A gentle hand lands on the back of my arm. I turn to find Prince Kevon staring down at me with furrowed brows. He wears a naval jacket with a red slash. “What took you all so long?”
Lady Circi’s warning rings in my ears. Right now, the balance of power doesn’t skew in his favor, and he won’t get to my parents before the queen’s assassins.
I raise a shoulder and force a smile. “Who knows?”
He pulls me aside and places both hands on my shoulders. My gaze darts to the girls, who turn around to watch us with murder in their eyes.
“Zea,” he whispers. “I know you already refused me once, but I can end these trials right now by proposing. We can have a long engagement while you—”
“Give the other girls a chance.” The words hurt as they spew from my lips, and guilt clenches at my gut for uttering a lie.
He flinches as though struck, but it’s nothing compared to the regret that winds around my heart. I sound like the world’s most ungrateful wretch for refusing a more-than-generous offer. Confusion crosses Prince Kevon’s features and his gaze unfocuses. He’s probably working out what he did wrong or trying to give me the benefit of the doubt.
I can’t let him think I need more time. He needs to know right now before the palace round starts that we have no future.
“Kevon,” I murmur.
His gaze fixes on mine, but pain still etches the corner of his eyes. “Yes?”
“I’ll help you choose which girl is right for you, but it isn’t going to be me.”
Prince Kevon’s hands slide off my shoulders and hang at his sides. He blanks his expression, steps back, and inclines his head. “I apologize for the unwanted persistence.”
He walks around the crowd and up the stairs, where his mother stands on the half landing, wearing a completely different outfit—strapless white gown with a red sash.
As I return to the group of girls, Queen Damascena stares down at me with the barest of smiles. I want to wrap that sash around her neck for threatening Mom, Dad, and the twins. Instead, I nod back. If I can keep this up, I might escape these Trials alive and with my family intact.
“What were you talking about?” hisses Emmera Hull.
I glare into her vacuous, blonde face. Right now, she looks like an empty-headed doll with those huge, blue-gray eyes staring back at me expecting an answer. I hate myself for turning on another Harvester girl, especially one from my own town, but she sided with Ingrid last night and pointed out my fake hiding place to the girls with the guns.
“How are things going with you and Mistress Strab?” I mimic her whining voice. “I heard her call you brain dead and offer to give you a body to match.”
Emmera’s mouth opens and closes, and her cheeks turn red. I guess she wasn’t expecting me to survive the other night’s let’s-hunt-Zea party.
“May I have your attention?” Byron Blake says from the half landing. He stands at the queen’s right with a dazzling smile. “Over to you, Your Majesty.”
“Welcome to the palace round of the Princess Trials.” Queen Damascena sweeps out an arm. “Congratulations to all you wonderful young ladies for succeeding so far, and I wish you the very best of luck.”
She recites the history of the Trials, sounding like she’s embellished a Modern History textbook. According to her, a trial based on beauty and personality makes Phangloria the most inclusive society in the new world.
I tune out as she compares Phangloria to other countries in North America, who maintain closed borders, never allowing their citizens upward mobility. It’s true that Phangloria allows Foundlings into their borders, but she skims over the part where they live in worse poverty than the Harvesters. Foundlings never get a place in society until their descendants are genetically perfect.
When she explains that every girl from every Echelon has an equal chance to become the Queen of Phangloria, I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry at the blatant hypocrisy, especially now that she’s demanded that I help Prince Kevon choose a Noble.
Eventually, Queen Damascena steps back to let Prince Kevon speak.
“Thank you for making it this far.” I’ve never heard him sound so formal. “Good luck.”
My heart sinks. I wish there was a way to communicate to him my reasons for turning cold, but the risk is too great. I trust Kevon with my life, but Lady Circi is right that his mother has the advantage in this game.
Queen Damascena wishes us luck and retreats up the stairs with Prince Kevon, leaving Byron Blake standing alone on the landing.
“A round of applause for our royal sponsors,” he says.
