under those pretty features.
“I thought the outfit was appropriate payment for her temporary dalliance
with my son,” she says.
The memory of Mom and Dad huddled together in their nightclothes, each
clutching a twin, races to the front of my mind. Anger simmers in my belly,
dissolving all notions of fear. There are no words to describe the depth of my
hatred of this woman.
Georgette dips into a low curtsey. “Your Majesty, I am sorry for—”
“Leave us,” the queen snaps.
Georgette walks a wide circle around the monster in white, scurries out of
the room, and closes the door.
Queen Damascena advances toward me with her hands clenched into fists. “I
ought to beat you bloody for not completing your speech.”
“It’s hard to read with cepa gas in my eyes.” I mirror her movement.
“It’s hard to believe that you can read at all,” she drawls.
“What do you want?” I snap.
She rears back. “Is this the way you speak to the Queen Regent of
Phangloria? I could have you executed for treason.”
Her bluff drifts over me like a dandelion seed in the breeze, and I glance at
my imaginary watch. “Do you think you could organize my trial and sentencing
before moonrise?”
She bares her perfect teeth and flares her nostrils. Queen Damascena might
have intimidated me before, but her reign of threats and terror ends the moment
Prince Kevon becomes the regent. She steps forward until the heat of her anger
warms my skin and the scent of her mandragon perfume stings my nostrils.
“Tell Kevon he must announce his Noble of choice during the eulogy.” Her
face tightens. “Anyone but Ingrid Strab.”
“But the Chamber of Ministers—”
“That group of fossils will not control the throne,” she snaps. “Choose
another Noble girl or—”
“What if Prince Kevon chooses me?” I raise my chin and meet her hateful
eyes. They’re bloodshot, more magenta than violet, and probably as fake as her
perfect nose.
“Then you’ll be Phangloria’s shortest-lived orphan.” She prods my shoulder
with a sharp finger. “I know Harvester girls are only good for picking produce,
but even you know I could have your entire family exterminated before Kevon
slips a ring on that scrawny finger.”
The fury in my belly roils. It fizzles and crackles and pops until it burns the
back of my throat with its bitterness. How I long to shove my knowledge in her
arrogant face. If Prince Kevon chooses me tonight, I will become the second-
highest-ranking person in Phangloria with the power to squash her like a ripe
tomato.
Her eyes narrow. “You don’t believe me?”
“Why do you think I can persuade Prince Kevon into choosing a girl he
doesn’t want?”
“Your father should be supervising cornfield nineteen around this time.”
Queen Damascena walks across to the low table and picks up the tablet
Georgette discarded. With a few commands, she makes it ring, and a voice on
the other side greets her.
“Bring the father,” she says.
My stomach drops. “What are you doing?”
“Demonstrating on your father what I will do to your mother if you don’t fall
in line.”
Panic explodes across my chest. I rush across the room to the door and fling
it open. Prince Kevon couldn’t have gotten far—his mother won’t give the order
if I’m not there to watch. I escape into the hallway. Two hard-faced women in
black jumpsuits step out from the wall into my path.
“Move aside.” I dart to the left.
Fingers thread into my hair. They pull back with a ferocity that burns my
scalp. The cloying scent of mandragon fills my nostrils.
“You’re going nowhere.” Queen Damascena drags me back into the room.
“Let go of me!” I thrash at her with my fists and hit her nose. The queen’s
head snaps back, and she clutches her face.
One of the women’s arms encircles my neck. My head jerks back into her
chest. Before I can twist away, she grabs her other bicep and pushes my head
forward. My throat closes. I can’t breathe. I elbow, throw back my head, and
kick at the woman, but she grunts and bears the force of my attacks.
“How dare you?” Queen Damascena’s violet eyes bulge, her face turns
scarlet, and her features twist into a rictus of rage. “I should execute you right
now!”
The woman holding me tightens her grip, turning the edges of my vision
black.
My insides are a lightning storm of thundering heartbeats and white-hot fear.
Loud, rasping breaths struggle through my collapsed throat. I’ve got to stay
calm. I’ve got to endure this to get her attention on me and off Dad.
Queen Damascena only threatens me because she thinks I can influence
Prince Kevon. She might order her henchmen to beat me up, but she won’t let
me die. Not until he has agreed to take a Noble bride.
I kick out at her shin. “Dowager queen,” I rasp. “You’ll go out to pasture
with the other cows.”
