“I snuck into the concert hall and walked onstage,” says Berta.
My head whips around. “What?”
Berta shrugs. “It earned me a whipping, but Prunella Broadleaf’s scathing insults made it worthwhile.”
“And your mother?”
“Devastated.” She snorts. “Mocked by all her friends. But she won’t be forcing me to get married in a hurry.”
I don’t bother to ask what they said to Berta onstage. My own humiliation still stings, and I’m not interested in re-living someone else’s. “Do you live in the Oasis?”
“In the north barracks.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, which I guess indicates the compass direction. “My dad is in charge of the aerodrome.”
Berta tells me that her apprenticeship starts in January, after she turns sixteen. I press my lips together, trying to process my reaction. She doesn’t sound remotely sorry about having been whipped. A tough girl like that could have just stood up to her mother’s nagging. Why didn’t she just say no?
Berta stares at the screen and blows a stray strand of blonde hair out of her face. “This is so boring. These girls all look the same.”
Tuning out her griping, I stare at the screen and wait for Emmera and Forelle to come onstage. The door creaks open, and guards step inside to allow stagehands to bring bowls of beef stew and dumplings, but no matter how much I try to coax Gemini to eat, she jerks her head away and cries.
I take a mouthful of the stew, but can’t appreciate its taste. At least in the Harvester Region, a person gets punished for their own acts. Things are so different in the Oasis.
During the breaks, they show highlights from the different towns of the Harvester region, including footage from last night that makes me look like I was so desperate to sign up for the trials that I tripped over my own feet. Berta slaps her thigh and laughs, and even Gemini glances up at the screen and gives me a sad smile. I stare at the door, wondering when the interviews will ever end.
Hours later, Berta works out how to operate the wall screen’s volume in time for us to catch Montana thank everyone for watching the Harvester portion of the Princess Trials. There’s a short interval where the audience casts their votes, during which footage from Prince Kevon appears onscreen.
He’s sitting at the waterfall wearing a burgundy military jacket, and his blue-black hair is tied loosely at the nape of his neck, making him look less stuffy. I lean forward and squint, wishing the camera would make a closeup. He thanks all the lovely ladies for their participation in the Princess Trials and wishes the semi-finalists luck in the palace round.
“Shouldn’t Prince Kevon get to choose which of the girls he likes?” I turn to Berta. “Why would he let other people decide?”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Don’t you read the gossip rags?”
“Rags?” My mind conjures an image of the shirt I caught on a cactus that I ripped beyond repair.
Berta rolls her eyes. “Save me from backward yokels.”
I tilt my head to the side and mirror her folded arms. “How am I supposed to know about everything you have in the Oasis if Harvesters can’t leave the region without a permit?”
The superior expression melts a little, and she says, “Prince Kevon spent a lot of time with Rafaela van Eyck. She’s an actress on one of the most popular shows in Phangloria.”
I lean forward and nod, eager for her to continue. Footage of girls shoving each other to get to the marquee shows on the wall screen. One hits another with a bucket, splattering milk everywhere, and I wonder if the camera is showing Bos or one of the other livestock-centered towns.
“The gossip rags—they’re newspapers that report on social events. Who was seen on whose arm and wearing what.” Berta turns to me to check that I’m following, but I’m struggling to understand why anyone would want to waste time reading something so trivial. “Anyway, the king and queen didn’t approve of their son associating with a beautiful actress—”
“Why?”
“The rags always implied she had lots of lovers, I suppose,” she says with a shrug.
I rub my temples. This story is taking so long, I’ve forgotten why Berta started telling me about the rags.
“If Prince Kevon had to choose a girl to marry, it would be Rafaela. No question about it.”
“He let his parents organize these trials when he’s already in love with someone else?”
“Rafaela competed on Monday. She was the first to win the vote.”
“Did the rags report—”
“Quiet.” Berta holds up a palm. “They’re about to announce the finalists.”
On the screen, Montana claps his hands together. “Welcome back, Your Majesty and His Excellency, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for casting your votes. Now, here are the six Harvester girls who will move into the palace tomorrow.”
The camera cuts to the orchestra, where a man in a tuxedo rolls a drum wider than a barrel.
“In order of popularity, we have Corrie Barzona.”
Footage of the milkmaid from Bos flashes up on a screen behind Montana, with closeups of her time onstage. I can’t even say she got chosen because she was the first girl interviewed. Corrie is in the full bloom of health with glossy black hair, glowing skin, and a full figure.
Next to be chosen is Emmera Hull, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. She is undoubtedly beautiful with her flaxen hair and perfect features, and with some good Oasis food, she will be even more stunning than Corrie. However, I’m still annoyed with her for hurling accusations at Forelle in the waiting room.
The cartwheel-turning girl is next. Her name is Brunnea Pomifera from Morus, where they grow horse apples, mulberries, and keep silkworms. She has burnt orange-colored hair that forms natural waves.
I can’t remember the other two girls from the coach, but they’re Angeline Hereford and Cintra Mukota, both from Sus. It’s the
