My insides twist into painful knots, but I force out the words, “What if someone in Lady Circi’s team is responsible for Rafaela’s death?”
His face drops, and he jerks his head away. “Don’t you think I’ve considered that? My parents never approved of Rafaela, not even as a friend. I can’t just accuse my mother’s lady-at-arms of being a murderer. It’s the same as accusing the queen.”
All the tension escapes me in an outward breath. I always thought Prince Kevon was too naive to work it out. “What will you do?”
He walks around the table, takes a seat, and casts the Lifestyle Channel a dismissive glance. “When I become the king, everyone involved in the murder of Rafaela will be punished, regardless of rank.”
My hands curl into fists, which I place on my hips. That could be in half a century. I’m about to protest when Prince Kevon raises a finger.
“Do not ask,” he says. “But circumstances have changed, and I might take the throne earlier than planned. I’m going to need a strong queen at my side with an outlook that encompasses the whole of Phangloria, not just the Oasis.” Determination crosses his features. “Will you rejoin the Princess Trials?”
“Yes,” I whisper. My mind races through different scenarios. Was there an accident at sea? I never asked for updates about the tsunami, but with the sea levels so high and taking up what used to be the east coast of America, anything is possible.
Prince Kevon gives me an approving nod. “I will arrange a couturier to fit you for a gown. Garrett will escort you to tonight’s ball as I’m escorting the queen.”
I glance at Forelle, who is feeding Garret a forkful of avocado toast. She turns to me and nods.
“But I can’t waltz.” I slump into my seat.
Garrett raises his arms in an exaggerated ballroom hold. “I’ll teach you the basic steps.”
Prince Kevon offers me his hand. “I need to attend urgent business. Please stay in the safety of this guesthouse until it’s time to leave.”
I place my hand in his, and for the first time, I don’t feel so irritated at his touch. “Thank you.”
He presses his lips on my knuckles, and I really don’t mind. When he says goodbye to the three of us and leaves, I stare at his broad back and wonder if Prince Kevon might become the king that will liberate the Harvesters.
After breakfast, we return to the guest house, where Garrett pushes the sofas to the edges of the room to create a dancefloor. On the wall screen plays an old movie of actors and actresses dressed in tuxedos and gowns, dancing in a grand ballroom with oversized chandeliers.
He takes turns teaching Forelle and me how to waltz. Forelle, being more graceful, picks up the steps with ease. I sit back and watch them dance in step to the orchestra music.
They look good together and stare into each other’s eyes like they’re the only people in the world. My chest tightens as I think of Ryce. The day I knocked out the guard, admiration shone in his eyes, but now that I see how Garrett looks at Forelle, I understand that it was more like the expression a superior officer gives a subordinate for a job well done.
I dip my head and stare out into the backyard, where even more swans frolic in the pool. Garrett’s personality is the opposite of Ryce’s.
Ryce’s happiness is forever tainted by the lack of justice for the brutal murder of his father. A guy driven by revolution and the need to avenge his father’s death won’t stare at girls with melting eyes.
I turn back to the dancing pair and study their steps. When my mission is complete, would I be the girl who melts the heart of Ryce Wintergreen?
The music fades, and an image of a white-haired man fills the screen wall. His mustache curves like buffalo horns, the front of his hair is longer than the sides and styled up and back from the forehead. He wears two cuffs on his ears that look like Amstraad health monitors but without the blinking lights. Despite his colorless appearance, he’s the most interesting-looking person I’ve seen so far in the Oasis.
A pair of identical young women stand at his sides, each with the same powdered faces and asymmetric bobs, but one has silver-gray hair, and the other’s is platinum-blonde.
Garrett finishes turning Forelle like an old-fashioned ballerina and then claps his hands together. “Master Thymel has arrived for your fitting.”
“Already?” I blurt.
He presses a gentle kiss on Forelle’s cheek. “I’ll leave you girls to decide on the perfect outfit. Make sure you choose something for yourself, Relle!”
“Relle?” I mouth.
Bouncing on her feet, she claps her hands and beams.
Moments later, Master Thymel steps into the living room with the twins. Each wears white clothing, indicating that they are artisans. The man looks about thirty but without that strange ageless look of Nobles like Montana. Behind them trails a motorized trunk the size of a closet.
The man spreads his arms wide and tilts his head to the side with an amused smirk. “Zea-Mays Calico, I am Tussah Thymel, and these are my sisters, Chiffon and Charmeuse.”
The twins place their fingers over their mouths and giggle.
My shoulders stiffen, and my face morphs into a scowl. What on earth is so funny? I’m in no mood to explain to a bunch of strangers how the Nobles in charge of their media network have cut camera footage to make me look like an idiot.
Master Thymel beams. “Forgive me, my dear, but we watch the Princess Trials every day. You and Prunella Broadleaf together are a riot.”
“She really hates you.” The platinum-haired twin unclips the metal fastenings on the front of the huge trunk.
“She hates anyone who points out her lack of intelligence,” says the silver-haired twin. “Everyone