The queen throws the tablet down on the table and unbuckles her belt. “Lie
her flat on the bed.”
As the woman holding me loosens her choke-hold, I sneer, “Why, because
you can’t fight me like a woman? You’re nothing without your guards.”
Her second henchwoman, a round-faced woman with a brown ponytail,
punches me hard in the gut. She knocks the air out of my lungs, and it gets
trapped in my throat. The one holding me retightens her grip until I see stars.
I leap up, hit the second woman in the gut, use our downward momentum to
flip her to the side. My former captor hits her head, but her larger body breaks
the fall.
As I scramble to my feet, Queen Damascena kicks me in the belly.
I grab her by the calves and pull her off her feet. She falls onto her back with
a satisfying shriek. A little voice in the back of my head tells me to stop, to run
for help. I’ve done enough. I’ve proven my point, but the fury roaring in my
veins urges me to smash my fist in her arrogant little face.
Before I can land a blow, a large hand grabs my hair and pulls me off the
queen.
“Filthy mongrel.” Queen Damascena picks up a vase and hurls it at my head.
I twist, letting it smash against the marble floor.
“Stop this at once!” bellows a voice.
Everybody freezes. Heavy, angry footsteps crush the broken glass, and
someone slaps the woman’s hand out of my hair. I raise my head and stare into
the stricken eyes of Prince Kevon.
“Kevon,” the queen says from between panting breaths. “Your Harvester
harlot tried to—”
“Silence,” he roars.
Everyone, including me, flinches.
Prince Kevon helps me to my feet, his gaze flicking down my form. He cups
my face and stares into my eyes with an urgency I haven’t seen since our last
kiss. “Are you alright?”
Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my limbs tremble. He might
not have been so sympathetic if he had caught me pummeling the queen’s face.
“I think so.”
He places a hand under my elbow. “Do you need to see Doctor Palatine?”
“For a pregnancy test?” snaps the queen.
Prince Kevon turns to her, his face a mask of hatred. “I will deal with you
after the funeral.”
The queen’s eyes widen, and her face blanches. She steps back and claps a
hand over her chest.
He wraps his arm around my waist and guides me out of the room, but I grab
his arm. “Please, call off the guards around my father.”
His eyes soften. “Of course. After tonight, you will never fear for the safety
of your family.”
I exhale but relief doesn’t come to me immediately. My family won’t be safe
any time between now and the time Prince Kevon appoints me as his consort.
“Your Majesty?” asks a tinny voice at the end of the tablet computer.
Prince Kevon walks around the low table and picks up the device. “King
Arias has died, and I will soon become his regent.”
“Your Highness,” the male voice says. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Escort Mr. Calico home to his family and ensure they come to
no harm. I have already spoken to Colonel Snath about the protection of this
household but I will ensure that anyone who so much as harms that family will
face execution.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Kevon,” Queen Damascena rasps.
The prince’s eyes turn cold. “After the funeral, you will retire from the royal
court and live out your days with General Provins.”
Her face slackens. “But my father—”
“Made you heartless and unfit to rule,” Prince Kevon snaps. “It is a fitting
ending for the woman who caused my father and me so much misery.”
Queen Damascena inclines her head and walks to the door with her shoulders
slumped. Her henchwomen drop into low curtseys and follow her out of the
room.
As soon as it shuts, the prince pulls me into his chest. “I’m sorry,” he
murmurs into my hair. “I should have guessed she would threaten you on the eve
that I become the regent.”
I shake my head. “This isn’t your fault. I should have told you earlier.”
He slips his knuckles against the side of my face. “Do you need to see the
doctor?”
“No.” I gaze into his glistening eyes.
“I must leave immediately to mobilize people to protect your family.”
My throat dries as the queen’s mocking voice reminds me that she is still the
regent and can move against my home faster than Prince Kevon can protect it.
“Alright.”
He presses a kiss on my forehead and strides out of the room, leaving me
wondering if standing up to Queen Damascena will lead to their salvation or
their deaths.
CHAPTER 18
We tried our best to put you on the throne, but even we could never
have predicted that the man you shot from the tree was King Arias.
If it’s any consolation, your death will change the course of history.
Even the minor nobles will balk at the brutal death of a beloved
public figure.
Please take the strength enhancers. Fight bravely. You will be
remembered.
Whatever was in that water has numbed my reaction, but it looks like even
the Amstraad Republic believed in Queen Damascena’s lies. They probably also
leaked all that footage of me to NetFace.