We all clap, some louder than others. On my right, Emmera Hull raises her hands above her head and whoops. I exhale a long breath, wondering who she’s trying to impress.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” says Byron. “And another round of applause for my co-host, who wishes to address the nation with her thrilling news.”
Silence falls across the entrance hall. I glance around the camerawomen and production assistants to see which one will join Byron Blake on the half landing, but none of them move. A door on the other side of the entrance hall creaks open, and a pair of armed guards in purple march out with Prunella Broadleaf.
She’s clad in a shapeless dress made of brown sackcloth, and around her neck is a replica of the metal collar she wore in her trial. I suck in a breath through my teeth. Why on earth did they let her return to the Trials when she confessed to murdering Rafaela van Eyck?
Whispers fill the air, punctuated by a few giggles. Prunella walks stiffly toward us, the left side of her face twitching from what I’m guessing is electric shock.
As two cameras point at me, I iron the horror out of my features and hold my breath.
It takes an eternity for Prunella to stumble up the stairs. The baskets of roses get in the way of the handrail, so she has no support. By the time she reaches Byron, she’s out of breath and can barely keep herself upright.
Byron wraps an arm around her back and props her up. His grin is so malicious that it makes my stomach flip. “Prunella, do you have a few words to share with the viewers at home?”
“Thank you,” she slurs, her head lolling to the side. “I thank you all for voting to postpone my execution until the end of the trials.”
Emmera leans into me and whispers, “What’s wrong with her?”
I shoot her my filthiest glower. Really? She’s going to pretend she didn’t join forces with the Nobles against me? When she continues to press against me, I jab my elbow into her side, making her yelp.
Prunella sways on her feet and tries to continue, but Byron speaks over her. “I think we’ve heard enough from you. Try not to drool on camera, dear. Removing digital saliva is murder for the editors”
The other girls break into nervous giggles. I clench my teeth. If this is a joke, this isn’t funny.
A troupe of young women wearing purple waistcoats with pencil skirts walks in from a side door.
“Just in time.” He lowers Prunella onto the landing and spreads his arms wide. “These make-up artists are here to camouflage your features for a twilight adventure in Gloria National Park.”
Gasps spread across the other candidates, and even the Amstraadi girls share nervous glances. I’m guessing that it won’t be an evening picnic.
A production assistant pulls the fallen Prunella out of the half landing, and another hands Byron a gold statuette. He balances it on the palm of his outstretched hand. It’s Gaia, sitting with her legs crossed and both hands over her pregnant belly. That’s all I can see from the bottom of the stairs.
With an exaggerated sigh, Byron says, “The girl who finds Gaia’s Treasure wins a wonderful evening with Prince Kevon. She also gets to choose an activity for her and the other candidates to enjoy.”
I can’t keep my eyes off Prunella’s twitching feet. They must have done something to her on the journey from the Chamber of Ministers. She didn’t seem quite this bad while she gave evidence.
By
ron wishes us luck, and the makeup artists walk toward us. The one who makes eye contact with me looks a little familiar. Her dark-brown skin and black hair look like they belong to someone much paler. I think it’s the gray eyes, but I can’t place where I’ve seen her before.
Her face splits into a wide grin that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. “My name is Georgette, and I’ll be your makeup artist for the duration of the trials.”
“Hello,” I say, still trying to puzzle where I’ve seen her before.
She sweeps her arm toward the grand staircase. “Would you like to come with me to your chambers? Food and drink await.”
My empty stomach clenches, and I give her an eager nod. Everyone ascends the stairs with their assigned artists. At the half landing, the other pairs take a left, but Emmera’s make up artist leads her to the right. Georgette also indicates that this is where we should go. A boulder of dread drops into the pit of my stomach as I wonder if this is an ambush.
Vitelotte Solar, the other Harvester girl who reached the palace round, walks at my side and casts me several glances, but I stare straight ahead. With a sigh, her posture slumps, and she runs her fingers through her purple curls. To the cameras, it looks like I’m a haughty bronco who rejects friendly overtures. I’m not.
