“It’s my estimation that Phangloria exports fifty percent of its output to Amstraad.” He glances down at my plate and back to me. “How much of that do you think contains seed?”
“But tomatoes contain seeds—”
“Which won’t grow without a specific soil compound. Neither will the seeds of any of the fruit and vegetables we import.”
My throat dries, and I glance around from left to right. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You asked about Miss Pixel. I wish to tell you that our society holds everything precious.” The man leans forward to observe my reaction. “We do not waste food on garden parties, nor do we waste the talents of our people on drudgery where we can use machines. And one thing we would never waste is the life of a promising child, especially one in excellent health.”
“I don’t understand.”
The dark tint on his spectacles disappears, revealing glacial eyes. “At some point, you will.”
He changes the subject with a hair-raising anecdote about his ambassadorial limousine being attacked by a hoard of wild men on his journey from the aerodrome to the North Gate of the Great Wall. They were trying to reach Princess Briar, who he says was traumatized by the experience.
Before I can ask why Phangloria doesn’t have an aerodrome within the wall, he steps away and gives me a curt bow. “I look forward to watching you progress through the Princess Trials.”
“Er… Thank you, Your Excellency.”
He walks away, leaving me reeling with confusion. I lower myself into a wooden seat and stare at my uneaten plate of salad. Something in his words implied that he thought I had a chance of winning, but more importantly, I think he wants to save Gemini’s life. But why does my flesh still crawl at the thought of her in the care of the ambassador?
As I can consider his words, an assistant dressed in burgundy approaches with a tray laden with glasses of clear, sparkling liquid.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Purge Water.”
“No, thank you.”
“All the candidates have to drink it.”
I glance around to find all the other girls sipping glasses of the same liquid and take a glass. The assistant nods and walks to the next person.
As I eat my salad, my gaze follows Montana, who brings a tall man over to the Harvester girls. He’s about to introduce the man to the cartwheeling girl, but Emmera lurches forward and grabs the man’s hand. Vitelotte and Corrie Barzona exchange exasperated looks.
I shake my head, wondering how on earth she thinks that attitude will win her friends, let alone the attention of Prince Kevon.
A warm wind blows across the garden, bringing the sweet scent of roses. I turn in the direction of the hedges that lead to the guesthouse where Forelle is staying and hope she’s happy with Garrett and isn’t worrying her parents.
Hours later, the dignitaries leave the garden party, and the assistants usher us back into the building and down the stairs to a basement room that looks like it takes up half a block. Long, thin bulbs cross the walls like pipes, emitting blue light. It’s so bright that I have to squint.
As with most rooms in the Royal Navy barracks, one wall consists of a screen that broadcasts highlights from The Princess Trials. They’re replaying Rafaela’s audition. She’s beaming into the camera and wearing a glittering mauve gown that complements her coloring.
Some of the girls gasp and rush around the screen, but I stay close to the doorway with Berta. No matter how much I look at the vibrant beauty, it will never erase the image of the broken girl lying in the middle of the road.
The machines around the room look like loungers, except they are split into sections where a person is supposed to lay their arms and legs. It looks like there are enough for every single girl in the trials.
“What’s this?” I whisper to Berta.
“It’s a gymnasium, what do you think?”
Her abrasive attitude rubs my nerves raw, and I spit out, “No Harvester has fancy rooms to stay active. We tire ourselves out with work.”
A shrill blow of a whistle turns my attention to the right of the room, where Prunella Broadleaf jogs out of a doorway. Her tied-back hair bounces about like a horse’s tail, and a thick sweatband conceals the wide expanse of her forehead.
“Attention ladies,” Prunella trills to a camera. “Good afternoon!”
Everyone but me mutters a response.
“After that sumptuous luncheon, we’re going to work off those kilojoules and shape up those muscles. Who’s ready?”
She tells us to take a machine each, lie down, and let the technology do the work. Berta and I head to a pair of exercisers in the middle of the room. Berta presses a button on the armrest, and her machine vibrates to life. I shrug and do the same.
The exerciser vibrates while moving my arms up and down. I can’t feel the strain in my muscles the same way a person gets fatigued from pushing a wheelbarrow, and it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve encountered since arriving at the Oasis.
Half an hour later, when our machines stop, Prunella tells us to swap. This continues for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.
Scenes from last night’s dinner come onscreen. The camera focuses on Princess Briar, who gives one-word answers to Garrett. I can’t hear what they’re saying over the rumble of the exerciser. The young woman retains the blank expression from the auditions, and nothing Garrett says will make her smile. A bleep from my electric bracelet makes me jolt. If the Amstraadi really survive on rations, I’m not surprised she’s so downcast.
The screen cuts to scenes from the other tables. Emmera knocks a glass of water onto the cartwheeling girl’s lap, claps both hands over her mouth, and stares horrified into the camera. At the Industrial table, two girls cough into their