I exhale a long breath and take a few more swallows of mint water, which
calms my nerves and clears away the remnants of my fear.
If I must die, everyone will know the machinations of Queen Damascena. I
moisten my finger again and pick up the paper carton. It fizzes against my
fingertip, making me flinch.
Strength enhancers. The fritters were pain-killers, the water has given me a
calmness and clarity I haven’t felt since the day I supposedly shot the king from
the persimmon tree. Ambassador Pascale took the first bottle away but left the
carton on purpose.
I tear a strip off the thick paper and place it between my lips. It melts and
fizzles on my tongue, releasing a mass of bitter bubbles. A rush of adrenaline
surges through my veins, and I rise off the floor, chewing mouthful after
mouthful of the carton. It bubbles and expands in my mouth, and foam escapes
my lips.
For the next several minutes, I eat the paper, wash its chemical taste away
with the minty water, and my confidence soars. My mind rolls back to the time I
stood at Gemini’s side and watched the Amstraadi girls’ practicing their drills in
the garden. Will this enhancer make me move like them? If the answer is yes, I
might just survive this stadium.
The bottle cap lies at my feet. I reach down and hold it between my fingers.
Beneath the opaque seal above the metal are letters I can’t read. I peel it off to
find a paper disc that says: SUICIDE.
Shock loosens my fingers, and the cap and the suicide disc falls to the floor.
The lock mechanism whirrs, and the door swings open. I drop down to the floor
and place a palm over what could be my only means of escape.
“Your turn, Popcorn,” says the same female voice from before.
Rough hands hook under my arms and drag me out of my cell. I curl my
fingers around the disc and scramble to my feet. My captors are two women in
black who cover their heads in masks that only reveal their eyes. I scan their
bodies for holsters, guns, or tell-tale bulges, but they’re unarmed.
“Let me walk,” I say.
“Suit yourself.” The woman pulls me upright and marches me through a
short hallway of white doors and matching, polymer walls illuminated by more
of those ceiling-holes.
We reach a metal door, and the woman on my left steps forward and taps a
code into a keypad on the wall. The door clicks open, revealing another woman
standing inside a white room the size of my cell.
“What’s happening?” I ask the new woman.
“I’ll be your wardrobe mistress for the day.” She holds up a jumpsuit made
of sackcloth in one hand and a gown made of the same material in the other.
“Prunella is wavering on her feet already, and you’re needed in the stadium.
Take your pick.”
I tighten my lips, wondering what kind of sick game they’re playing. All
three women close in on me, making my muscles quiver with anticipation. With
one punch I could—
“If you’re thinking of escaping, don’t,” says the wardrobe mistress. “Fail to
cooperate, and they’ll flood this room with a sleeping agent and drag your
unconscious carcass into the stadium.”
“Jumpsuit,” I snap.
As the other women unfasten my silver dress, I glance around the room for a
weapon. The woman at the door points her remote at the wall and brings up an
image of Prunella in a short dress made of sackcloth. Blood flows from gashes in
her arms and legs, and from a cut on her shaved head.
“What have they done to her?” I whisper.
“Short hair was a good choice.” The first woman sets aside the gown and
holds the jumpsuit open at my feet. “It helped her escape Scorpio more than
once.”
I gulp. “Scorpio?”
Another woman places a cup of water to my lips. “Drink this. We can’t have
you croaking your way through the execution. The crowd wants big, lusty
screams.”
I jerk back, and the woman huffs as though I’m the one being unreasonable.
Someone grabs my hair, holding me in place. “It’s only water. Now, drink.”
Throwing my weight back, I swing a high kick up at the huffing woman’s
wrist and kick the water out of her hand. It arcs through the air and lands on the
wall screen.
Her companion laughs and claps me on the back. “I guess you don’t need
any help. Good luck with Scorpio.”
I step into the jumpsuit’s legs, wondering if they were only just trying to help
but shake off that feeling as the wardrobe mistress pulls the garment over my
hips and slides my arms through its openings at the top. They’re getting people
ready for their deaths. The only people they’re helping are their Noble overlords.
“Scorpio is the name of the exoskeleton.” The wardrobe mistress rubs ashes
on my bare arms while her colleague slips boots onto my feet. “Only the
strongest of guardians can wield black zirconium.”
“What’s that?” I slip the suicide disc into the pocket of my jumpsuit.
“A form of metal.”
My eyes narrow. “It’s heavy, then?”
