Sublime is too weak a word to describe the soup, and a pang of regret strikes my heart. I wish Mom, Dad, the twins, and Ryce were here to enjoy such a sumptuous treat.
Just as I place a second spoonful in my mouth, Sabre says, “We should also thank the wonderful Harvester folk for growing these ingredients, yes?”
Prince Kevon pauses, and his cheeks darken. “Of course. Every Echelon contributes to Phangloria’s prosperity.”
I glance down into my soup, wondering why it took an Amstraadi and not me to point out Prince Kevon’s oversight. Was one taste of luxury enough to make me forget our struggles?
Sabre turns to me with a sharp smile. “You are the Harvester who ranted about the Echelon system, yes?”
Everybody turns to look at me. I want to hiss like an angry cat at the girl for bringing up my embarrassing performance in the audition, to tell her that I had been drugged, but she’s probably baiting me to lash out like a bucking bronco.
When I don’t respond, she says, “How does it feel to know that the food you grew is unappreciated?”
A bout of irritation sizzles across my skin. “That’s an interesting comment,” I said. “What makes you say that?”
Her grin widens, and the other Amstraadi girls to her left smirk. “Wasn’t it a subject you brought up during your audition?”
“When someone threw a tomato at me?” I said. “Food isn’t a weapon.”
“Ladies, let’s not talk politics at the dinner table,” says Prince Kevon. “I get enough of that with my father’s daily briefings with the Prime Minister.”
The Noble and Amstraadi girls chuckle, but Berta, Gemini, and I remain silent. Rafaela changes the subject to an upcoming festival, while Ingrid buts in with interruptions. The Noble girls exchange hateful stares and continue to compete for his attention.
If I had joined the Princess Trials for a chance with the prince, I would be annoyed with Ingrid and Rafaela.
“Gemini.” Sabre gathers some broth on her soup spoon. “How do you feel about being paraded in front of the entire nation as a scapegoat?”
“She looks more like a sacrificial lamb to me,” mutters a mahogany-skinned girl on Sabre’s left.
I slip my hand under the table and wrap it around the smaller girl’s clenched fist. It’s my silent encouragement not to give these other girls the satisfaction of crumbling.
Sabre shoots me a pointed look. “I think a person should be executed for their own crimes, not the crimes of others. What do you think?”
“I don’t believe in executions at all.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
The Amstraadi girls try to drag me into a discussion of Phangloria’s death penalty policies, but I deflect their attempts to place words of sedition in my mouth. Berta mutters a few words in my defense, but the girls ignore her. Maybe that’s what everyone is supposed to treat the underdog.
Maybe riling up the bronco is a common game tactic, but they won’t stop coming at me with loaded questions. On the other side of the table, Prince Kevon is trying to stop Ingrid and Rafaela from coming to blows.
“Phangloria is a wonderful country,” I snap.
“But you don’t agree with the way it’s run,” says Sabre. “The Foundling Echelon, for example—”
“They’re not technically Echelons,” I say.
Prince Kevon breaks away from the bickering Nobles and addresses Sabre. “If you have any ideas for improving Phangloria, I would love to hear them.”
She points at me. “I thought Zea-Mays Popcorn was a Foundling—”
“I’m a Harvester.” I ignore the stupid taunt about my name.
“Ladies.” Prince Kevon folds his napkin and places it on the bowl. “I will not tolerate this petty bickering. If you cannot comport yourselves with dignity and grace, I will have you removed from the Trials.”
My lips tighten, and I turn to Sabre, whose freckles now stand out against her paling face.
“Zea,” says the prince. “In your rehearsal, you mentioned that your mother spent her childhood in the Barrens. Would you care to discuss the matter with me over a walk?”
Chapter 17
The girls around the table fall silent as Prince Kevon pulls back his chair and stands. Sabre casts a worried look at the head table, where the Amstraad ambassador tilts his head toward the queen but fixes his gaze on us.
A moment later, the entire dining room falls silent. A sea of faces—from the other contestants, the staff, and the camerawomen—turn in our direction. I’m certain that our bickering will feature heavily in tonight and tomorrow’s televised highlights of the Princess Trials.
As Prince Kevon walks toward me around the table, Lady Circi and Garrett rise from their seats, looking like they want to intervene.
Prince Kevon holds out a hand. “Stay. Enjoy your meal. I’m not going far.”
He offers me his hand. “Walk with me.”
Excitement skitters up my spine. Prunella warned us that the first trial was our last opportunity until the palace round to see Prince Kevon alone, yet he chose me for an impromptu one-to-one. With Lady Circi and Queen Damascena busy entertaining the ambassador, I might just get a chance to visit the palace.
Ryce’s words rattle through my skull, and my cheeks heat. How on earth is a girl who has never so much as kissed a boy supposed to coax a prince into an invitation to his home?
Inhaling a deep breath, I force down my blush. The Red Runners taught us basic combat, not advanced seduction.
My hand slips into his, and I let him guide me up from my seat. The action feels like something from another world, where the girls who guards use and discard like trash are considered ladies worthy of deference by princes.
We walk through the dining room with every head turning in our direction. No chatter or click of spoons on china muffles our footsteps, and my heart clatters faster than an escaping lizard.
One of the servers in burgundy vests opens the door with a deep bow,
