My heart cartwheels with panic, and I clutch at my chest. Violent palpitations vibrate against my palm. “You drugged me?”
She places both hands on my shoulders. “Stop panicking. It will only make things worse.”
“Wor…” My throat closes up, choking off my words, and I stare up at the stagehand with bulging eyes.
Strong hands push me down so I’m bent over double. One of the stagehands thumps my back, and I cough out a breath. My vision clears a little, and I fill my lungs, but the moment I raise my head, my vision swims, and it feels like my brain has turned to clouds.
It takes several minutes of heavy breathing to clear the lightheadedness, and when I glare up at the stagehand, I can see her wide eyes. “How could you—”
“When you joined the Princess Trials, you agreed to medical procedures, including taking supplements for your wellbeing and health. Didn’t you read the small print?”
I had pressed my palm on a blank screen, but that had been for identification purposes. There hadn’t been any talk of drugs. “They skipped over that part.”
“It’s done, now.” The stagehand helps me straighten. “Deep breaths. It’s almost time for your grand debut.”
“Has it worn off?” I ask.
“The side effects?” She tilts her head to the side. “Sure.”
The door opens, and before I have the chance to clarify that I had been talking about the Mountain Free, her companion places a hand between my shoulder blades and shoves me into blinding, white light.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Montana’s voice sounds like a drumroll. “Her Majesty and His Excellency, please welcome our next contestant!”
My retinas sting. I don’t know if the stage lights are particularly bright or whatever was in the Free Water has made me light sensitive, but I won’t raise my hand like the other girl. Applause fills my ears as I step forward. It’s like walking into the sun, and I can’t stop blinking. The stage is hotter than I imagined, and tiny beads of sweat form on my skin.
The applause fades, and I continue walking on legs that won’t stop shaking. I can’t see Montana, the judges’ table, or any cameras, but I know from watching in the screens that they’re trained on me and broadcasting this moment to everyone in Phangloria.
“Where are you going?” A pair of large hands grab my shoulders and turn me ninety degrees to the left. “We’re over here.”
The audience laughs.
My heart sinks. Ten seconds onstage, and I’m already a laughingstock.
“Hel—” My throat catches, and I cough into my hand. “Hello, Phangloria!”
A few people in the audience clap, but when nobody else joins them, they stop. My throat dries, and I blink through watery eyes. My vision clears.
The orchestra sits one level below the stage, each member clutching a shiny instrument. Behind them are levels upon levels of raised seating platforms that stretch out an eighth of a mile. There’s a hundred or more, but I’m too nervous to count.
Balconies lit by candelabra wall sconces fill the curved walls, and they’re crammed with silhouetted figures. In the middle is the curtained arch that makes up the royal box.
It feels like every single one of Phangloria’s five-thousand Nobles is sitting in the audience, which makes sense, considering that they don’t actually do any of the work.
“What’s your name, my dear, and where are you from?” says Prunella Broadleaf.
I turn to the judges’ table on my right. My vision clears a little more, and I can tell that the dark figure on the far left is Lady Circi. The one on the far right must be Prunella.
“Zea. Zea-Mays Calico, Mistress,” I say. “And I come from Rugosa and work in the tomato fields.”
Someone barks out a laugh, and I know why. Most Harvester names are crop-related, and we’re the largest grower of corn in Phangloria. Mom fell in love with the Latin name for corn and thought it would be great to name me after the field where she met Dad. Before I can stop myself, the story tumbles from my lips.
The audience coos, and my cheeks heat. That information had been personal and not fodder for the amusement of a bunch of idle Nobles.
Lady Circi clears her throat. “Your juvenile record is interesting. You were whipped at the age of twelve and fourteen for assaulting guards with—” She pauses as though not believing what she sees. “A slingshot?”
I gulp, and the crowd whispers. Why would she dredge up my past to the whole of Phangloria? My gaze darts to the audience, who is waiting for my reply.
“They were attacking Harvester girls.” The words tumble from my mouth. “I wanted them to stop.”
A hush falls across the auditorium, and the only sound is the pulse pounding between my ears. This is nothing like the warm applause they gave Corrie Barzona from Bos or the amused cheers they offered to the cartwheeling girl.
If I don’t do something now, Lady Circi will turn the voters against me. I square my shoulders and say, “Juvenile records are supposed to be erased when a person comes of age. I’ve matured since then.”
The dark-skinned woman leans forward and drawls, “Indeed?”
I offer an eager nod.
“What would you do now if you saw a guard attacking a girl?” she asks.
My teeth clamp shut. If that stupid drug makes me blurt out the events of yesterday, I will end up in a cell with poor Krim. Forelle and everyone else who covered up for my criminal act would join me. I breathe hard, forcing my survival instinct to overcome my lack of inhibitions.
“I would ask them to stop, but isn’t the bigger problem—”
“And if he didn’t?” Lady Circi asks.
“Then I would call another guard to help.”
Laughter fills the auditorium, and my head pounds to the beat of a war drum. I have no clue why they thought that was funny. Anyone intervening with a guard’s fun gets threatened or attacked or killed like Mr. Wintergreen. Calling a second guard would only double the