She chuckles and dusts gray powder on my face. “No spoilers.”
I turn my gaze to the screen where Prunella still stands at the foot of the tree
holding out her palms. There’s no sound, but her face is twisted with anguish,
and she seems to be screaming at someone on the other side of the camera. I
purse my lips. What kind of people would watch someone’s last moments for
entertainment?
The wardrobe mistress tells me to raise my head, so she can dust me with
ashes. Sackcloth and ashes are supposed to be signs of repentance, but my only
regret is the pain I caused Prince Kevon. I wait for the surge of guilt, for my
heart to clench with misery, but whatever was in the effervescent paper and mint
water has tamped my emotions.
Even as a hulking man in shining, black armor walks into the scene and the
women around me gasp, I feel nothing except for determination that I will not
fall at the hands of Scorpio.
The camera cuts to Scorpio's broad back, where the armor takes the shape of
a carapace of blinking lights that I suppose are cameras. He spread out his thick
arms that end in pincers the size of Prunella’s head.
Shiny bands of black metal stretch across his rib cage and around to the
front, imitating scorpion legs, and the armor notches into segments down the
base of his spine, which ends in a segmented tail.
He runs with mechanical steps over a landscape of dense roots that tangle
and stretch over turquoise water. The trees attached to them grow at odd angles,
and there isn’t a scrap of land apart from what’s created by the roots.
“He’s going to end Prunella.” The wardrobe mistress clasps her hands to her
face and dirties her mask with gray powder.
“No.” One of the women hides her face with her hands and peeps at the
screen through parted fingers. “I can’t watch.”
I turn my gaze to the camera. Prunella was no friend. She killed an innocent
girl, injured eight contestants, and executed Gemini Pixel, but even she deserves
a witness who isn’t watching out of some sick sense of entertainment.
A side shot of them appears on the screen. Scorpio wraps a claw around her
neck and raises her to eye level. His tail lengthens and curls into a stinger the
size of a large gourd. With one twist of his wrist, Prunella becomes limp.
The trio of women exchange dissatisfied glances.
“That’s it?” says the one who hid behind her hands. “I thought Scorpio
would pull off her head or… I don’t know, do something spectacularly
explosive.”
The third woman’s eyes slide toward me, and the apples of her cheeks rise
beneath her black mask. “Maybe they’re saving his best moves for the next
victim.”
I shoot her a venomous look, and she darts her gaze toward the wall.
A close-up of Prunella's face replays on the screen. She leans back, her eyes
bulging, and her nostrils flared. The corners of her lips curl down in a scream
that exposes her top row of teeth, and her wide face curls into a mask of horror.
She moves slower than usual, making me think that the producers want
people to savor her death. I turn my gaze away and clench my teeth. One day, I
hope Queen Damascena will know what it is to feel such terror.
After a few repeats of Prunella’s death, the camera cuts to a full-body shot of
Byron Blake standing at the edge of a pool underneath another of those trees
whose roots snake across the water. He wears green overalls that ride up to his
chest with a lightweight jacket underneath and a hat in the same fabric.
The wardrobe mistress bounces up and down on the balls of her feet.
“They’re about to announce the next victim.”
Facing the door at the other end of the dressing room, I pull back my
shoulders, straighten my spine, and curl my hands into fists.
It’s time.
One of the women rears back. “Who on earth is that?”
I turn to the screen. A pair of women in black masks drag a short blonde
toward Byron. She struggles against their grip, keeping her head down. This new
victim doesn’t wear sackcloth like Prunella did or me, but a Harvester uniform
with a full apron.
One of the women in black forces the Harvester’s head up, and aquamarine
eyes stare into the camera within a face twisted with terror.
It’s Mom.
CHAPTER 22
I’m lying on my side on a smooth surface that won’t stop vibrating. It feels
like the faint rumbling of an electric motor. I groan in the back of my throat.
They’re moving me somewhere else.
A booted foot turns me on my back and gives me a sharp kick in the ribs.
Flinching, I open my eyes and stare not at light streaming through ventilation
holes, but at chandeliers.
Memories rush to my consciousness like a sandstorm. I suck in a breath,
waiting for the deluge of grief. Nothing happens. I exhale, push myself up to my
elbows, and stare at the metal back doors of Queen Damascena’s mobile
dressing room.
“Accurate as ever,” the queen says from behind. “She awoke just in time.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” a female voice simpers.
