“Zea-Mays is right,” says Princess Briar, sounding bored. “Juvenile records have no bearing on the Princess Trials.”
A relieved breath slides from between my lips, and I send the princess a silent word of thanks.
“Then let’s move to genetic background,” drawls Lady Circi. “Your mother is a Foundling?”
Her words land like a kick to the gut, and I flinch. Blood roars through my ears, and the pounding in my head is louder than the audience’s gasping disapproval. Nobody—I don’t care if they are Harvester, guard, or Prince Kevon himself—nobody mocks Mom.
“Second generation,” I snap back, all notions of self-preservation evaporating in the heat of my fury. “She was born in Phangloria and moved out of the Barrens after passing the Genetic Acceptability Test.”
The audience grumbles. Everyone is probably picturing the type of people so misshapen by genetic abnormalities that they barely look human or the tribes of cannibalistic wild men that attack our borders. Foundlings aren’t anything like that.
Border Guards only allow those who look sane and rational through the Great Wall. And Foundlings have to stay in the Barrens for decades—and sometimes generations—until they test free of radiation. Most of them never progress to the Harvester region, but their offspring might if they’re genetically pure.
“Dear me.” Prunella Broadleaf places a handkerchief to her face, reminding me of the Industrials protecting themselves from the smog. “Does she have six feet? Webbed toes?”
The audience roars with mocking laughter, and Princess Briar huffs out an exasperated breath while Prunella smirks. Lady Circi shakes her head and returns to reading her computer tablet. The pressure pounding through my skull explodes.
“Mistress Broadleaf,” I say in my snippiest voice. “Are you suggesting the Guardians’ security measures are inadequate?”
She stiffens. “Of course, not.”
By now, my vision clears completely, and I see the woman. Prunella Broadleaf’s features consist of a pointed nose, hard eyes, and pinched lips, all set within a broad face. She’s twisted them in a mockery of disapproval, but her throat bobs up and down, revealing her discomfort.
Her black hair dye doesn’t quite match the blue-black sheen that comes with Princess Briar’s Noble birth. Prunella Broadleaf is a social climber, desperate to ingratiate herself with the elite.
Disgust at her pathetic mockery makes my lip curl. “Any Foundling allowed into the Echelons has passed the Genetic Acceptability Test, which is more than I can say about you.”
Prunella bristles, baring clenched teeth, but I don’t care. Mom is the same as everyone else—better because she is certifiably free of defects. Better, because she worked herself out of the Barrens, educated herself on a variety of subjects, and passed on that knowledge to us. How many of the people laughing at me could make the same claim?
“Miss Calico. You’re dismissed,” says Prunella.
Hostility crackles in the air. Montana steps back, his palms raised, acting as though he has no part in this situation.
I’ve ruined my chances of ever getting through to the palace round of the trials. It hadn’t bothered me that the contest was rigged in favor of the Nobles and that its organizers only brought us here for some sick sense of entertainment, but there’s something I need to say before being sent back to Rugosa in disgrace.
“Before I leave, I have a question.”
Prunella Broadleaf beckons, and a pair of security guards step onstage. Unfortunately, neither of them look like Garrett or Sergeant Silver.
“We aren’t interested in a parting rant,” says Prunella. “Get out with a modicum of dignity.”
“What was the point of bringing me here if you already knew my juvenile record and genetic background?” I shout.
Prunella holds up a hand, and the guards stop. “What are you suggesting—”
“We went through extensive and painful testing yesterday, endured a long coach ride, and for what? To make us perform like circus lizards for your amusement?”
A few people in the audience boo.
I turn to them and snarl, “We work hard to supply you with food. The least you can offer in return is respect.”
Something small and dark flies out from the audience. I sidestep, and a tomato splats onto the stage. It explodes into a starburst with flesh oozing onto the white floor. This is the final insult. The fruits of Harvester labor wasted at my feet.
Nobody moves, not even the guards sent to drag me away. Whoever threw this wants me to rant some more, and something deep inside me shuts down. My mission has failed, and I won’t entertain these Nobles for a moment longer.
I pick up the tomato’s remains. “Thanks for the seeds.”
Prunella Broadleaf approaches from across the stage, holding a pitcher of water. “Let’s cool this young lady down.”
My vision turns red. Before I can stop myself, the squashed tomato flies through the air and lands between her eyes. Prunella shrieks, clutches her face and twists around.
Roars fill my ear. By now, I’m too frazzled to tell if it’s laughter or outrage or demands for my flogging.
Rough hands grab my arms, and a guard hauls me off the stage. I don’t resist. I catch sight of Montana, who looks down at me with disapproval in his dark eyes. If he didn’t want a spectacle, he shouldn’t have let his stagehands feed the girls anti-inhibition drugs.
“Wait!” A male voice booms from the speakers, and the guard pauses.
Montana steps forward. “Do you have something to add, Your Excellency?
The Amstraad ambassador rises from his seat and stands at the edge of the royal box. “I have not laughed so much in decades.”
“I’m glad you found Miss Calico amusing, Your Excellency,” replies Montana, his voice unusually guarded.
“I will see more of this girl,” says the strange man. “Please forward her to the palace round.”
My mouth drops open, and a huff of air escaped my throat. If I could get to the palace and find those secret entryways, I still might bring about the revolution. And Ryce might forgive my outburst.
Montana frowns. “Your Excellency—”
“I will sponsor a troupe of girls for the trial’s entertainment.”
