“Like the doctor who treated Emmera?” I stitch together white tufts of pampas grass to create a skirt. They’re like dandelion seed heads, only flatter and eighteen inches in length.
“And Queen Damascena’s family,” Georgette replies. “Her father was the field marshal in charge of protecting the borders around Phangloria from invaders.”
My brows rise. That explains why the queen is so ruthless and why she was tactical enough to team up with Lady Circi.
“Everyone is equal in the Harvester Echelon,” I say.
“Are they?” she asks.
I raise my head and frown. We have the mayor and his wife. They live in one of the nicer houses close to Rugosa Square and distribute water rations to those who don’t work under a supervisor. Some of the older supervisors who work the faraway fields get to ride pronghorns, and I suppose Deliverers like Ryce have a more varied workday, as do the people who work within the mayor’s office, like Carolina.
My gaze darts to Cassiope, who looks on with interest, so I say, “I’ve never noticed any divides in our Echelon.”
Someone knocks on the door, and my heart leaps into the back of my throat. An image flashes into my mind of Queen Damascena and Lady Circi sweeping in with a retinue of armed women. In this worst-case-scenario, they strip me of my last shred of dignity, then drag me by the hair through the palace and eject me from the gates in a spray of gunfire.
I gulp and hope that I’m wrong. If I’m lucky, they’ll let me exit quietly through a back door. “Come in?”
The door swings open, and Vitelotte walks in holding two huge baskets of fruit and vegetables. Behind her is Emmera, who clutches a willow cornucopia as large as her torso.
“Great work,” I say with a gasp.
Emmera smirks. “I had to make Gaia’s cornucopia large enough to hold a pumpkin.”
We spend the next hour dressing Emmera, fussing over the arrangement of the cornucopia, and weaving grapes and flowers into her hair. Vitelotte sits at the dining table with a notebook and a copy of Gaia’s bible. She takes notes, scribbles them out, and frowns. I’m not sure if she’s writing a story or making an inventory of the crops Gaia told Gabriel Phan to grow.
“Ten minutes, girls,” says Cassiope.
We’ve woven a wreath of white grapes and vine leaves into her flaxen locks and mixed them with white roses. Every inch of the ElastoSculpt encasing her torso is covered with flowers that climb to her right shoulder and create an asymmetric neckline. The skirt is a luxurious array of white grass fibers that sweep down to the floor.
Emmera wears the barest of cosmetics—only enough to darken her lashes, emphasize her brows, and bring out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Cassiope applies the finishing touches of gloss to her lips, and she looks like the epitome of natural, Harvester beauty.
It will take more than a heartfelt apology for me to forgive her role in hunting me after the ball, but I hope that this moment of glory will make up for the Lifestyle Channel broadcasting her humiliating treatment at the hands of those Nobles.
“How do I look?” she whispers.
“Like Gaia made flesh,” I say.
Her eyes sparkle, and she exhales a shuddering breath. “Alright, then. I’m ready.”
After thanking Georgette and Forelle for their help, Vitelotte and I hold Emmera’s train, and we follow her production assistant through the hallway and down the grand staircase. At the half landing, a pair of camerawomen tell us to pause.
“You’ve helped to make Emmera irresistible,” Cassiope says as we stand at the train of the other girl’s dress. “Prince Kevon won’t take his eyes off her. I’m sure the viewers at home are wondering how that makes you feel?”
Claws pierce my heart. Cassiope is only doing her job and asking the obvious, but I meet her gaze and inject my voice with cheer. “Every girl needs their moment to shine. I hope this will be Emmera’s.”
Emmera turns around and offers me a dazzling smile. I smile back. It’s a pity that she finally came to terms with her resentment on what I hope will be my last day of the Princess Trials.
The assistant leads us through the palace’s chandelier-lit entrance hall to a patio room of high ceilings and a wall of glass doors. Each girl stands behind tables or beside framed paintings on easels. It reminds me of Soil Science classes at school, where we would bring in weeds, dead insects, and soil samples from around Rugosa and talk about how they affected the development of crops.
Constance Spryte storms across the room from beside a green-skinned Gaia portrait who sits cross-legged with her arms wrapped around the planet. Her hands ball into fists and her ringlets bounce with every furious step.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she snarls at Emmera. “You can’t wear a piece of art and call it a commission.”
I walk around Emmera and fold my arms across my chest. “If we made such a mess of our challenge, why are you so upset?”
Constance’s mouth drops open. She glances over her shoulder, presumably for an imaginary Ingrid. When nobody backs her up, she bares her teeth and hisses, “You’re making fools of us all.”
“Mistress Spryte, is it?” Vitelotte walks around a cowering Emmera and stands at my side.
“Yes,” Constance snaps.
“Wealth is found not in gold, but in the wisdom of words. Those who tend to the earth will survive the storm.” She looks the Noble in the eye. “Gaia, chapter four, verse six.”
I recognize that passage. It’s part of Gaia’s prayer our teachers would make us chant each morning at school. According to Carolina, Gaia’s Bible indoctrinates Harvesters to think their toil and suffering makes them beloved to a goddess who doesn’t exist.
From the mockery in her voice, Vitelotte just used the Nobles’ propaganda to prove Harvester superiority.
Constance steps back. “What?”
Vitelotte reaches under her arm and extracts the bible. “What