I scramble onto my hands and knees, and back toward the door. Queen
Damascena and Dr. Ridgeback sit on adjacent leather armchairs, each holding a
glass of champagne.
On the left, the doctor wears her usual white coat with her ash-blonde hair
tied back. Apart from her coloring, I can’t see anything of Berta in her cold
features. The queen wears a pink jacket with a high collar that zips up at the
front and maching pants that flare out at the knees. Her blonde hair lies flat
against the sides of her cruel face and curls inward at the ends. I can’t imagine
how she finds time to stay elegant in between acts of unimaginable inhumanity.
“What have you done?” I place a hand over the needle mark on my neck.
“The first shot was a sedative and the second, a suppressant for those who
need to persevere through times of stress,” says the doctor. “It will wear off in
three hours.”
“Why?” I rasp.
Queen Damascena places her champagne glass on the side table and picks up
another. “So you can make a coherent confession.”
My gaze darts around the mobile dressing room. It’s just closets down the
right side and on the left, a vast table of uneaten snacks. Lady Circi isn’t here
and neither is the blonde servant from before.
What did they do with Mom and the twins? “Where’s my—”
The queen stamps her foot and sharpens my focus back onto her. “Listen to
me, Zea-Mays Calico. The life of your mother and twin brothers are in my
hands. If you wish to save them, you will listen to me.”
My throat spasms, but I think it’s some sort of muscle memory reaction to a
threat. A comment like this should generate a wave of fear or fury, but I feel
absolutely nothing. It’s not the same numb shock as before or the determination I
felt from the ambassador’s drugs. This is an emotionless void.
For the next few moments, Queen Damascena stares down at me with rapt
attention, her fingers steepled in front of her mouth. It’s as though she’s savoring
the sight of me cowering on the floor of her van, having lost my home, my
father, my fiancé, my freedom, and possibly my family.
I hold her gaze and wonder why the queen needs to go to such despicable
lengths when she has everything.
But she doesn’t. King Arias preferred someone else and likely only married
her as a bargain to stay close to Lady Circi. Her son wants to confine her to the
home of a father she loathes, and the Chamber of Ministers treated her like a
joke the moment she lost her power.
Queen Damascena can’t command any respect without threats and murder. I
know it. She knows it, and everyone in power knows it.
She exhales a satisfied breath and relaxes into her seat. “Your entire family is
back in the stadium, waiting for a technician to repair Scorpio’s extensive
damage.”
A breath catches in the back of my throat. “Dad’s alive?”
Queen Damascena raises a brow but doesn’t reply. The wretched woman is
trying to draw out the suspense.
I hold her gaze, not reacting until her superior expression fades.
“Scorpio is the name of the machinery,” she says. “How many fathers have
you killed now?”
Dr. Ridgeback forces a laugh. “Three.”
The third is Mr. Wintergreen. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of my
mind, my heart sinks. While Mom wouldn’t hold a nine-year-old responsible for
failing to rescue an adult, these two supposed mothers use that event as a
weapon.
The queen smirks. “By the way, your mother cries like a constipated cow.”
My jaw clenches and I curl my fists, but there's no surge of anger. At least
Mom has emotions. Mom never had to bargain for a husband, and she actually
loves her children, unlike this monster.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Your confession.” She draws her head back and stares at me through
narrowed eyes. “I want you to appear on camera and tell Phangloria how you
joined the Princess Trials to stage a revolution, seduced my son into wasting
precious water on your greedy Echelon, poisoned King Arias, and ordered your
Red Runner comrade to assassinate my son.”
“What?”
“It’s the truth.” Queen Damascena sips her champagne and smirks. “If you
don’t, the next Scorpio will kill the rest of your family.”
My shoulders slump. I can’t let Mom and the twins go through any more
torment. “What happens to them if I say those things you want?”
“They’ll live a life of obscurity in the Barrens, where they belong,” replies
the queen.
“How do I know you won’t kill them?” I ask.
Her smile widens. “You don’t.”
I clench my teeth and fill my lungs with air. She won’t even let me feel the
unfairness of my predicament. This is what the Nobles have wanted all along—
an army of uncomplaining Harvesters slaving on the barest of rations for their
benefit. We’re not even human to these monsters, and Queen Damascena resents
me for capturing the heart of her son.
“Alright,” I croak.
“Splendid.” The queen claps her hands together. “Lady-at-arms, help Miss
Calico into her old Harvester uniform.”
