He stands with his arms spread and bobs his head along with the orchestra, as though it's the most moving piece of music he’s ever heard.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” he says over the fading strains of the music. “A round of applause for Her Majesty Queen Damascena and His Excellency Ambassador Pascal of Amstraad!”
Now the screen shows the queen sitting in a royal box clad in an ivory dress that clings to her figure. Its asymmetric neckline wraps around her neck like a snake. She wears a diamond crown with drop earrings.
Next to her sits the ambassador, a small man with a weak chin and round spectacles that dangle over the bridge of his long nose. The glass picks up the light with a rippling effect. I don’t know enough about technology to work out what that means.
He’s the first Amstraadi I have ever seen and wears a leather jacket with buttons running up his torso in a diagonal line. It’s secured with a tight, leather neckband adorned by a row of flashing lights that make me wonder if the jacket is the one that’s actually alive and the ambassador is the garment.
Two women dressed in teal catsuits stand behind them along with a pair of guards whose uniforms look metallic. They probably also came from Amstraad.
Forelle leans into my side and whispers, “Where’s Prince Kevon?”
I raise a shoulder. The king is also missing from the royal box. “Maybe he’s one of the judges?”
Montana appears back on the camera. “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Harvester Round of the Princess Trials!”
He explains that sixty girls made it to the auditorium, and today a lucky six will be chosen based on beauty, poise, intelligence, and charm. I wipe my damp palms on my skirt and glance around the room. The other girls look pale and tired and nervous—like me.
Few of us take long-distance journeys, and if they had given us a day to acclimatize, we might be in better spirits.
As Montana reminisces with the audience about the previous Princess Trials, a group of people wearing red uniforms enters with trolleys, filling the room with the mingled scents of tea and coffee. My mouth waters and I take a bite of a fruit toast with butter and cheese.
Forelle gasps and points at the screen. “There’s Princess Briar!”
My head snaps up. The last time we saw Prince Kevon’s older sister was at the royal wedding five years ago when she married the son of the Amstraadi president.
She sits on the judges’ table, clad in a high-necked leather dress whose neckline flashes on and off with those creepy lights. To the princess’s left sits Circi Aster, the queen’s lady-at-arms, and on her right is Prunella Broadleaf.
I suppress a groan. That’s the woman who ignored Carolina only to pay attention when someone else voiced her suggestion. Hopefully, she won’t be nearly as dismissive with the Harvester girls when we’re onstage.
An assistant rushes into the room. “Corrie Barzona? You’re next.”
The girl from Bos stands and smoothes down her outfit. It’s the same as mine except she fills it better, and it contains fewer stains.
“Good luck,” I whisper along with everyone else.
Corrie nods, straightens her back, and walks out with the assistant.
Silence descends through the room as Montana attempts to chat with Princess Briar about her life in Amstraad. She offers one-word answers, making smooth conversation near impossible. He turns to Lady Circi, but the dark-skinned woman is too busy reading her tablet computer to engage in conversation.
Prunella Broadleaf gushes that she’s honored to help choose the next Queen of Phangloria.
Forelle leans into me and whispers, “Isn’t that Prince Kevon’s job?”
“Probably,” I mutter through a mouthful of apricot pastry.
Sugar and fruit and spices explode on my tongue, and I hum my appreciation. It’s sweet and fatty and juicy. I wash it down with a mouthful of freshly brewed coffee and sigh. If Harvesters ate and drank like this every day, we’d be too sated to revolt.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!” Corrie jogs onstage and waves, and the crowd bursts into applause. “My name is Corrie Barzona, and it’s wonderful to meet you all.”
Prunella Broadleaf leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What do you do?”
“I’m a milkmaid,” Corrie answers with a dazzling smile. “And I’m a proud maker of artisan cheese, cream, yogurt, and butter.”
This makes the audience cheer. I lean into my seat and groan, trying to think up something endearing to say. Forelle picks tomatoes, but I’m just a weeder.
Emmera bolts out of her seat. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Throughout Corrie’s exchange with Prunella Broadleaf, Lady Circi reads from her tablet computer, and Princess Briar stares ahead with glazed eyes. If she has been here since Monday, I’m not surprised she’s bored.
“Excuse me, ladies.” A man holding a microphone approaches our table. Behind him stand two women with cameras. “May I interrupt your breakfast for a chat?”
Forelle straightens, and her face splits into a wide grin. “Sure.”
He focuses on Forelle and asks her about life in Rugosa. After several minutes of conversation, it’s clear that he isn’t going to speak to anyone else at our table. I glance at Vitelotte, who grimaces.
One of the camera women steps forward and makes eye contact. “Excuse me.”
Excitement fills my chest, and I offer what I hope is a dazzling smile. “Yes?”
“Could you move across to the other sofa so that I can get a better shot of your pretty friend?”
My breath hitches, and I cover my disappointment by scooting around toward where Vitelotte sits. The other girl shrugs and picks up a braided pastry. It’s strange. Until now, I didn’t care about being the darling of the camera. I was anonymous and beneath the notice of anyone but my family, and the occasional belligerent guard.
Ryce and Carolina’s praise was addictive. Somewhere in the depths of my heart, a part of my heart believes
