If they’ve returned me to the palace, I’m no longer considered an immediate threat. I place my palms on the soft mattress, try to push myself up so I can turn on the Lifestyle Channel for an update on Prince Kevon, but exhaustion pulls me into a deep sleep.
Gentle hands turn me around, and soft voices whisper in my ear. Forelle’s floral scent fills my nostrils. All this time I spent in the cage, I hadn’t once wondered how my friend might be faring. She’s also from Rugosa and might have also come under suspicion along with Emmera and me.
Someone hooks their hands under my arms and pulls me off the bed, while another set of hands takes my feet. I crack open an eye and see that it’s only Georgette. She’s wearing one of the white robes that hang on the bathroom door.
I drift off again and wake up to a warm bath and meet a pair of huge, gray eyes framed by a shock of red hair.
“Zea?” A familiar voice echoes in my ears.
“Forelle?” I murmur.
“We’re getting you ready,” she says.
I blink myself into awareness. Firm hands massage something cool and gloopy into my hair, and my nostrils fill with the scent of lemon balm. On my left, a large close up of Prunella Broadleaf murmurs something incomprehensible into a wall screen. On my right, is the rest of the bathroom.
“Ready?” I croak. “For what?”
“The Princess Trials is about to restart.” Forelle scrubs a brush under my fingernails and scowls.
My breath catches. “What about Prince Kevon?”
She meets my gaze with a sad smile. “He’s still in the Royal Hospital.”
“He woke up this morning and gave an interview.” Georgette’s fingers withdraw from my hair. She walks around and stands beside Forelle. “He just wants life to go back to normal.”
My shoulders slump, and I exhale my relief through my nostrils. “How’s his skin?” When they exchange puzzled looks, I ask, “How long have I been gone?”
“Eight days.” Georgette dips a washcloth into the bathwater and rubs at a spot beneath my ear. She places the cloth on the edge of the bath and heads toward the walk-in shower.
Forelle gulps. “When we saw all that blood on your skin and that silver paint on your hands, we thought the worst.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t mine.”
The fog over my mind clears, and heat rushes to my cheeks. “You undressed me?”
“Only down to your underwear.” Forelle’s brow wrinkles. “Sorry, but there isn’t much time.”
The wall switches from Prunella to footage of Ingrid Strab sitting by Prince Kevon’s bedside. Something about her looks different. Prettier. The camera zooms into his paler-than-usual face. His eyes are closed, and his features are more chiseled than ever. He reminds me of a lot of Harvester men his age, who expend more energy than they consume. Someone has slicked his hair off his face, making it appear darker.
A gasp slips from my lips. He survived.
The camera swings to Ingrid, who reads from a leather-bound book. She’s either wearing a wig or the producers have softened her pinched features and added several inches to her hair. Instead of the usual jumpsuit, she wears a knee-length ivory dress with a matching jacket that looks like something from the wardrobe of Queen Damascena.
Georgette returns with a carton decorated with pictures of coconuts. She huffs an annoyed breath, stabs it with a plastic straw, and holds it in front of my face. “Ever since Ingrid returned from being held captive, she’s been sitting with the prince.”
“Why?” I nod my thanks and take the proffered drink.
The carton’s exterior is cool, and when I pull its contents from the straw the taste of coconut floods my mouth. It’s sweet and somehow more refreshing than Smoky Water. The cool liquid moistens my dry tongue and slides down my throat, making it feel less like parched earth.
Forelle tightens her lips. “Byron Blake is desperate to present them as a fated couple, separated by tragedy. That footage they kept playing while she was gone doesn’t help.”
My brows furrow. “Footage?”
Georgette waves her hand. “A montage of romantic moments she supposedly shared with Prince Kevon.”
I gulp my coconut water, remembering that pile of horse manure, which included Ingrid replacing me in our near kiss at the fountain and my fight with the hijackers. So much has happened since then that it fades into insignificance.
“Does Prince Kevon know she’s there?” I ask.
“They only let her in when he’s sleeping,” says Forelle. “Garrett spends most of his time in the hospital, making sure he’s well-guarded.”
“How are things going between you two?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him in days, but we talk every night on Netface.”
The girls help me out of the bath. My head spins and I nearly lose my footing, but they hold me steady and walk me across the gray tile to the huge shower, where there’s a stool propped against the tiled wall.
Thick globs of conditioner-covered hair fall onto my face, but I’m past caring. A mix of fatigue, hunger, thirst, and the remnants of the drugs make my legs tremble with each step. When I finally reach the security of the seat, I rest my head against the wall and exhale ragged breaths.
Georgette rushes to the right of the bathroom and turns on the sink’s taps, then she runs the bath again before raising the volume and returning to us. The sound of running water and the Lifestyle Channel fill the room, and I remember the servants’ trick for fooling the hidden microphones.
I’m about to speak when Forelle turns on the shower and drenches us with warm water.
She kneels at my side and places her hands
