Gemini jolts awake. We lock eyes for a heartbeat, and then her face crumples. My shoulders droop, and I blow out a long, tired breath. With Berta in the other room, I might be able to offer her some hope by sharing my plans, but it might be premature. We’re not in the palace, and there’s no guarantee that Gemini won’t try to barter the information to save herself.
Eventually, Berta emerges from the other room, her hair glowing with health. She wears a jumpsuit that’s tight around the chest and shoulders.
My brows draw together. “What’s—”
“They’re going to make us wear this uniform for the trials.” She spreads her arms wide. “These pants are flapping around my shins.”
I glance down at the bottoms of her jumpsuit, which end five inches above her ankles. “Can you tuck them into your boots?”
“It’s not regulation.” She walks over to her side of the room and makes her bed.
I take the pile of clothes on my trunk and walk into the bathroom. It’s four times the size of the one we use at home, covered in glossy tiles, and divided into four shower cubicles. A wide mirror hangs on the wall closest to the door, in front of which sits four benches with a perspex counter.
After placing my new outfit on the table, I undress and stand under the shower, which rains a torrent of warm water onto my head. It’s warm and more powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced.
I tilt my head toward the spray, letting the water pummel my skin. Once a month on a Sunday, each family gets to visit the public baths, where they can shower or take a swim in over-chlorinated water. This shower makes my Sunday treat feel lame.
A heavy fist thumps on the door, and I realize how much time I’ve spent in the water. Guilt creeps across my skin, combined with the shame at having wasted so much of a valuable resource. I step out of the shower, which turns itself off, and quickly get dressed.
When I return to the room, Prunella Broadleaf is standing inside with a pair of assistants. She wears a royal blue two-piece suit consisting of a jacket with similar gold brocade to the one King Arias wore on OasisVision.
“Good morning, ladies,” she says, not looking any of us in the eye.
Nobody replies. I glance at Berta, whose scowl makes me wonder if the scathing comments Prunella made to her onstage cut deep.
“Your actions have earned yourselves special roles in an interim round of the Princess Trials.”
“Isn’t this the palace round?” I ask.
Her gaze darts to me, and the corners of her lips twitch with distaste. “There’ll be an announcement about that later.”
I wrap my arms around my middle and lower myself onto the spare bed. The jumpsuit is form-fitting and makes me feel like a scarecrow that has lost its stuffing. “What’s happening?”
“You three will form the comic relief.” She recounts something similar to Berta’s explanation of Amstraad contests, except her description sounds a little more humiliating. The producers of the show will put me in situations that will incite my anger, they will enhance Berta’s unattractiveness at every opportunity, and Gemini will still die.
By the time Prunella stops speaking, even Berta is pale. I’m beginning to despise Amstraad as much as I hate the Nobles. I save my animosity for Lady Circi, who dredged up my background and for Prunella, who outlines our predicament as though putting two girls through humiliation and one to death is a matter of entertainment.
Prunella’s gaze sharpens as she turns it to Gemini. “Your father will watch highlights of the Princess Trials as part of his punishment. If you do not cooperate, we will broadcast your whipping.”
Less than twenty minutes later, Prunella’s assistants walk us down the stairs to a large dining room. A head table takes center stage on a raised platform with thirteen seats. In the main part of the room are eight round tables.
Closest to the stage are three tables arranged in a row. The two at the front left and right remain unoccupied, as is one at the back of the room. An entourage of assistants, including camerawomen and yesterday’s co-host stand by the far wall.
I pause at the doorway, surveying my surroundings. Every girl wears identical jumpsuits, but it’s not difficult to tell who belongs to which Echelon.
Most of the Nobles have blue-black hair, save for one whose glossy chestnut hair forms gentle waves around her delicate features. They sit elegantly with their elbows off the table but don’t engage in conversation.
Behind them and to the left, the Artisans’ hairstyles are more varied, and they chat amiably among themselves. Next are the Guardians, who sit stiffly in their seats, but they don’t have the same hard-faced expressions as Berta.
At the far end of that row are the Industrials, who sit with stooped postures and dark circles under their eyes. They look the oldest of the Echelons and remind me of plants that have wilted beyond saving. The Harvesters, who sit in the back row, look radiant compared to the girls forced to breathe polluted air.
Berta marches to the empty table at the back of the room and sits. Gemini follows. The smaller girl squares her shoulders and curls her fists. I trail after her, wondering if she’s trying to look brave because the footage forms part of her father’s punishment.
Prunella stands on the podium. “Ladies, please settle for a pre-production announcement.”
“Why aren’t we at the palace?” asks the Noble girl with the chestnut hair.
“There has been a change of plan. Twelve girls from all reaches of the Amstraad Republic will join us for an interim round.”
Berta sucks in a deep breath. Even Gemini leans forward to gape. Angry chatter explodes around the