Last night, Berta turned against me and tried to end my life. Berta, who fought at my side when Prunella and her minions filled my room with cepa gas. Berta, who helped me fight off the hijackers. Berta, who only gatecrashed the trials to prove a point to her pushy mother.
She was rude and selfish at first, but I thought we’d become allies. I can’t afford to befriend any of the contestants because there’s no telling when they’ll stick a knife in my back.
At the top of the right staircase, Georgette leads me down a hallway and opens a door to the most spectacular bedroom about the size of my entire house. At the far end is the largest bed I’ve ever seen, with ivory covers and more pillows than I can count. Eggshell-colored drapes sweep down the headboard from a golden pelmet on the wall, making it look fit for a princess. Short, mirrored cabinets stand at both sides of the bed, each supporting golden table lamps.
As Georgette guides me through the bedroom, my gaze sweeps past the cushioned stool at the foot of the bed to the room’s right side, where there’s a writing desk next to a balcony that overlooks the palace grounds. I’m not sure why, but they’ve even supplied a velvet sofa and two armchairs that match the decor.
We step into a walk-in closet that rivals Queen Damascena’s mobile dressing room. It’s already stocked with garments, including the Harvester uniform I brought to the trials. I recognize a stain on the apron that has never washed out, no matter what I try.
“You can come out, now,” says Georgette.
A door opens, and I catch a glimpse of the bathroom before seeing Forelle. She wears the same purple waistcoat and pencil skirt with her red hair tied into a neat bun.
Warmth fills my heart, and tears fill my eyes at the sight of one person I can trust. “What are you doing here?”
She wraps her arms around my shoulders. Her tight embrace cuts off my air.
“Kevon sent Master Thymel and his sisters to escort me to the palace,” she murmurs.
Master Thymel made the gorgeous gown I wore last night, and he was also responsible for handing me the tomato pendant that tracked my location and vital signs. He’s an Artisan promoted to the rank of Noble for his fashion, but he and his family seemed to want me to win the Trials.
I turn around and give Georgette a second look, and suddenly, her features make sense. “Are you related to the Thymels?”
She nods. “I’m their cousin. His Highness thought you might appreciate a couple of allies during the palace round.”
Pain lances through my insides at the way his features dropped at my cold response to his attempt to save me from the Trials. I can’t think about him right now, can’t think of what will happen if the queen thinks I’m disregarding her threat. Swallowing back those feelings, I force a smile.
“It’s great to have you here.” I hold them both by the hand.
Georgette places an arm around my shoulders and guides me to a dressing table the size of a desk. The mirror behind stretches to the ceiling and two foot-length strips of light provide illumination.
“Now for your makeover,” she says.
Reality crashes back in full force, and I remember Byron Blake mentioning something about a trial. “What’s going on tonight?”
She opens a drawer containing transparent jars of pigment. After selecting a dark green, she smears it on my face with a soft sponge. “I’m applying waterproof camouflage makeup over your skin. They told us you’ll all be sneaking around at night, competing against the other girls to find an item.”
Through the mirror, I watch Forelle pull out a leaf-patterned jumpsuit that looks too skinny for even my slender frame.
“This is a tactical outfit they want you all to wear,” Forelle says.
Someone knocks on the door, and Forelle shouts at them to come in. I lean back and glance into the bedroom to find a male servant in purple pushing a trolley inside. He hands Forelle a covered tray and walks out, but he leaves behind the mouthwatering aroma of roasted chicken.
My groan reverberates deep into my cavernous belly. “How long will this camouflage makeup take?”
“You can eat while we get you dressed for the task.” Forelle walks in with the tray and sets it on the dressing table.
She pulls off the cloche, revealing sandwiches that look too decadent to be real. Inside are slices of chicken breast as thick as my thumb nestled within a bed of green leaves. The bread looks buttered on both sides and pressed within a hot griddle. Melted cheese oozes out of the second sandwich, which contains slices of red onion, sun-dried tomato and cooked spinach.
