Anger rushes through my veins, and I curl my hands into fists. “She knew.” Right now, I need to find that viper and prick her with two poisoned darts. I shake out the jumpsuit, pull down its zipper, and place a foot into the left leg. “Ingrid knew exactly what she was doing.”
Prince Kevon’s eyes widen, his cheeks darken, and he spins around. “I beg your pardon?”
I place my right foot into the jumpsuit’s other leg and pull the garment up to my hips. The rest of the jumpsuit slips on easily, and I pull up the zipper. “Ingrid was stomping down the side of the mountain easily enough when she tried to kill me with a real gun.”
Prince Kevon turns around, his face pale. “What?”
“They must have cut out that part of the Princess Trials, too,” I mutter.
We sit on the edge of the bed and piece together how the events of last night differed from the televised version. The edits focussed on Prince Kevon’s attempt to stop the hijackers from hurting Ingrid, and not on his attempts to ensure the safety of all the girls. The injuries he sustained at the hands of the Amstraadi soldiers disguised as rebels were real, but everyone else wore props to mimic gunshots.
“When did you find out?” I ask.
“In the ambulance.” Prince Kevon’s hand brushes against mine in silent permission. “As soon as the medics brought me to the Royal Hospital, I escaped to find you.”
My heart warms, and I lace my fingers into his. “Why would they go to all this effort to manipulate the public into thinking Ingrid Strab will become the next queen?”
“Her father is the Minister of Integration.” Prince Kevon squeezes my hand. “The high standards he sets for allowing Foundlings to join the Echelons are popular, which makes Ingrid popular. But the Amstraad ambassador also has a large influence over the show.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Amstraadi shows are blood-thirsty and full of surprises and violent twists. He’s offering a lot to export the Princess Trials to his country.” Prince Kevon explains that Phangloria pays heavily for the technology it imports from the Amstraad republic in the form of fresh produce.
I want to comment on the injustice that Harvesters don’t benefit from Amstraadi health devices, but I don’t have the heart to say such bitter words after Prince Kevon saved my life. Instead, I shake my head. “I can’t believe they would let us suffer to make entertainment.
His shoulders deflate. “That ends today.” His watch chimes, and he stands. “It’s almost time.”
“For what?” I ask.
“The changing of the guard.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “May I?”
For a second, I don’t know what he’s asking, then my cheeks heat. Last night, I was too injured to notice the closeness of his embrace, but I can walk without assistance.
“Dr. Palatine says you’ll be unsteady on your feet for the next hour or so, and we need to sneak through unsteady ground to exit the palace.”
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask.
“The Royal Hospital sends messages to the Royal guard every time I step through the threshold. Someone would be obligated to tell Lady Circi that I entered with an injured girl, and after hearing how the producers endangered your lives, I couldn’t risk them knowing your location until I was sure you were alright.”
My heart lightens, and I raise my hands in the universal pick-me-up gesture.
Prince Kevon slides one arm around my back and the other under my bent legs. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he lifts me to his chest. A tingle of pleasure ripples across my heart. The only man who has carried me like this was Dad, and it’s thrilling to have a young man my age hold me like I’m precious.
I rest my head on his shoulder and relax into his embrace. Right now, I feel closer to Prince Kevon than I have ever felt with Ryce, and a pang of regret spoils this special moment.
It’s not fair to compare the two young men. Prince Kevon has a perfect life, and Ryce is still haunted by the murder of his father. I stare at his handsome profile, at his perfect nose, high cheekbones, and strong jaw. He meets my eye and flashes me a crooked smile, making my heart melt.
Instead of exiting through the door, Prince Kevon walks to the closet and presses his hand on a screen on the wall. It scans his handprint, his retina, and prompts him to identify himself before the back of the closet clicks open.
We walk into an identical room, except it has no door or window. A dark-haired man with days of stubble lies on a cot with his eyes closed. He is pale with broken capillaries marring his skin, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance between him and Prince Kevon.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
“My father,” he says.
“I thought he was with the Royal Navy.”
“As did I,” Prince Kevon mutters. “But I’ve come to learn that nothing Jimeno Montana broadcasts contains a hundred percent truth.”
I twist around to get a better look at King Arias. The man’s face is gaunter than it appeared on the OasisVision screen. I wonder if the editors made enhancements to his features or if whatever happened in this room caused his condition.
“He looks so different from the footage I saw of him last week. When was that shot?”
“Last month.”
I frown and place my head back on Prince Kevon’s shoulder. It seems odd that they didn’t show any live footage, but with Prince Kevon boarding the stagecoaches to observe the girls, I doubt he was around much during audition week.
He reaches the other side of the king’s room, passes another security panel, and we continue into a dim passage that reminds me of the one underneath the ballroom steps. Prince Kevon explains that he wanted to make sure I was out of the palace infirmary before the morning guards
