The admiration in his eyes brings me back to that conversation we had when I thought he was just a guard. Back then, he said Prince Kevon was lucky to have me in the Princess Trials.
His gaze drops to my lips, and a bolt of dread drops into my stomach. He’s going to kiss me. Kiss me like I’m a girl who has admired him from afar and longed to be at his side. He’s going to kiss me when it should be Ryce Wintergreen in his place.
“There she is,” says a sharp voice.
We jump apart to find Ingrid Strab striding through the rose arches flanked by a pair of camerawomen. She reaches the fountain and places her hands on her hips. Behind her are all the other Noble girls, three Guardians, two Artisans, and Emmera.
The boulder of dread in my stomach lightens. I straighten, readying myself for the upcoming confrontation.
Ingrid’s gaze skips over me. “Your Highness, why does one so wise allow himself to be swayed by a creature of such coarse charms?”
“Comments like this are precisely why I agreed to the trials,” says Prince Kevon. “I want to spend the rest of my life with a woman who encompasses the wisdom and beauty of Phangloria in all its varieties. Where you see coarseness, I see the radiance of Gaia, untainted by surgical enhancements.”
My jaw drops, and I swing my gaze back to the Noble girls, who swap uncomfortable glances. Somewhere through the shock of hearing about the Nobles’ artificial beauty, my heart warms at Prince Kevon’s compliment.
Ingrid’s features twist into a mask of anguish. “Is this what we’re to expect in the palace round?” Her voice shakes. “Clandestine meetings between you and whoever stoops low enough to satisfy your carnal desires?”
Prince Kevon steps forward. “Ingrid, is it?”
Something flashes in her eyes. It looks like fury, but the way she clutches herself around the middle indicates mortification. Ingrid won the Detroit Depression round and dined twice with the prince, but now he’s just told the whole of Phangloria that he finds her unremarkable.
“Yes, Your Highness,” she replies, enunciating his title like an insult.
“What is happening out here?” barks a female voice. “Make way for the queen’s guard!”
The girls part, allowing Lady Circi to approach. “How is my security personnel supposed to keep you safe when you wander freely through the grounds without an escort?” She bares her teeth. “Everybody, get inside.”
For a moment, nobody moves. Lady Circi is like the strictest teacher in school, except she’s armed with at least four guns. After my hair-raising one-to-one with her in the hospital and the subsequent doctored footage, I want to stay at Prince Kevon’s side in case I was wrong about her not being present during last night’s attack.
“Now,” she snarls.
Ingrid straightens, raises her head, and turns on her heel. The other girls cast us withering looks before joining their leader under the rose arches. Only the camerawomen remain. One of them shoots footage of Lady Circi’s profile, and the other faces us.
The lady-at-arms sweeps her arm to the side. “I will be having words with Her Majesty.”
“Do tell her that I’m keeping up my end of the bargain,” replies Prince Kevon.
“Barely.” Lady Circi flicks her head in the direction of the doors. “Come on.”
We all walk in silence through the rose garden, back through the hallways, and into the ballroom. The orchestra plays another type of music, and ladies clad in black-and-white cocktail dresses slink across the dance floor in a close embrace with white-shirted men whose black pants are held up by suspenders. Their movement consists of sensuous pauses and kicks and flicks to the strains of a wailing accordion and a melancholy violin.
I stand at the edge of the dance floor with Prince Kevon on my right and Emmera at my left with the other girls at my back. But I can’t focus on them because I’m mesmerized by the dancers and this enchanting melody. I doubt that the Nobles will broadcast this part of the evening to the Harvester domes. It’s rare that we get insights into their varied and rich lives.
When the music stops, the dancers bow, and applause fills the ballroom. Montana walks to the middle of the dance floor and spreads his arms wide. “Thank you, the Pavane troupe, for your wonderful interpretation of Alcorta’s El Choclo. My auditors have informed me that they have finished collating the votes of the viewing public for who will progress to the palace round.”
The people sitting at the tables and in the balconies applaud. My stomach tightens, and Prince Kevon wraps an arm around my waist. Lady Circi, who stands at his right, says something in a loud whisper.
“I need to be in place for the announcement,” he whispers to me. “Good luck.”
He gives me one last squeeze around the waist and walks toward the steps with Lady Circi. I glance up to the thrones and meet Queen Damascena’s gaze. The ice in her blue eyes makes me wonder for a stupid moment if she was the attacker with the noose.
Montana asks all the girls to step forward and form a line. As I head toward the dance floor, someone wraps a large hand around my arm. I twist around to find Mouse staring down at me.
“What do you want?” I pull on my arm, but his grip is tight.
His gaze drops to my blue tomato pendant, and my skin crawls with revulsion. “Come with me,” he says. “I will keep you safe.”
“What are you talking about?” I hiss.
“You trust the prince.” He releases my arm and steps back with his strangely perfect brows drawn together in mock confusion. “Why don’t you trust me?”
The lights on his collar blink on and off. One of them is obviously a camera, and I remember that Ambassador Pascal negotiated my place on the Princess Trials as a form of entertainment. If Mouse is anything like the Amstraadi girls
