Prince Kevon ’s lips move, but there’s no sound. One of the Nobles yells to turn up the volume, and I lean forward in my seat.
“…And that is why I wish to put an end to the physical element of the contest,” he says. “The death of Berta Ridgeback was a terrible tragedy. I hoped that those running the Princess Trials would learn to make it a safer contest for these special young ladies, but this last trial has proven my assumptions false.”
I study his features for clues. His tense posture says repressed fury, but his eyes are more tired and just as sad as the morning after Rafaela died. The panicked thoughts in my head recede to the back of my mind, and I concentrate on the rest of the interview.
The camera cuts to Montana, who looks like the makeup artists have performed a hasty job. He must have forgotten to take his rejuvenation tonics because dark circles ring his eyes and make him look like he hasn’t slept for at least two days.
“We appreciate your candid words, Your Highness,” he says without his usual enthusiasm.
“Two further young ladies have been confirmed dead and another four are missing,” adds the prince.
Six images appear on the screen: Ingrid’s, the three Guardians, and the two Artisans. My throat dries. I know for sure that the estimate is wrong. The number of dead girls is three.
The camera cuts to a wide shot of Prince Kevon sitting behind the mahogany desk in a formal-looking study with Montana. Behind them is a large shelf of leather-bound books that remind me of the naval office where Prunella Broadleaf allowed me to speak with Mom, Dad, and the twins.
They shoot Prince Kevon in profile. “From this moment, all Trials will test the qualities required for a successful queen, such as diplomacy, kindness, and love for Phangloria.”
“Thank you, Your Highness, for your wise choice,” says Montana. “Do you have any words for the missing contestants’ families?”
The camera zooms into Prince Kevon’s face for a closeup. His features harden, and his eyes burn with determination. “I will mobilize every resource at our disposal to find your missing daughters. For those whose loved-ones suffered unfortunate deaths, I will seek justice.”
When the Phangloria insignia appears onscreen, a boulder of dread rolls around my stomach. Justice for Berta. What on earth will that mean when he discovers her killer was me?
“So, who won this Trial?” snaps a Noble in the front. She pulls off her hood and releases her blue-black ringlets.
I narrow my eyes at Constance Spryte, the girl who pointed a rifle at the decoy I hid up a tree. If Ingrid is dead, this girl will take over as my biggest threat among the contestants.
The door opens, and camerawomen stream into the room. Once they’re in place, Byron positions himself in the front and makes a few cheery comments to the viewers at home about finding the missing girls. “And now for a thrilling twist in the Princess Trials!”
My muscles tighten in anticipation. I hope he won’t flout everything Prince Kevon just announced and throw us back into danger. With Prunella Broadleaf still alive, she makes the perfect scapegoat.
He sweeps his arm to the side. “The future Queen of Phangloria will be the patron of the arts and must have a deep appreciation for all things beautiful. Ladies, each of you will obtain an object of art that best represents the treasure of Gaia.”
Byron stops talking, and the camerawomen point their lenses at our faces. I stare straight ahead, too concerned about Prince Kevon’s comment about justice to care for art.
Constance raises her chin. “What happened to the gold statuette.”
Byron coughs into his hand. “It’s back where it belongs.”
One of the Amstraadi girls raises her hand. Byron nods at her to speak, his features relaxing.
“What are the rules?” she asks. “Will you provide a budget?”
Byron’s serene expression falters. “Another quality of a potential queen is the power of persuasion. Convince a friendly Artisan or a museum curator to lend you an item to showcase.” He winks. “Our assistants will help you to venture anywhere within Phangloria. You have until dinnertime to present your acquisition.”
Constance is the first to stand. She walks to Byron, who raises his forearms and flinches. The camerawoman filming my lack of reaction swings around to record their silent standoff.
I turn to Vitelotte, who sits as still as stone. Her eyes meet mine with a look that mirrors my confusion. This is no place for a conversation about what we did, and I doubt that a place as well guarded as the palace would allow for privacy.
My brows rise in question, hoping she will understand what I want to ask, but she frowns and shakes her head. Whether that’s a sign for me to never talk of what we did in the woods or confirmation that Ingrid wasn’t the one we killed, I don’t know.
Out of desperation, I place my hand on hers and rap her wrist with the side of my thumb in Vail code:
DID
WE
KILL
INGRID?
Vitelotte doesn’t react, and my shoulders droop. So much for the idea that she’s a Red Runner. I turn back to the front of the room, where the Nobles have already left and the Amstraadi girls rise to their feet and form a small group.
A trio of production assistants walks toward us down the aisle of the classroom. Each of them wears oversized glasses with tiny camera lenses on their end pieces. I guess they’ll be our guides.
“Zea.” The dark-haired one in front raises a hand and directs her smile at me. Dimples appear in her warm, beige cheeks. “I’m Cassiope, and I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go.”
I jerk back and blink. None of the production staff have ever introduced themselves.
“Is there an infirmary?” I point at Emmera, who sits at the back table with her head bowed. “We’d also like to
