Constance flares her nostrils, and purple blotches appear on her cheeks. She raises her hand to deliver a slap, but Vitelotte mirrors the movement. She steps away, her face slack, and then hurries back to her borrowed portrait.
Before the Princess Trials, a flare of triumph would have filled my chest. Now, it flutters with trepidation for how the Nobles will retaliate. I can’t let my friend make herself a target, especially now that my time at the Trials will end and nobody will watch her back.
We walk to an empty space and wait.
“Where’s Byron?” one of the Nobles asks.
“Where’s Prince Kevon?” asks another.
Constance glowers at us from the other side of the room. I meet her gaze and glare back. She’s nothing but a loudmouth in a position of power. Someone like her would never survive a day in the Harvester Region.
Complaints along this vein fill the room. I glance at Vitelotte, who rolls her eyes. Right now, I would give anything to watch these spoiled brats toil the fields all day with a gourd of warm and metallic-tasting water rations.
One of the production assistants points a remote control to the wall screen, which displays the Lifestyle Channel. Prunella Broadleaf stands in front of the camera, her eyes half-lidded. Lights flicker along one side of the collar on her neck, and she sways on her feet. I press a hand to my chest and cringe at the cruelty of her punishment.
Behind her is footage of Gloria National Park. Dozens of drones fly above the forests, and more guards in black armor scour the land. I’ve never seen so many Guardians in one place, not even during raids. This must be for Ingrid because I didn’t see any amount of effort placed into investigating who really killed Rafaela.
Vitelotte leans into my side and mutters, “Who’s maintaining the Great Wall?”
A witty retort dries on my tongue as the screen shifts to highlights of the ball. There’s a clip of Prince Kevon dancing with Ingrid followed by footage of them nearly kissing under an arch of roses, next they show him carrying her through the tunnels.
“His Highness didn’t dance with Ingrid,” a Noble screeches.
In the corner of my eye, I spot someone pointing a camera at my face. I won’t react to false footage or events taken out of context.
Prunella steps aside to let the viewers see action sequences of Ingrid and Berta attacking the Amstraadi hijackers, and Ingrid pointing a gun at an unseen person at the entrance to the bus. Me.
“What are they doing?” Constance screeches. “These are all lies.”
I bite down on my lip and glance at the Amstraadi contestants. Sabre, the red-haired girl who once tried to goad me into sedition at the dinner table, meets my eye and nods. A series of slow knots tighten through my guts. Does that mean she understands that the footage is a sham or is the gesture a promise that she will get even for my crimes against her countrywomen?
“What a wonderful display,” booms a voice from the door.
We all turn to find Byron Blake walking into the room with Prince Kevon at his side. My breath catches in the back of my throat, and our eyes meet. I blink, and he glances away. A fist of regret reaches into my already knotted insides and twists, making me squirm.
“What’s wrong?” Vitelotte whispers.
Emmera scowls and tells us to hush. Even if we don’t care what Byron says to the cameras, she wants to listen.
I offer Vitelotte a tight smile and turn back to the front of the room where Byron asks Prince Kevon to browse the contestants’ choices. The prince pauses at each work of art and speaks to every girl for about five minutes. For some, this is the first chance they’ve gotten to speak to Prince Kevon when he isn’t disguising himself as Sergeant Silver.
This, plus Prunella Broadleaf’s attempts to make me look like I used nefarious methods to catch his attention, could explain why so many of the girls said nothing when Ingrid attacked me.
With every passing minute, with every approaching step, the lining of my stomach flutters as though it’s trying to take flight. Sweat beads on my brow and nausea churns through my insides. Someone should have escorted me out of the palace by now. Facing Prince Kevon after our last conversation will be excruciating, and I’m not looking forward to the camera picking up on our awkwardness.
“This is a unique display.” His voice jolts me out of my stupor. “Who is responsible for which aspect?”
Emmera dips into a pretty curtsey and beams. “I made the cornucopia from branches of the willow tree, Your Highness.”
Prince Kevon nods. His gaze skips over me, and he asks Vitelotte which parts she developed. She inclines her head and gives him a polite answer about the palace’s varied kitchen garden.
My heart sinks into my roiling stomach. I tell myself that I’m being unreasonable. Of course, he would ignore me. From his point of view, I joined the Princess Trials, told him I would help ease the burden of his ruling and that I admired him from afar, and then refused to give him a chance. What else should I expect?
A tiny part of me that used to believe in Mom’s fairytales wishes Prince Kevon would see behind my words and know that they were coerced. Carolina’s harsh voice asks what I will do when he discovers my intentions for joining the Princess Trials, and I shove it aside.
“Zea,” his voice is a caress. “Am I correct that you were responsible for creating the dress?”
I raise my gaze and meet his guarded eyes. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He doesn’t react to my formal method of address, but he’s had all afternoon to get used to my change in attitude. Instead, he nods and continues to the next table, where one of the Amstraadi girls tells him the history of
