Prince Kevon and I walked this way to reach the guest house. I hurry through the haze with one hand on the hedge for guidance, with my ears on alert for following footsteps. The hedge ends at a sharp corner, but I continue straight ahead over a stone path and feel out for the conical trees.
“Zea,” a voice whispers on the edge of my consciousness.
A jolt of alarm shoots through my heart, and I spin around. This part of the gardens aren’t illuminated, and I see only dark shapes.
“Who’s there?” I snarl.
“Psst!”
Leaves rustle overhead, the sound causing my skin to tighten. I swing my fists through the air but hit nothing. My chest constricts, negating any improvements the fresh air made to my lungs. I breathe hard, trying to slow my heart.
The watch in my boot buzzes, but self-preservation keeps my feet moving. I can’t stop in case they’re following. The whisper could have been the wind, but if I stand exposed, they’ll definitely find me.
Groping my way through the dark, I reach the wall of densely-packed trees and stumble in the direction of Garrett’s guesthouse. After several steps, an archway forms, and the scent of flowers on my over-sensitized nostrils makes me choke. I hurry through to the metal door, which is closed.
“Please,” I say to whoever’s on the other side of the camera. “I’m here to see my friend. She’s a guest of Garrett.”
There’s no response. My heart sinks. If I had stayed in my hallway with Berta and Gemini, it would be three against the group of attacking girls. Now, I’m alone and in this covered walkway where anyone is free to murder me in private. And if my attacker is someone with access to the security system, they might look up the location of my bracelet and find me.
My swollen throat convulses, and I hold onto the plant-covered wall for balance. Maybe I shouldn’t have run.
Eventually, the door clicks open. I slip through the narrow gap and slam it shut.
Now, I’ve got to reach the guesthouse without drowning.
Forelle is home, and she guides me to a sink and rinses the gas out of my eyes. The cool water is softer than anything we get in Rugosa, and it feels better than the first droplets in the rainy season. My eyes no longer feel gouged by needles, but my vision is still a blur. Next, she guides me through the house into a humid room and helps me out of my clothes.
I step into a chamber with a rough stone floor, and jets of warm water stream out at me from both sides and straight above. Water slides off the sticky residue on my skin, and I feel around for soap. My fingers find a metal dispenser, and cool, chamomile-scented liquid fills my palms.
As I work the soap into my hair and skin, my pulse calms, and the tightness around my lungs loosen. Who on earth stormed my room tonight? The Guardians and Nobles might have access to poisonous gasses, but would they go so far? I shake off the question and let the lather slide onto my face.
Anyone willing to throw a girl to her death is capable of anything. Tomorrow, when I return to the trials, I will find the girl with a swollen nose and inform Lady Circi that I’ve discovered Rafaela’s murderer.
Water pummels my tense muscles from all directions, and I sigh. If Berta hadn’t been in the room with me, I would surely have died tonight.
A knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts. “Zea,” says Forelle. “The hot chocolate is ready. Come out whenever you want.”
“Thanks.”
The warm water has cleared my vision, and I glance around to find myself in the shower cubicle of a bathroom larger than the kitchen at home. At one end of the room is a glass wall, where a large tub overlooks a garden of palm trees illuminated by floor lights.
I step out into a slate floor and reach for one of the fluffy dressing gowns hanging on the wall. There’s a huge mirror and double sink unit opposite, and I peer at my reflection.
My dark, wet hair clings to my face, and my complexion is drawn. Livid blood vessels mar the whites of my eyes, which are barely visible through all the swelling.
I swallow hard. Whoever created that disgusting naked video made everyone think I had tried to entrap Prince Kevon.
The downstairs of the guesthouse consists of shades of white illuminated by an array of floor and table lamps. Forelle sits on a soft, ivory sofa, dressed in a deep green one-piece that accentuates her curves. On the low table in front of her are a pair of grilled cheese sandwiches and two cups of dark, hot chocolate topped with swirls of cream.
She raises her head and smiles. “Feeling better?”
“Much,” I rasp.
I sink into the armchair next to hers, and she offers me a cup. The hot chocolate is warm and sweet, with a tinge of bitterness that Forelle explains comes from the drink’s high concentration of cacao. I savor my drink, enjoying how the creamy liquid soothes my throat, and recount the events of the night.
At the end of my story, Forelle says, “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“If it wasn’t for me tripping you over in the square, Garrett would never have noticed you.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“He thought you would be perfect for Prince Kevon. Garrett didn’t need to tell me you’ve been spending time with the prince. It’s all over the Lifestyle Channel.”
Forelle has watched the Princess Trials at every spare moment. While the cameras focus on my conflicts with Prunella Broadleaf and the other girls, it’s only been Ingrid, Rafaela, and me who have had a chance to spend time with
