“Oh.” My skin itches under his scrutiny. Everything about this man tells me he should be handsome, but his features are too perfect, too symmetrical. It’s almost as if the most talented artist in the world created a statue, painted it, and breathed it to life. The effect is unsettling.
His smile widens. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
My lips tighten. I don’t know if he’s making conversation or trying to incite me into saying something against Queen Damascena, Montana, and all his employees. Garrett is wrong about me. I don’t distrust the Amstraadi because they’re not from Phangloria. It’s because nothing about them makes sense.
Ambassador Pascal brought young, combat-ready soldiers to build the new hospital and conveniently had a dozen beauties ready to enter the Princess Trials. The older man seemed vexed that the Nobles withheld the chemical compound that would make seeds germinate. They’re making the Amstraadi dependent on Phangloria for the supply of food, just as the Nobles make Harvesters dependent on them for water. To me, those actions sow the seeds of violent conflict.
I glance up at Mouse, whose gaze turns expectant. He probably won’t stop staring until I give him his answer. “If I had access to the same cameras as you, maybe I would know what you’re talking about.”
The music ends, and Mouse bows. I dip into a curtsey. The orchestra stands a few feet away, and we give them a brief round of applause.
As I leave, he grabs my arm. “Another dance, if you please.”
Nausea ripples through my gut, and it’s a struggle to mask my grimace. “Maybe later. I’d like a drink.”
“I can escort you to the punch bowl after this dance.” His hand tightens around mine. “Please, I merely wish to keep you safe.”
I’m about to ask what he’s talking about when Prince Kevon descends the steps, his gaze fixed on us.
Chapter 24
I pull my arm away and turn to Prince Kevon. This time, Mouse lets go and even steps back. The Amstraadi officer gives me a curt bow and walks around the dance floor, where he approaches Vitelotte.
A long, relieved breath escapes my lungs, and my lips spread into a smile that comes straight from the heart.
He grins back. “That fellow seemed reluctant to release you.”
“Yeah.” Even though Mouse’s hand was gloved, I wipe the palm that touched his on the skirt of my gown.
The applause dies down, and the conductor, who stands ten feet away, raises his arms.
Prince Kevon bows and is about to extend his hand when Queen Damascena descends. He steps back and frowns.
“Kevon.” She holds out her hand. “If you dance with one girl, you must dance with them all. It’s only fair.”
Prince Kevon sends me an apologetic look and sweeps his mother onto the dance floor. My shoulders slump. It’s not that I want him. He and Garrett are the only friends I have in this room full of Nobles. I frown. Since when did I consider them my friends?
Berta waltzes past with an Amstraadi soldier who eclipses her height by three inches. Honey-colored streaks highlight her ash-blonde hair, which sweeps into a messy chignon held together with butterfly pins. Her gown is as silver and as pale as the stars with a halter neckline that leaves her shoulders bare.
It’s backless and daring, and I can’t help but smile at her newfound elegance. After her mother sees her looking so radiant onscreen, I expect the woman will put more pressure on her to find a husband.
Behind her are two Industrial girls, who dance with awkward steps that not even the perfect Amstraadi males can counter. Dark circles mar their pale faces, but it’s the discoloration that comes with exhaustion, not bruises from last night’s fight. I wonder if Prunella instructed the makeup artists not to cover their blemishes so that they would look sickly on camera.
I sway on my feet, enjoying the rhythmic tempo of the waltz. Depending on the outcome of tonight’s vote, this could be my last night in the Oasis before I’m thrust back into a life of obscurity or the first night of starting the mission in earnest.
Someone approaches from my other side. I stare ahead and cringe, hoping it’s not Mouse returning for another chance at a creepily cryptic conversation. Montana steps in front of me and offers his hand.
My shoulders droop, and I bob into a shallow curtsey.
Montana appears taller today. I guess he wants to appear extra manly when he eventually dances with Queen Damascena.
“When you stormed out of the trials, you forfeited your place. Why have you returned?” he asks.
“You don’t know?”
His face hardens. “Enlighten me.”
I tell him about the attack on our room last night, and his brows raise a fraction. Throughout my story, his expression doesn’t vary from mild surprise, even when I tell him about the noose. Strangely, I think this is because his face is incapable of a wider range of movement. Something about it reminds me of the perfect Amstraadi features. I’m not sure what my mind is trying to show me, but I shake it off and focus on telling Montana what really happened last night.
“Can anyone corroborate your story?” he asks.
“Berta Ridgeback and Gemini Pixel were in the room when we were gassed.”
We dance in silence for at least a minute. Lights from his Amstraad cuff blink through his long, dark hair, and he gazes off to the tables at the side, and I stare up at him, wondering what’s going on behind that ageless, brown face.
The oldest Harvesters usually die before they reach their eightieth year. That’s because of the reduction in water rations when a person can no longer work the fields. Families help out however they can, but even if you juice every cactus growing wild in Rugosa, it still won’t support all those who don’t have enough to drink. This man has to be at least eighty, maybe even a hundred.
As the orchestra music
