Berta folds her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me you nursed that thing to health and tamed it?”
“It’s not illegal to have a pet,” I snap.
Her eyes soften. “There’s a calico cat I sometimes feed. Its name is Whiskers.”
“Oh.” I exhale a relieved breath. Maybe she won’t report Sharqi’s presence.
“You can’t keep that creature here. It’s probably still radioactive and will trash our genes while we sleep.” She strides across the room and opens a window, letting in warm, grass-scented air. The silk of her gray dress hugs her waist, accentuating her ElastoSculpted figure.
My gaze drops to my open gown, and I grimace at the tight bands holding me around my middle.
“Throw it out, and I won’t order it exterminated,” she says.
I grind my teeth. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”
She throws the fabric onto the foot of the bed. “Put this on. You’re wanted for deportment lessons.”
“Thank you for finding me, Sharqi,” I whisper. “Let’s meet later on the grounds.”
Sharqi stares into my eyes as though looking into my soul. Mom told me once that certain types of birds can form deep bonds with humans. The Red Runners use desert runners to send messages, but maybe Sharqi and I have that same, deep connection. How else would she know where to find me?
I release my friend, and she hops onto the ground and bounds across the room. Berta steps back as though the bird lets out clouds of radioactive dust. In a flurry of wings, Sharqi jumps onto the windowsill, turns her head, and with a nod goodbye, launches herself into the sky.
“Good riddance.” Berta slams the window shut. “Don’t ever bring a wild animal here. Pixel might not care about the long-term effect of contact with those creatures, but I’m not eager to bleed out of every orifice.”
Every instinct wants me to snap back at her, but I hold my tongue. If there are Red Runner operatives close by, I can’t afford to even hint about their presence.
She stands at the door and waves her hands in a shooing motion. “Go on then. Get dressed.”
“Did I miss anything?”
“Lunch.” She rolls her eyes. “And a boring lesson on how to use a knife and fork. Anyone who embarrasses Broadleaf during tonight’s fancy dinner gets half-rations from now until the ball.”
Without bothering to explain the dinner, Berta leaves the room. I go through my entire conversation with Ryce, and my stomach tightens at the implications of doing whatever is necessary to get into the palace.
After washing my face, I slip on the gray dress and gasp as the silk caresses my body. It’s smooth and soft and warms against my skin. I’ve never felt anything so luxurious. Sending a silent word of thanks to the Harvesters in Morus for husbanding the silkworms, I head downstairs, where an assistant ushers me into the large room from before. The booths have gone, and all the girls walk in a circle around a stern-faced woman.
I turn to the assistant. “What’s happening?”
“That’s Mistress Briella Pavane. She’s the foremost dance instructor in Phangloria. She’s going to train you on how to move with elegance and poise.”
We spend the entire day walking around in that circle, performing enough dips and spins and turns to keep me off-balance. At one point, she makes us tap the tips of our toes from side to front in a graceful movement that would only kick up dust in Rugosa.
Everyone from the Industrial and Harvester echelons struggles to keep our backs straight, to move in time with the beat, and a hundred other faults Mistress Pavane points out over the hours. Even Emmera, who is graceful and poised, can’t satisfy Mistress Pavane. Eventually, she allows those who have perfected the routine to leave early to get the first pick of the gowns.
The Amstraadi girls, who mirror the instructor’s movements, are the first allowed to leave. Next to perfect the routine is a pink-haired Artisan girl who I suspect is a professional dancer, and then Rafaela and the short-haired noble girl, followed by some more Artisans.
A muscle in my foot cramps from the repetitive movements, and I stop flouncing about to walk it off.
“You there.” She points at me. “The Foundling.”
I clench my teeth. “What?”
“At least make an effort to participate.” She widens her stance, placing her balled hands on her fists. “You want to impress Prince Kevon, not incite his pity.”
I snarl and continue limping around the room. A camerawoman keeps at my side, recording every wince, and my hands twitch to slap the annoying device out of her hands. I’m sure a little tantrum will excite the viewing public.
Berta gets the brunt of the instructor’s sharp tongue. Each time the older woman refers to her as a donkey, an oaf, or a blundering ape, my sympathy for the larger girl grows. Berta’s shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t snap back at the insults, not even when the instructor says she’s only fit to muck out Foundlings.
By the time Mistress Pavane dismisses me, Berta, and two wheezing Industrial girls as lost causes, the sun has already set, and I can’t believe what walking around in a circle has done to my body. My throat is dry, my stomach concave, and my head won’t stop spinning. Add heatstroke, and this might as well be a day’s work in the fields.
We file out of the room, but a hand lands on my shoulder.
“Miss Calico,” says Mistress Pavane. A camerawoman stands at her side, filming my reaction. Next to me is another of those annoying women, who fixes her camera on the dance instructor.
I pause and wait for a blistering reprimand for lacking grace or not trying hard enough.
“Despite your clumsy demeanor, you would have a chance of succeeding in this round if you participate fully in these trials.”
“But I am—”
“Why are you here at all when you resent the very people giving you a chance