Saliva floods my mouth, and a shuddering breath escapes my lips. If I don’t get a bite right now, I think I’ll faint.
Forelle produces a knife and fork, cuts the chicken sandwich, and places a piece to my lips. When I take a bite, it’s an explosion of flavors. They’ve prepared the chicken with rosemary, lemon, and garlic, which mingles with a more delicious version of the creamy mayonnaise I ate with yesterday’s burger.
I feel a little like Queen Damascena, sitting like a grand lady in a grand dressing room while one girl covers my face with dark makeup and the other places food in my mouth. Forelle tells me that Garrett wants to meet her family, but she’s nervous about how her parents will react to hearing that she’s spent the past few days in a guesthouse with a man.
Georgette gives her advice, but I can barely focus because the last time I ate was those burgers with Forelle. I murmur something about Mr. and Mrs. Pyrus getting worried about Forelle’s whereabouts, and she promises to send them a letter to say she’s working at the palace.
When the subject turns to Prince Kevon, my heart clenches. He doesn’t know me well enough to tell that I’m acting under duress, and he’s too kind to rage that I repaid his generosity with a cold declaration to be friends. He probably blames himself for being too pushy after I told him that I wasn’t in love.
The girls’ conversation fades into the background as I wallow in guilt. Guilt for Prince Kevon, for my family, and for all the Harvesters who remain thirsty because I couldn’t get a message to Ryce or Carolina about the underground river.
I exhale a long breath and stare at my reflection. Sad eyes stare back from a green face smeared with black and brown streaks that travel down my neck and onto my chest. Even the tips of my ears are black.
My mind drifts back to Queen Damascena, who believes I think that I fell into a sewer, a repository for wastewater. If the river stretches beyond the Great Wall, it must pass under Harvester territory. Maybe Carolina can work out a way to siphon it through her network of underground tunnels?
Georgette holds my eyelids open. “Stay still.”
“What—” Something cold and wet spritzes into my eyeball, making my
eyes water. “What are you doing?”
“Camouflage,” she says, sounding apologetic. “There’s no point making your skin blend into the surroundings if your eyes reflect the moon.”
I blink the tears out of my eyes and mutter, “Are you going to put it on my teeth, too?”
“When you’ve finished your sandwiches.” Georgette tilts her head to the side and smiles.
Dread pushes down thoughts of Prince Kevon, thoughts of my family, and thoughts of thirsty harvesters as I wonder what on earth could be dangerous enough to warrant such a high level of camouflage.
“Do you know anything about Gloria National Park?” I ask.
Georgette frowns. “The game reserve?”
“What does that mean?” Forelle pops a bit of sandwich into her mouth.
“It’s an open zoo, where all the wild animals roam in their natural habitats. Like the Oasis Animal Sanctuary except Nobles go there to hunt.” Georgette’s gaze lands on the plate. “Are you going to eat that?”
My eyes bulge. Open zoo? Wild animals? Natural habitats? Hunting? I push the plate toward Georgette and try not to think of a multitude of man-eating beasts, creatures with deadly venom, and that’s not even including the Noble girls who are baying for my blood.
So far, none of the official Trials have gotten a girl killed, but I think that’s about to change.
About thirty minutes later, a bell chimes on my wrist cuff, and Emmera, Vitelotte, and I emerge from our rooms. They both wear the same camouflage, with leaf-patterned hoods covering their hair. Our jumpsuits fit as tight as ElastoSculpt with zippers down the front for ventilation and thick belts that cinch our waists.
I’m not sure what the black belt hooks are for, but I’m sure we’ll find out once Byron Blake gives us instructions on the trial.
Emmera scowls at me, and Vitelotte averts her eyes. We walk alongside our makeup artists in silence through the palace and find Byron waiting on the half landing and the rest of the camouflaged girls at the foot of the stairs.
From where I’m descending, it’s hard to tell the nobles, but the Amstraadi girls all stand to attention with straight postures and their arms behind their backs.
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 3