Dr. Ridgeback rises, her cold, gray eyes promising a lifetime of torment.
“When the suppressant wears off, you’ll feel a fraction of the anguish you
caused me when you killed my daughter.”
Is there any point in denying what these women know to be true? Queen
Damascena has footage of Ingrid promising Berta the position of Lady-at-arms
in exchange for my death. Berta left the vehicle and drowned in the very
chamber where I bled from the dagger she plunged into my back. The only
reason I’m not in trouble for Berta’s death is because Queen Damascena has
already framed me for regicide.
“Berta tried to kill me.” I say.
“That one is full of excuses.” The queen reaches for a side-table, picks up her
computer tablet, and taps the screen. “She acts as though the life of a Harvester
is of equal value to that of poor Alberta.”
I can’t even feel the sting of her words. “Where’s Lady Circi?”
Queen Damascena gazes at her outstretched fingers and yawns. “Her
services are no longer required.”
“You killed her too?”
She snorts.
I wait for her to elaborate, but she continues drinking her champagne. Dr.
Ridgeback shoves a box in my hands that contains my Harvester uniform,
complete with the tomato-stained apron. Unfortunately, they’ve taken away my
poisoned darts.
The doctor walks around to my back, pulls down the zip of my jumpsuit, and
channels her resentment into yanking the fabric off my shoulders.
I step away from her and clutch the box to my chest. “I can dress myself.”
Dr. Ridgeback glances at Queen Damascena for approval before returning to
the leather armchair and picking up the champagne.
I lean my back against a closet door and ease my arms out of the jumpsuit.
Both women watch me in silence as though there’s nothing to entertain them on
NetFace. Something hums on the table next to the queen. It’s a printer spitting
out card after card of words.
Holding the edges of the jumpsuit to my underarms, I pull out my Harvester
tunic and ease it over my head and shoulders without revealing an inch of my
underwear. The entire process of dressing takes three times longer than usual.
When I’ve finished, the queen orders me to braid my hair into pigtails.
Later, she throws the cards across the floor and leans back into her seat.
“Memorize these phrases.”
“What are they for?” I pick them up.
“Your confession will be live. You only have one chance to get the words
right.” She leans forward, catches a card coming out of a printer, and flings it
across the van.
The card lands on my chest, and I grimace at its contents. “Do I have to say
these things about Prince Kevon to the whole of Phangloria?”
“My son needs to understand that Harvesters are trained coyotes that always
bite their masters.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Sure, they’ll lick your fingers,
perform their duties, and sleep at the foot of your bed, but one moment of
inaction, and they’ll attack like wolves.”
“Is that what you believe?” I ask.
Queen Damascena rolls her eyes and holds up her tablet. “Do you need a
demonstration?”
“No.” She probably has a band of coyotes in that stadium, ready to prove her
point at the expense of my family. I shuffle the cards, reading their hateful
contents. “I’ll say exactly what you want.”
The van stops, and the queen makes me practice my confession until she’s
satisfied with my words. I now understand why she ordered Dr. Ridgeback to
inject me with an emotion suppressant. There’s enough truth in my claims to
convince Prince Kevon that I really did set out to murder him and take his throne
and enough dangerous lies to make me crumple to the floor and weep.
Queen Damascena flicks her wrist, ordering Dr. Ridgeback to stand. The
other woman walks to the van’s door and turns the handle, letting in the morning
sun.
I squint into the light, not knowing how much time has passed since I killed
Dad, if the rest of my family is still alive, or if my words will turn them into the
most despised people in Phangloria.
The queen shoos me out of the van, and I step out into the front of the Royal
Hospital.
A breath catches in the back of my throat, and I turn to the excited queen.
“Why am I making my confession here?”
“My son is convalescing from his heart attack brought on by the shock of
your betrayal.” She loops her arm through mine. “You’re going to convince him
that everything I uncovered was true.”
Queen Damascena marches me through the hospital’s automatic doors and
into a cool, vast lobby shaped like a dome sliced in half. Thirty feet from the
entrance, climbing plants grow from tall flower beds that surround the reception
area, and escalators on both sides of the reception carry hospital staff up to a
mezzanine. The top of the half-dome consists of transparent, triangular windows
that let in the sun but not the heat.
The area beneath the mezzanine is sectioned into large booths, where Nobles
sit with white-coated professionals for hair styling, nail maintenance, and
electrically charged facial treatments I can’t even begin to describe.
