I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Weren’t you there when they ran out of gowns?”
Snorting, she leans back. “You’re a wimp.”
“What?”
“There was an entire rail of dresses when I first arrived, and they wheeled them into another room after finding one that kind of fitted me. If you had thrown a tantrum like a good bronco, those old ladies would have dressed you properly.”
The Amstraadi girls lean forward and watch my reaction. Of course, they would. Berta, Gemini, and I are the Amstraad equivalent of clowns. My cheeks heat, and I roll the velvet edging of the tablecloth between my fingertips. I don’t need to look up to find that cameras are recording our conversation.
“How was I supposed to know they lied about not having gowns?” I mutter.
“Ladies,” Prunella Broadleaf’s voice rings out from the head table. She wears a strapless, electric-blue dress with two peacock feathers sticking out of its cleavage. The ends of her black hair are blue, as is her lipstick. “Please rise for our honored guests.”
Once everyone has stood, the back door opens.
Lady Circi walks in first, wearing a short black dress and flat shoes with a long, black frock-coat. It’s something she can shrug off in an instant and probably conceals all her guns.
She steps aside to allow Queen Damascena to enter with the Amstraad ambassador. The queen wears a silk gown in warm beige with gold velvet swirls that shimmer in the light of the chandeliers. Tendrils of blonde hair fall from her updo to frame around a diamond-encrusted golden tiara that matches the shape of the crown in the Phangloria emblem with a matching necklace and drop earrings.
Even with platforms on his leather boots, the ambassador stands a head smaller than the queen, but he puffs out his chest and walks alongside the taller woman. Princess Briar walks in next with Montana, who both wear black. Then Garrett enters next with Prince Kevon, and all the girls sigh.
I plaster on a smile, but on the inside, my eyes are rolling like melons down a steep hill. The prince is handsome compared to the ambassador, but thousands of Harvester men are well-built with sun-darkened skin. Some of them even have black hair.
The queen and ambassador take the middle seats, with Lady Circi and Montana on the queen’s side and Princess Briar next to the ambassador.
“Good evening, ladies,” says Montana from one end of the head table. “King Arias sends his apologies for not being with us. He is investigating the disturbance across the mountains with the Royal Navy.”
My brows rise. I always thought the Royals just ruled from the Oasis.
There’s a free seat next to the princess, and Prunella steps forward to take it, but Garrett appears from the other side and sits next to his cousin. The vindictive part of me cheers at her failed attempt at social climbing. I lean forward, waiting to see what she will do next.
“May I take this seat?” says a deep voice that catches my attention.
Prince Kevon’s hands rest on the empty seat between Rafaela von Eyck and a red-haired Amstraadi girl with cute freckles.
“I’ve been keeping it warm for you,” says Rafaela.
Up at the head table, Queen Damascena and Lady Circi share similar scowls. I wonder if Prince Kevon was supposed to sit next to his sister.
“Your Highness,” says the Amstraadi girl sitting next to him. “It is an honor to meet you.” She introduces herself as Sabre and then tells him the names of each of the other six from her nation.
As the second Amstraadi girl makes a long introduction, people wearing tailored burgundy vests with matching bow-ties serve bowls of dark broth with caramelized onions and melted cheese. The scent of warm beef fills my nostrils and makes my stomach rumble, but nobody eats.
Ingrid Strab hardens her eyes. Her lips twitch as though she wants to bring up her disastrous date from the night before or tell the Amstraadi girls to stop hogging the prince’s attention.
She casts nervous glances at the camera pointed at her face, and I wish we had gotten a chance to see how things ended with her and Prince Kevon. Even though my stomach feels as though it’s digesting itself, I smile politely at the camera aimed at me.
When the last Amstraadi girl finishes talking, Prince Kevon inclines his head. “Thank you for the charming introductions.”
Rafaela grins. “You know the rest of us from watching the auditions, so why don’t we eat?” She winks at me from across the table. “I’m sure some of us are eager to start on that French onion soup.”
Prince Kevon and Rafaela share a fond glance and a chuckle but still don’t eat.
“You certainly know the prince along with many of your other co-stars,” says Ingrid. “Last week, there were pictures of you getting close to Blake Langdon, Cliff Hanson, and Grant Leonard.”
Rafaela’s smile falters. “You know better than to believe the gossip rags, Ingrid.”
Berta snorts a laugh, but I’m too hungry to care about the storm brewing at the dinner table. Everyone around us in the room is eating. The clink of silverware rings through my ears, and the scent of cooked meat taunts my nostrils. Saliva fills my mouth, but I can’t yet fill my belly.
Prince Kevon says something in Rafaela’s defense, but the words glide over my consciousness the way water rolls on dry and tightly-packed earth.
Before I can help myself, the words tumble from my lips. “The cooks have prepared such a lovely meal. Why don’t we enjoy it while it’s still hot?”
The prince’s eyes soften, and he looks at me like I’m a starved puppy. “Of course.” He picks up his soup spoon. “We thank Gaia for the wonderful food, but also remember the talented Artisans who prepared it.”
With the first spoonful, a riot of flavors explodes in my mouth. It’s sweet and rich and meaty with a hint of alcohol. The onions are so
