“It’s very precise,” I say with a frown. Maybe that’s why there are so many camerawomen following us everywhere.
She selects my photo and a timer, which brings up footage of me running down the stairs.
“Wait,” I say. “Go back an hour.”
With a few clicks of a button, I’m at the gymnasium, lying on one of the tables. The camera shows me exercising next to Berta, and then we change machines. There’s a close up of me struggling with one of the controls, and then the camera cuts to me storming out in a fury and running down the hallway and into a stairwell.
“That’s not what happened,” I tell her about the fake footage Prunella showed the girls.
She leans forward and selects another button. “Let’s see what they showed last night, then.”
It’s footage of me sitting on Gemini’s bed with my arms wrapped around the smaller girl, then Berta enters and announces that there’s no dinner. The camera cuts again to me, running through the hallway and down the stairs.
I sputter at the screen. “They’re making me look like an entitled brat. Who on earth drops out from a pageant because they didn’t get an evening meal?”
“Why would they go so far?” Forelle puts down her fork and leans forward, watching me stumble through the night with my arms splayed out.
“They’ve already decided who will win the Trials. This show probably makes all the Echelons feel like they have a chance that one of their own might become the queen.”
Forelle picks up the remote and switches to another channel. Prince Kevon wears black and holds the hand of an older woman who has the same delicate features as Rafaela. Beside him stands a black-haired man with Rafaela’s eyes. Garrett stands at the prince’s other side, looking grim.
The camera pans out to show that they’re in a room with an entire stained-glass wall dedicated to Gaia. The goddess takes the form of a tree with her leafy hair laden with flowers and fruit. Her serene, brown face smiles down at the mourners, and she holds the world in her outstretched hands.
Next onscreen is a closeup of Rafaela, who lies on a marble slab wearing a gown that glitters in the light. Her hair frames her beautiful features, and the natural makeup makes her look like she would awaken with a kiss.
My throat thickens. “I thought the hazardous waste people destroyed her.”
Forelle shakes her head. “This is so different from how Harvesters mourn the dead.”
I nod. “It isn’t even Sunday.”
Harvesters don’t have old-style funerals. Undertakers from the Guardian Echelon send the body away for cremation and bring back the ashes and a framed print from their identification records. We have these photos taken every few years, but we never get copies.
There’s a function room in the Rugosa Dome, where you can book a memorial service for Sundays, and the Nobles even provide refreshments. Funerals are usually well attended.
Montana’s voice commentates on the event, and he laments the dangers of Noble girls following Artisan careers. I clench my teeth and say, “It’s disgusting how they feed false information to the public to shape their opinions.”
“Did you know Garrett was shocked to discover we lived on rations?” Forelle takes a forkful of scrambled eggs. “He thought we got to keep a percentage of everything we grew.”
I take a long sip of orange-flavored water and grunt. “They probably show images of our breaks or something similar to make us look incompetent and lazy.”
Forelle nods. “I wish they would just tell the truth.”
I press my lips together to stop myself from blurting my plans. When the revolution comes, we’ll only report the truth and no stupid shows like the Princess Trials. And if most Nobles are being fed lies by the select few from the Council of Ministers, they’ll need to learn that their comfortable lives have been built on falsehoods.
The sound of a door opening makes us both lean forward to see who’s coming out from the guest house. Garrett and Prince Kevon step out into the patio. Prince Kevon pauses, presses his hand to his middle, and blows out a long breath.
Forelle and I exchange confused looks, but it’s her who speaks first. “Montana said he was broadcasting live from the funeral.”
Garrett shakes his head and nudges Prince Kevon. “That was last night. We came as soon as we heard a report that Zea left the Princess Trials.”
I purse my lips as they walk down the side of the pool and toward the shade. Prunella never wanted me in the Trials. She and Lady Circi were against me from the start, and if I don’t convince Prince Kevon that the reports were a vicious fabrication, I’ll have failed my mission.
“Have you changed your mind about participating?” asks Prince Kevon.
As Garret sneaks behind us and wraps his arms around Forelle’s shoulders, I stand. “A group of girls gassed our room, and one of them tied a noose around my neck. I left because they were trying to kill me, just as they killed Rafaela.”
His gaze drops to my neck, and his features slacken. “You’re bruised.”
“Those girls wouldn’t have stopped if we hadn’t fought back.”
He frowns. “How could Montana say—”
“The guy who also said Rafaela committed suicide?” I wave my arms up and down for emphasis. “Did Rafaela seem the type to kill herself? Can you see her sabotaging her Amstraad monitor to perform a fatal electrocution if jumping out of a window failed?”
“Of course, not,” replies the prince.
“What are you doing about it?” I don’t mean for my voice to be sharp, but if I had the power, I wouldn’t let murders go unpunished.
Prince Kevon’s posture stiffens. “Lady Circi has ordered a team of investigators to identify what happened.”
Pressure builds up like a rusting tea kettle about to release an ear-piercing whistle. If I stay quiet about my suspicions for the sake of the revolution,
