My brows draw together. There’s no point in correcting her that I only weed the tomato fields and haven’t yet progressed to picking the fruit. “I don’t resent anyone.”
She pulls a remote from the pocket of her skirt and points it at the wall screen. The music stops, and her hawkish gaze penetrates mine. “Then I will give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that your features fall in such an unsightly manner.”
Indignation burns through my sinuses, making my skin tighten. What on earth is she talking about? No one has ever complained about my face.
“There it is,” she says, her eyes flashing with triumph. “You act as though these trials are something you must endure to gain a larger prize.”
My mouth drops open. Am I really that obvious? Without the music, there is nothing to cushion the weight of her words. And worst of all, OasisVision might broadcast this reprimand all over Phangloria. I swallow hard and hope Carolina and Ryce can’t listen to the device in my boot. They would hate my lack of discretion.
“At the ball, when Prince Kevon surveys the selection of beauties, who will he be most likely to invite for an evening’s promenade?” She sweeps her arm in a graceful arc and points a toe on the polished stone floor. “The delightful young lady who glows in his presence or the hunched, scowling creature seething with hatred?”
The camerawoman standing over Mistress Pavane’s shoulder steps forward for a close-up of my stricken expression, and I drop my gaze to the floor. What kind of spy shows her true emotions? If I continue like this, I’ll be joining Gemini on the execution block.
“Think about what I have said.” Mistress Pavane gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. “You have everything necessary to catch the eye of His Highness. Everything except the attitude.”
Ryce said to do what it took to get into the palace. Somehow, I’ve got to convince the voting public that I’m interesting enough to keep around. I close my eyes, blow out a long breath, and nod.
“Thank you.” The words come from my heart. “I needed to hear that.”
“Dismissed,” she replies.
One of the camera women remains with Mistress Pavane, presumably to interview her on our performance, while the other guides me out of the room and down the stone hallway to a smaller room. Empty garment rails line three of the walls, and a row of trunks sit along the fourth.
Berta stands on one of six podiums surrounded by a gaggle of seamstresses, who fit her into a silver gown that exposes long, shapely legs at the front with a train at the back that sweeps down to her ankles.
I don’t have time to marvel at her spectacular transformation or the way they have pinned up her hair with silver combs because the head seamstress shrieks that she has run out of gowns and can’t dress me for the royal dinner.
The camerawoman filming Berta turns to capture my reaction, and all I can smell is horse manure. I can’t believe the seamstresses didn’t know there would be forty-five girls. And it’s far too much of a coincidence that Mistress Pavane kept me behind for a talk that lost me a chance to wear an evening gown.
My jaw clenches, and I walk around the room, opening trunk after trunk, only to find them empty. A tight band of trepidation squeezes my chest tighter as I move along the row. The last trunk holds a box of pins, and I’m ready to hurl them into the camera pointed at my face.
Even though Mistress Pavane deliberately held me back, she was right about one thing. I need to show Prince Kevon and the voting public that I’m worth progressing to the next round.
I stare down at my silk dress and inhale a deep, fortifying breath. A reinforced seam runs along the neckline that’s robust enough to pin a few decorative flowers if I can find them. It’s plain compared to Berta’s gown, but it’s far finer than anything I have ever worn.
My throat dries, and I lick my parched lips. Will it be suitable for dinner with the royal family?
After a half-hour jaunt around the garden, I return to the seamstresses with an armful of flowers. They find some mesh fabric and hand-fit a bodice over my gray dress with delicate stitches. When they attach the flowers, it looks like a different dress. A camerawoman informs me of the time, and we walk to the dining room.
I pause at the door and gape. The red carpet wasn’t here at breakfast, and neither were red drapes with gold trim on the windows. Behind the head table stand six gilded chairs upholstered in red velvet, which match the golden goblets and candlesticks.
Instead of pursing my lips with disapproval at the opulent waste, I part my lips and let my face go slack. The camerawoman fires a bunch of questions at me, and I say something about the scene looking like a fairytale.
Around the dining room are tables of twelve instead of tables of six. All are full of girls, except for the one Berta and Gemini share. There’s a spare seat between them, which I guess is for me.
Next to Gemini sit six of the Amstraadi girls, and on Berta’s side sits Ingrid Strab and Rafaela van Eyck. The actress wears a sheer, plum gown with a deep V-neckline that shows off her creamy skin. The garment is encrusted with black jewels, making my flowers look paltry. Her hair is swept to the side, and the barest of makeup enhances her features. While Rafaela looks like a natural beauty, the others appear overdone. Prince Kevon has excellent taste.
The seat next to Rafaela is empty, and I pity the girl who sits next to the actress. She looks more stunning than even the Amstraadi, who the seamstresses have clothed in simple gowns that don’t quite match their colorings.
I take my seat,
