Berta snorts. “Your Echelon is boring.”
“At least they’re not attacking others or stabbing them in the back,” I snap.
Most of the other scenes are mundane. The Guardian girls ride through the wilderness on solar bikes with manic grins until one runs out of power and shouts at the others for help. They continue across the expanse until all their bikes fail, then they trek toward the Mirage on foot.
Gemini stares at me through bleary eyes, and I offer her the entire bottle of water.
Berta claps her hands together. “Now that’s teamwork!”
The Artisan girls look like they’re having the most fun on the backs of their camels. They sip from bottles of water, eat endless supplies of snacks from their saddlebags, and point out the scenery, which is only breathtaking from a distance. Even though the Industrial girls have the same items as the Artisans, they seem less impressed with their surroundings and get lost before eventually finding the Mirage.
I take a long drag of water and watch the highlights of our adventure. Berta gets butted in the gut by a goat, which absconds with her backpack, then the rest of the montage focuses on close-ups Gemini getting trampled by the cassowary, besieged by giant locusts, and pelted by acid rain.
The girl whimpers, and tears stream from her cheeks. “I thought being a scapegoat only meant getting an execution.”
Berta rears back with an are-you-stupid kind of frown. “What the hell do you watch in your spare time? The scapegoat’s suffering is part of the foundation of Amstraad humor.”
“And what about the underdog?” I snap.
Her lips tighten. “That person suffers enough from being themselves.”
I glance down at Gemini, who squeezes her eyes shut.
Berta turns from the screen and stares into my eyes. “If the contest is about weight-lifting, then the underdog will be a scrawny guy with a body like a twelve-year-old, who can’t lift as much as the others.”
My brows draw together. “What’s the point of putting them in the contest, then?”
“To show that the other contestants are tough.” When I don’t respond, her face twists into a rictus of rage. “I know what you’re thinking—”
“Actually, I’m looking at what you’re doing onscreen.”
They’re playing a clip of us in the shelter. After I’ve closed my eyes, Berta waves her hand over my face. When she’s sure that I’m asleep, she pulls out a water bottle from the pocket of her jumpsuit. She sneaks out into the wilderness, treks down the hill, and finds the bike.
The camera shows a close-up of her glancing up the hill to where she’s left us, then she snorts and rides off.
The real Berta’s indignant rage fades. “Listen, Calico—”
“Forget it.” I turn back to the screen, which shows a montage of her in the mirage feasting on trail mix, glugging bottles of colored liquid, and watching The Princess Trials until she dozes on the sofa and gets woken by an onscreen Prunella Broadleaf.
I can guess that this is the time she discovers that she can’t complete her trial without us because she punches the sofa and rises from her seat.
“Came back for you, didn’t I?” she mutters.
“Otherwise, you’d be trapped here,” I reply.
Mom would tell me to focus on helping Gemini. Carolina would tell me to stop being surprised that Berta acts in line with her Echelon and to focus on the mission. They’re both right.
I hand the water bottle back to Gemini and tune out Berta’s rambling explanation.
Prunella’s face fills the screen. “Welcome back to the Princess Trials highlights. You’ve missed a lot of exciting events. Would you like to know who won the teamwork trial?”
“No,” I mutter.
The screen cuts to the exterior of the Mirage. It’s still daytime, and the covered jeep races toward the camera. I shake my head. Of course, one of the Nobles would win if supplied with an armed vehicle to sabotage stronger opponents. The jeep skids to a halt and brings up a cloud of dust.
All four doors fly open, and the Nobles pile out, but one girl is clearly in the lead. Ingrid’s pretty face twists with a mix of malice and determination. She runs with a wide-elbowed gait designed to strike at her opponents. The caption, INGRID STRAB, appears beneath her face.
“How much do you want to bet that she’s trained her entire life for the Princess Trials?” says Berta.
I continue watching the screen in silence, too irritated to reply. Ingrid flings the door open, but a girl with ringlets ducks under her arm and reaches the vestibule first. The look on Ingrid’s face is murderous, and she rushes inside and shoulders her fellow Noble to the ground.
As the screen scans Ingrid’s body, her face smoothes out, and she apologizes to the fallen girl. I roll my eyes at the blatant fakery. Seconds later, the door opens, and Ingrid charges into the Mirage with her arms raised in triumph.
Prunella appears back onscreen with a wide grin. “Wasn’t that fun?”
“What happens next?” Berta bellows at the screen. “Where’s the catfight?”
For once, I’m inclined to agree with the larger girl. Prunella announces that Ingrid spent the evening being primped and pampered for her date with Prince Kevon. I relax on the sofa and wait to see where they go.
The screen cuts to a multi-tiered chandelier and zooms out to a room with floor-to-ceiling arched windows set within ivory walls. A pianist in an ivory suit plays an ivory piano, and even the waiters wear ivory. All the tables are empty, save one, and the camera zooms in on the couple.
“How did they get reservations for the Two Seasons?” Berta snorts at the stupidity of her question. “Of course, the Royals get the best of everything.”
I bite down on my lip and glance around the Mirage for hidden cameras, wondering if Berta will be whipped again for seditious words. Nothing happens, and