As we pass the escalators, Nobles incline their heads and murmur greetings
to the queen, but nobody stops to crowd her. I wonder if that’s because the
hospital only caters for the top tiers of their Echelon.
That suppressant must be wearing off, but the thought of saying those
terrible things to Prince Kevon makes my stomach clench and churn.
Queen Damascena glances down at my rumbling belly and sniffs. “If you’re
hungry, you should have eaten in the van.”
There’s no answer to a comment like that. Instead, I stare straight ahead at
Dr. Ridgeback, who stops at an elevator manned by guards in white. They bow
and step aside to let us in.
As soon as the elevator doors shut, Queen Damascena releases me with a
hard shove and brushes imaginary dust off her arm.
Sweat gathers on my brow. My stomach clenches in time with the
palpitations of my heart, making sharp pains shoot through my insides. Sweat
beads on my brow, and my fingers tremble.
I lean forward and clutch my belly. “Why can’t I say these things to the
camera?”
“What difference does it make? In an hour, you’ll never see him again.” Her
violet eyes rove my face with a moue of disgust, then she turns to the doctor.
“What’s wrong with her? I thought you said this suppressant would stop the
crocodile tears.”
The doctor frowns. “I gave her the maximum tolerated dose, Your Majesty.”
The queen’s mouth goes slack, and she stares at her new lady-at-arms as
though she can’t believe anyone could be so merciful.
Dr. Ridgeback reaches into her bag and pulls out a hypodermic needle.
Forcing myself to straighten, I raise both hands. “Please. I’ll say what you
want. Just don’t give me any more of that drug.”
The doctor glances at the queen for permission, who smiles and waves her
away.
When the elevator doors open, Queen Damascena steps out into a hallway
lined with armed guards. I wait for Dr. Ridgeback to exit, not wanting her and
her hypodermic needle at my back.
I should press the button on the steel wall and command the elevator to
return me to the ground floor, but Dad’s unseeing eyes fill my mind. I’ve already
learned the painful lesson of disobeying the queen.
Instead, I walk through the cordon of guards and wonder if this hospital
room will become Prince Kevon’s prison. With the Chamber of Ministers
believing that he has proposed marriage to a rebel and an assassin, I can't see
anyone coming to his rescue.
Two female guards at the front wearing black masks underneath their
helmets step aside to let us into his room.
I take two steps inside and gape. The room isn’t as spacious as the one Prince
Kevon occupied after Vitelotte stabbed him, but floor-to-ceiling windows on the
left offer a far-reaching view of the Oasis, including King Arias’ giant solar
trees.
Eight Noble girls sit in silence at his bedside. I don’t recognize any of them
except for the short-haired girl whose chair is next to the footboard. I look away
from Ingrid and rest my gaze to the top of the bed, where a paler-than-usual
Prince Kevon reclines on propped-up pillows with long needles stuck into his
chest. I swallow hard, wondering if this is his treatment or his torture.
“Leave us,” says Queen Damascena.
They rise and walk out into the hallway, each curtseying as they pass the
queen. As Ingrid pauses at our sides, she shoots me a look that says everything. I
should have listened to her. I should have accepted her offer. I should have
known my place.
I turn my gaze back to Prince Kevon, whose chest barely rises and falls with
his breaths. If I had formed an alliance with Ingrid, Mom, Dad, and the twins
would be safe, but I would have opened up Phangloria to the control of her
father and the Chamber of Ministers.
Dr. Ridgeback walks around his bed, extracts a syringe from a cabinet
recessed into the wall, and injects its contents into Prince Kevon’s neck. “He’ll
be awake in a few moments, Your Majesty.”
The queen turns to the open door. “Prepare the room.”
The women in black step inside and move all but one of the chairs to the
walls. One of them forces me to sit at Prince Kevon’s bedside, and another
stands at the foot of the bed and taps on a computer.
“Cameras are in place, Your Highness,” she says.
I don’t bother to look around for hidden cameras. Instead, I focus on the vital
signs flashing on the wall screen.
“He’s waking.” Dr. Ridgeback walks around the bed and scurries toward the
exit.
Queen Damascena and her henchwomen stream out of the room, leaving me
alone with Prince Kevon, whose eyes remain closed. I drop my gaze to his hand
and resist the urge to touch him. After saying the words I memorized on those
cards, I doubt he’ll want to see me again.
Shallow breaths ease in and out of my nostrils, barely filling my lungs. Dad
is because I delivered the lethal blow. Mom and the twins are still in the stadium,
awaiting their turn with the new Scorpio. Prince Kevon is in this medical prison
with artificial fibers in his heart that can cause him pain or death at the click of a
button.
I lick my lips. The only way to save everyone is to destroy what’s left of
Prince Kevon’s love.
“Zea?” he croaks.
My gaze snaps up to his face. “You’re awake.”
He reaches out his hand. I fold my arms across my chest and turn my gaze at
his increasing vital signs.
“What happened?” he asks. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m returning to Rugosa.”
“If it’s because of my mother—”
“It’s not her.” I exhale the tightness in my chest in a long breath. “All those
things she said about me are true. I told Vitelotte to find a way to kill you. When
that didn’t work, I decided I could try again after the birth of our first child, so I
could become the regent.”
Prince Kevon draws his brows together and stares at me as though I’ve just
said the words in another language and he’s trying to translate them before
responding. I drop my gaze to the needles sticking out from under his
collarbones, only noticing now the tiny threads that stretch up to a headboard
that extends across the ceiling.
Silence draws out, and I realize that I’ve only mentioned two of the items on
the queen’s list. She will use any deviations from her orders as an excuse for
punishment.
I’m about to speak, when he says, “You’re saying that because I couldn’t
keep you safe.”
“It’s the truth,” I reply. “My reason for joining the Princess Trials was to
infiltrate the palace and find a way for rebels to slaughter the royals. When I
talked about wanting to help someone lead the country, I was referring to Ryce
Wintergreen.”
“What?” he whispers.
“I’ve wanted to be close to him ever since your father killed his father.”
Prince Kevon winces.
The tightness in my chest returns, as do the cramping pains in my stomach. If
this continues for much longer, it will be me who needs the hospital bed. I’m
sure Queen Damascena wanted me to weave these sentences into a conversation,
but I blurt them out in a list.
“I’m grateful for our extra water rations, but I can’t continue this lie. You’re
clingy, and you never listen. You bought my affection with wealth, but even that
wasn’t enough to tolerate you. You weren’t enough.”
Prince Kevon’s face turns as hard as stone. “Why are you saying these
things?”
I glance down at my clasped hands. “The queen has finally given me
permission to leave the Princess Trials.”
“She’ll hurt you and your family if you leave my protection.”
“I’m giving her what she wants.” I recite even more of the queen’s words.
“The chance for a happy life with a girl who doesn’t resent you.”
“You…” He pauses. “You resented me?”
The tightness around my chest loosens. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m nearly
at the end of my list and he’s finally accepting my words or because my heart
has shriveled and there’s nothing left to squeeze.
“I grew up never having enough to eat or drink. How do you think I would
feel to see people living like gods in the Oasis?”
“Zea.” He leans toward me, lighting up the threads that link his needles to
the ceiling, and flops back onto the pillows.
I draw in a sharp breath through my nostrils, suppress my shock, and raise a
palm. “Will you stop being so persistent and needy?”
Prince Kevon flinches. The pain in his eyes tells me he has heard these
words before, most likely from Queen Damascena. A muscle in his jaw
clenches. “It would seem I’m doomed to love women incapable of loving me
back.”
That’s not true. A sharp pain lances through my insides, but I clamp my lips
shut. Queen Damascena should be satisfied that I have said everything she
wanted. All that's left are my parting words.
I break the tomato necklace off my neck, slide the ring off my finger, and
place them onto his lap. “Goodbye, Prince Kevon. Spending time with you was
harder than working the fields on a hot day. I hope you don’t take back the water
rations I worked so hard to attain.”
“Get out,” he snarls.
My legs shake as I rise from my seat. Prince Kevon bows his head and closes
his eyes. It’s better this way because he won’t see me waver.
Without me at his side, the Chamber of Ministers might treat him with more
respect when he takes the throne.
Clutching my insides as though they might fall out, I walk across the hospital
room to the exit. The only thing keeping me from falling on the floor and
begging for his forgiveness is the drug suppressing my emotions. I’ve never
been so cruel.
Just as I reach for the door, it flies open, making me stagger back.
General Ridgeback’s huge body fills the doorway. “Zea-Mays Calico, you
are under arrest for treason.”
CHAPTER 24
When the revolution comes, border guards won’t harass Harvester girls and water will be available to
everyone—not just the Nobles. Until then, it’s just me and my poison darts.
The Princess Trials
The Princess Games
The Princess Crown
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